Cautiously, as time went on, I allowed myself to imagine that fortune gazed favourably upon me. It was a concept that came to mind often in the heady, confounding weeks that followed our coalescence, particularly as I strode briskly through the cool, damp, autumn dawn. In the park, figures hovered in the gloom; gardeners and groundsmen about their trade, their conversation a litany of frivolity and persiflage, their cigarettes glowing in the misty, half light. Had they always been there, I wondered as I passed, with their hoes and their rakes, and their bib and brace overalls? Or had I assumed, subconsciously, that the orderliness of this most pristine of public amenities, the general air of nature at its most controlled, was simply an accidental phenomenon?
I realise that I have always moved through this place with a short depth of focus, my eyes fixed on the path ahead of me but, strangely, I'm aware now of more than just the soggy, senesced leaves beneath my feet. Have I always been so hell bent on avoiding the dog excrement, so effectively camouflaged among the pea gravel paths, that it is only now, with my head raised, that objects at eye level reveal themselves? As a child, I was an observer of nature, fascinated by both flora and fauna but, inexplicably, my enthusiasm ebbed away. But now, as the sun rises and the horizon before me is revealed, the scale of which seems somehow broader, drops of moisture sparkle like fairy lights along the bare branches of the trees, clinging to spiders webs, and shimmering like so many tiny crystals as I pass. Seed pods hang in clusters like perfectly formed, miniature maces. Others, dislodged by the breeze, spiral down to meet the soft earth, as aerodynamic as tiny helicopters whereas some, like the horse chestnuts I was never allowed to play with as a boy, plummet to the ground with a heavy, resounding thud.
Suddenly it seems almost a shame that my new route to work, while substantially shorter, will no longer include a traverse of Kensington Gardens. When compared to the degree to which my life is changing, grieving an activity that I never considered notable seems quite trivial by comparison yet, oddly, I do feel a pang of regret. At least I assume it is regret, for my diagnosis is hampered by my scant experience of such feelings, especially those that I have always observed in others as abject and utterly pointless. But these are disconcerting times and I seem unusually prone to introspection, usually triggered by the intangible. The resultant moments of tentative unearthing are akin to the delicate exhumation of remains at an archeological dig; cautious and careful, and not entirely sure what one will discover.
As difficult an admission as it is, this revision of my life, this dismantling and remodelling I am undergoing, while not a complete transmogrification, is certainly a profound change, and one I must acknowledge, to myself at least, as unequivocally for the better. I live half my waking hours in a state of disbelief; most mornings upon awakening, I extricate myself from the warm embrace of a lithe-limbed, silky-skinned siren; she who is the epitome of uncontrived, natural femininity, and the embodiment of every libidinous hope I'd fostered since, I suppose, my hypothalamus first began to release GnRH in earnest.
During the working week, the morning's preparations are hectic, and I prefer to adhere to the procedures I've long since adopted. A well planned strategy is both expedient and efficient, though I am aware that Louisa finds my lack of spontaneity, and my reluctance to ever deviate from the schedule, occasionally disappointing. In that industrious half hour, before I bid her farewell, a drowsy, tousle-headed Venus, whose expression becomes dreamy as she responds to my hesitant kiss, I prepare our breakfast in silence, pretending not to notice as she wanders about the flat, nubile and scantily-clad. Not a morning goes by where some sort of carnal thought doesn't cross my mind, and I've even found myself toying occasionally with ideas and temptations. But, appearing as if I am hewn from stone is second nature to me and so I remain silent, restricting myself instead to casting surreptitious glances across the table as we eat, contemplating how this triumph of fate has so denatured me.
The burden on my shoulders does seem to have lightened significantly. Even as engrossed as I am in my work, and despite my legendary single-mindedness, there are certain in-between times, usually as I shower after theatre or stand in the lifts, silent and alone, where I allow her to come to mind. Even occasionally, suffering through yet another pointless, interminable meeting, I find myself assailed by more random feelings, those of the warm and restorative kind. Every day she advances a little further, stealthily populating what were once the vast, cold, empty chambers of my mind, the spaces between my logical and dispassionate thoughts, and the practical and sensible actions that ensued. That I think about her during the day cannot be defined as a loss of concentration, because I would never permit my mind to wander when intense focus is required. It is more that, now, instead of moving to quash any sort of lasciviousness instantly, it is safe to allow those thoughts to come to fruition, reasonable that even the most amative thoughts are permitted to linger and take hold.
Historically, I have always considered time away from the study and practice of medicine as simply a gap that demanded filling assiduously. Put simply, I tried always to keep busy, ensuring that any emptiness in my life was offset with a surfeit of industry. Amongst my earliest memories of being sent away to school is Matron, rather cross at having discovered me mid-disassembly of my Anglepoise bedside lamp. Demanding to know, rather unnecessarily, whether I had completed my homework, she then pointed out in no uncertain terms that Satan clearly made work for idle hands; her Calvinist principles perfectly at home amongst the cold showers and the unadorned walls of the junior dormitories. However much my scientific young mind was quite sceptical of her belief in deities and devils, some of her dogma clearly rubbed off on me, manifesting itself as a fierce determination to always keep myself occupied.
Now however both my leisure time, and my newly discovered preference for the use of it, are measured in completely different increments; where previously there were long stretches of calm, sedulous endeavour, now I savour the rather heightened rewards of considerably more intense and breathless minutes, the headiest of hours, or the most prodigious of afternoons. Defective clocks lie gathering dust, the paintwork of my car oxidises beneath layers of smog-induced grime, and museum exhibitions come and go, all ignored in favour of my new undertaking; to satisfy my yearning for proximity to Louisa.
That she takes my hand and I follow her almost anywhere is a revelation that is quite uncomfortable to acknowledge. I've lived my life in a solitary, self-reliant fashion and sometimes I even find my own need for her to be rather confronting. Not only can Louisa be very persuasive under such circumstances but one should never underestimate how easy a target is the man besotted. I've seen it so often in others, how foolishly an utterly enamoured man can be convinced to behave. God knows I've observed Chris Parsons' subjugation frequently enough to recognise the signs, however unprepared I was to ever succumb. Yet, with very little protest, I've found myself wandering through busy marketplaces, floundering as she models prospective new outfits, clueless as to the response she requires, and only relieving my stress by glowering at anyone who dares glance at her, too, as he passes.
I've trailed behind her at Garden Centres, incredulous that choosing a single pot plant to adorn her desk could possibly consume so much time and energy. As we'd waited at register, she'd read the label to me, stumbling over the Latin name, unimpressed as I corrected her pronunciation. Neither did she seem particularly interested as I explained the history of Linnaeus and the concept of binomial nomenclature to her, ignoring me studiously as she tipped a pile of coins onto the counter and cheerfully pushed them toward the shop assistant. In the end, she'd thrust the plant into my arms and smirked at me.
"Mother-in-laws Tongue…" She'd said airily, as I'd asked the assistant for a plastic bag, since it was inevitable that I would be spending the afternoon carrying the damn thing around.
That there are sections of pharmacies I did not know existed, and that I've found myself willingly following her up and down the aisles, has been a kind of revelation. I've been rendered speechless not only by the sheer scale and selection of cosmetic products but also by the spurious claims of each manufacturer; suggesting that endless, overpriced permutations of aqueous cream might render the wearer somehow ageless and blemish-free. But Louisa seems fascinated, though she seems only drawn to try the items she calls 'testers', brushing off my scornful analysis of the ingredient panel as she rubs the lotion thoughtfully into the back of her hand.
"Now with synthetic tocopheryl acetate!" I'd announced sneeringly. "For goodness sake, Louisa, that's simply a cheaply synthesised form of Vitamin E…"
"So?" She'd replied, pulling a face at me. "I like it. No greasy residue…"
"That's because it's essentially water and cetostearyl alcohol…it's simply evaporating."
"I don't care."
"Nine pounds fifty for this tiny jar? That's outrageous!" I'd spluttered loudly in outrage, as she snatched it from my hand and pushed it randomly back on to the nearest shelf.
"Shut up, Martin!" She'd hissed, grabbing my arm and pulling me away, before I could remonstrate with the painted harpy who bore down on us with a face like thunder, smoothing her uniform indignantly as she approached.
Overtaken by a fit of the giggles as we reached an aisle of apparent safety, Louisa had gazed at me, shaking her head incredulously.
"What?" I'd asked her, frowning defensively.
"You've no filter, have you?" She'd replied, patting my chest resignedly and turning away.
"I didn't think there was anything that required filtering. The merchandise in this place is a load of exorbitantly overpriced nostrum and I would have had no compunction in pointing that out, had you not dragged me away." I tell her, slightly sulkily.
But she has already walked away, distracted either accidentally or on purpose. I note her expression, her concentration, tranquil yet focused, and I find myself staring at her helplessly. I realise that I've tested her patience again but, in my defence, I haven't yet learned to be anyone else other than myself, and this is rather a foreign environment for someone like me. Besides, I am first and foremost a man of science and, when it comes to fraudulent claims and quack remedies, I feel duty-bound to expose them as such. Oddly, Louisa has never struck me as the sort to fall for such utter bilge, nor does she appear to need any form of augmentation. Her use of cosmetics appears, thankfully, to be minimal, and the space she has claimed in the ensuite storage is refreshingly modest.
By contrast, I recall my mother, seated at her enormous dressing table, creams and potions and powders covering every inch of the glass-covered surface, jam-packed and overflowing. The memory is somewhat unpleasant, associated as it is with yet another episode of violent corporal punishment. After I'd quietly collected the samples, simply in the name of chemistry of course, the resultant smoking mess had also seen me banished from her room indefinitely, so I was sadly never able to complete my investigations. Even though I'd spent hours locked in the cupboard as a consequence, at six years old, I'd still considered it a worthy experiment, fascinated as I observed how combinations of substances reacted to heat, noting with interest how they smouldered, and fizzled, and spat.
After that recollection, it's very reassuring when Louisa takes my hand again, relieved at the little vehement squeezes she gives as if to reiterate her point. She's seen someone she knows and now she feels obliged to tell me their life story, or at least the scandalous part that interests her. But, where I see a slightly shambolic young man with an attempted air of foppishness, in need of a razor, an iron and a tin of boot polish, Louisa points him out as a jilted lover, broken-hearted and without recourse. Though he was apparently discarded by one of her hagfish-like ex-housemates, a slight from which Louisa fears he will never recover, my private opinion, having met them only briefly, is that he is well off out of her clutches. If someone doesn't return your affection, if your passion is unrequited, then dwelling on it serves no purpose. Someone should point out to him that neglecting ones personal hygiene, and appearing to lose all enthusiasm for life, does rather seem an extreme and unwarranted reaction.
I watch his back, thoughtfully, as he disappears, ruminating upon his situation with the tiniest modicum of sympathy until I realise the aisle he has selected is that of the prophylactic selection and, suddenly, I can't help but think Louisa's romantic notions of his level of attachment, and her resultant sadness on his behalf, might somehow be misplaced. Her tug on my arm distracts me and I allow myself to be drawn along until, once again, she comes to an abrupt standstill. That she might be so enthralled, that she might find so much amusement in trying on sunglasses is surprising enough, but when she attempts to convince me to participate as well, I am forced to put my foot down.
"But Martin, you really suit them!" She exclaims, her tone beseeching as I'd folded my arms firmly across my chest and shaken my head at her in a way I hoped she'd understand was staunch and implacable.
"Flimsily constructed in a third world sweat shop, with cheap plastic lenses rendered opaque by the sticky fingers of ghastly, golden-staphylococcus ridden tourists." I'd replied dismissively. "No thank you."
She'd glanced up at me, in that way she had, her eyes bright, her mouth twisting into a wry grin and, without another word, she appeared to let it go, sliding her arm through mine and piloting me toward the entrance. With my defences down and my cognitive abilities diminished, not least by the way she strokes my arm and gazes up at me as she speaks, I accompany her without objection. Or perhaps it is the way she ignores everyone else around us, as if I am her sole focus, as if no one exists in the world except she and I, which induces me to overlook so many of my principles, and remain in my place beside her, unresisting, as she sprays oddly shaped bottles of fragrance into the air and wafts her arm through them gracefully.
"What do you think of this one?" She demands, grinning at me expectantly as she offers her wrist up playfully toward my nostrils.
I inhale tentatively, fiercely protectant of the olfactory sensitivity I posses, a trait which contributes usefully to my ability to do my job. I try not to wince, but when the principle ingredient in women's perfume is usually sun bleached, whale vomit, what on earth does she want me to say? I could also never admit it to her but, like the sight of a vast voluminous bust, any heavy cloying scent again reminds me, rather appallingly, of my mother. I have no desire to revisit those rare yet especially horrid moments where I found my face enveloped in the caustic, smothering stench of her sequin-embellished bosom.
Like a brilliant, imperative sort of contrast, Louisa is slim and supple and firm, and her skin carries a light, subtle fragrance; playful and unassuming one might say, summery and warm. I delight in her sweet, unadorned freshness as she emerges from the shower, her skin as it dries from the heat of her body exuding a scent so delicate and almost imperceptible that I find myself pondering it as a miracle of endocrinology, attempting to analyse how her pheromones could be combining with such effectiveness as to become almost intoxicating to me. It's unmistakenly her, stirring and inflammatory, and, often, I can even taste it; especially on the softness of her throat, and stomach, and breast.
Swallowing hard, I want to tell her that I can't bear the thought that such an intense biological reaction might be lost to me, overshadowed by something so pungent and absolute and unnecessary.
"Umm, no." I blurt out fervently, wrinkling my nose and pulling my face rather dramatically. "I've resected dead bowels that smelt better."
She narrows her eyes and stares at me for a moment, her eyes flashing and her jaw fixed. Glancing down at the bottle in her hand, her shoulders slump as she replaces it on the shelf amongst the myriad of other samples. Anxious now to leave, I wait for her to turn around but, instead, she stands like a statue, her back to me, her ribcage shifting almost imperceptibly as she lets out a long shuddering sigh. When eventually she does face me again, it's almost as if her enthusiasm has been dimmed and, as she glances at me, her expression and demeanour seem somewhat defeated. With a uncomfortable sense of familiarity, I recognise that the blame lies squarely with me, that it is my frankness that has offended her. I know the signs quite well, actually, since I seem to rate honesty more highly than most other people I encounter but, as often is the case, there is a price to pay for such candid admission. Usually, I couldn't care less about whose feelings I hurt in the pursuit of truthfulness but, when it comes to Louisa, apparently my usual rules no longer apply.
"Is something the matter?" I hiss as I attempt to follow her, almost breaking into a jog to keep up as she sweeps through the shop,
"No, Martin." She replies, resignedly but still rather tersely, holding up her hands theatrically, a gesture which I take to mean frustration rather than surrender.
I watch helplessly as she barges out through the automatic doors, and away from me, swept along by a raucous gaggle of carrier bag-laden young women with whom I dare not collide. I am only able to catch sight of her again because she pauses for a moment on the footpath, in an agony of indecision, apparently unable to choose in which direction she should storm off. To my horror, my pursuit is curtailed by a woman on crutches, borderline obese and with all the urgency of a somnambulant sloth. As I finally emerge into the sunlight, and she is almost within reach, I'm forced to watch on in horror as a greasy-haired yob, one of a larger group of unkempt, obnoxious youths, deliberately collides with Louisa as he passes. For a split-second, his hands are all over her and I feel my fists clench as I see her turn sideways in a vain attempt to avoid his grasp.
"Sorry love!" He shouts, in mock apology, over his shoulder as his foetid, ape-like companions hoot and cackle with laughter.
For a moment, she assumes an expression of disgust and I experience a few seconds of terror as I suspect she may just chase after the scurrilous savage in order to remonstrate with him. But, as she glances around her, as if to locate me, she seems suddenly rather vulnerable and exposed and I elbow my way through the remaining dawdlers that impede my way, forcing myself toward her, feeling suddenly rather aggravated and upset. Witnessing her flagrant manhandling is even more appalling knowing that, had I been there beside her, I would have prevented it happening, a realisation that only makes me feel even more of an arse. Before I have even opened my mouth, she is on the attack, and all defiance.
"Shut up Martin!" She growls at me, tugging her bag up onto her shoulder and marching off, her chin in the air, militant and pugnacious.
So I find myself pursuing her down the High Street, skipping in and out of a crush of pedestrians, in an undignified attempt to keep track of her via her wildly bobbing ponytail. Through I'm bewildered at the degree of her mood swing, I'm not completely without sensitivity. I understand that I have put my foot in it but, as I follow her helplessly, I begin to feel that she is also being somewhat unfair. If she won't acknowledge or identify my misdemeanour, worse still won't explain it to me, then how can I ever hope to modify the behaviour that she finds so objectionable? Disheartened, I wonder how she can't see that? I wonder, too, why is it still not obvious to her that I never mean to say or do anything that might knowingly hurt her? And, most importantly, why doesn't she understand that, for her and for her alone, I would do my utmost to temper whatever it is about my conduct that distresses her so? If I could, I would change almost anything about myself if I thought it would make her happy.
But that doesn't seem to be how things work between us, and I'm tired behind the eyes, and both deflated and baffled. It is utterly illogical to me that she would recognise my symptoms yet not be prepared to share her diagnosis or, better still, her suggested cure. The traffic is heavy and she stops at the zebra crossing, where I finally catch up to her. Ignoring her obvious reluctance to engage with me, I reach for her hand and grasp it rather firmly. Instantly, the feeling of her slim elegant fingers interwoven with mine is reassuring, even if her contact is somewhat reluctant and her flesh more than a little cool.
"Was it the reference to bowel necrosis, Louisa? Was that what offended you?" I ask hastily, wondering if the desperation in my voice is obvious as it seems.
"A simple no would have done." She replies flatly, without looking at me. "There was no need to be rude…"
I glance at her sadly, realising that we are walking back in the direction of tube, which means undoubtedly that our excursion is at an end. Ordinarily, I would have been secretly delighted, keen to remove myself from these environs, to escape the intrusive crowds and the overflowing rubbish bins, and retreat to the peaceful orderliness of my flat. But, god help me, there was something so convivial about wandering aimlessly through the streets with her today. Louisa, endlessly distracting, as entertaining as she is beautiful, so filled with joy at the most unlikely of inducements; a group of tone-deaf child buskers, a cheap but apparently perfect new hair tie, and even a shaggy dog tied up outside a pub. Even my own occasional caustic observations seemed to magnify her delight in the world and, when we'd stood at the antique shop window, across from the steps to the Underground, her face so close to the glass that it misted over, she'd exclaimed out loud, turning to me with a sort of glowing innocence, a perfection that almost creased me in half.
"My grandad had an accordion just like that." She'd cried, excitedly, and I'd been unable to tear my eyes away, extremely glad that, for many reasons, at that point in time, she could not read my mind.
There are very few instruments that aggravate me musically as much as accordions do. In my opinion, they are the ringing of a phone call from Beelzebub himself, with all the the subtlety and grace of a glib, asthmatic piano. Every note is like a tooth extraction, every wheezing chord a sadistic portent of doom. I have a distaste for the polka, and Morris Dancers make me cringe with disgust and, even with my extensive vocabulary of disapproval, I still could not adequately describe the intensity of my dislike for these syphilitic bellows-driven squeezeboxes. But, I stand there, my back as straight as a Corinthian pillar, and I say nothing. Not a disparaging word slips past my lips; no scornful sounds, no contempt, no derision; I hold my tongue.
And I find myself now not wanting this day to be over. I realise that, if it is, then I have no one to blame but myself, a painful cognisance of my own blundering ineptitude which brings with it a rather desperate urge to seek out the remedy. As usual, however, I am paralysed by my own lack of grace and, apparently, struck mute. My mind retreats to the principles of non-maleficence, and of Primum non nocere, to iatrogenesis and the dangers inherent in therapeutic nihilism. Do no harm Ellingham, I remind myself, but perhaps, this time, at least do something. With my arms firmly at my sides, my fingers spread widely, as if in a spasm, I consider my own abilities as a diagnostician, and the immense satisfaction I gain from both identifying and treating medical conditions. But such things as the interpretation of test results, the reading of angiograms and the threading of catheters, come far more naturally to me than explaining myself or offering physical consolation ever will.
Cautiously, I slip my arm around her shoulder, touching my fingers lightly against her upper arm, relieved as she offers no resistance. The leather of her jacket is soft and surprisingly warm beneath my hand and everything about the sensation is reassuringly Louisa. I glance down at her as I exhale heavily, aware that I seem to frequently undergo some form of episodic apnoea as a reaction to her closeness, a response that's not helped by the feel of her, and the loose tendrils of hair that float about her neck and her jaw. I clear my throat and incline my head, murmuring awkwardly and self-consciously, my lips pressed to her hair.
"Louisa, ahh…about the perfume…I, umm, I just want to say that… I like the way your skin smells naturally. I…prefer…that...in fact…that is to say, without the need for applied scent…"
As usual, my fate is once again sealed as she tilts her head so that it rests against my bicep, gazing up at me in that shy, hesitant way that draws me helplessly toward her, as her face melts into a sweetly hopeful smile.
"Really?" She says, wide eyed and slightly breathless.
"Yes, really. I just don't understand, I suppose, why you'd want to cover that up." I add. "Besides…"
"What?" She says earnestly, holding my gaze, the greenness of her pupils mesmerising; the sclera so clear and so white, her eyes framed with such spectacular emphasis by her long, dark lashes.
I wonder whether she is familiar with ambergris, with Castoreum and Hyraceum, or formaldehyde, never mind the plethora of other irritants and potential carcinogens that make up the components of manufactured fragrances. As much as my desire to educate her for the sake of her own health seems important, the warmth and softness of her body against mine, the brightness of her eyes and the joy that has returned to her expression, all compound to make me momentarily reconsider.
"Ahh, nothing…" I reply hoarsely.
"Actually, Martin, please don't say anything else." She says decisively and, just for a minute, a familiar tone returns to her voice, cautionary, with a hint of concern. "Because, you know, that was really lovely….so thank you."
Despite the fact that we are in full view of passers-by, I bend to kiss her gently on the forehead. My relief is enormous, like a deep sea diver who has successfully returned to the surface after spending almost too long in the icy depths of the ocean. She feels delicate beneath my lips and I can't help but think that, if only the rest of humanity were blessed with skin as clear and unblemished as hers, the field of dermatology would be all but defunct. But I've always had a vague interest in that area though and, as I admire the smooth, glowing flawlessness of her face, I'm reminded of something she might find as fascinating as I did when I read it recently in the BMJ. Not only is it an interesting example of the complex interactions of science, but it also contributes somewhat to my earlier argument. I feel a tiny flicker of excitement, a thrill at being able to tell her something non-contentious, a fact she might be genuinely interested in.
As we make our way down to the tube, I carry the bags; the pot plant, the second-hand paperbacks, an assortment of biros and other assorted stationary, the cheese she wanted to try, the lip-balm and the hair fixtures she apparently couldn't live without. On my other side, Louisa's arm is looped through mine and she alternates between hanging off me as if I am some form of gymnastic equipment, and leaning against me as if I am the only thing holding her upright. As usual, once I conquer my initial reaction, my fear of exposure and my intense need for privacy, her fervency and enthusiasm seeps into me, like a sort of emotional osmosis. I am swept along by her and, for a short while anyway, I don't care who sees me, or even what they might think.
The carriage is fortunately not particularly crowded, which provides me with the opportunity to inspect the seats, hastily, before we sit down. I am as satisfied as one can be on public transport that a basic sanitising procedure has at least been recently undertaken and I invite her to sit down. If it had been entirely my decision, we would have taken a taxi home but, as usual, Louisa found enough compelling reasons why we shouldn't that I found myself eventually giving in. I lower myself down opposite her and, out of nowhere, I recall with significant hopefulness that I am not the only one who now refers to the flat as home. I nurse the plant on my lap, snatching glances at her when I think she's not looking until she catches me and she grins, her impudence, as usual, only adding to her loveliness. As our eyes meet, I feel a lurch in my chest.
"You might like to know," I blurt out to her, as eager as a schoolboy keen to share newly acquired knowledge. "Anything that alters the natural pH of your skin is liable to cause a change in body odour."
I watch as the smile drains away from her face and, rather mystifyingly, her expression becomes suddenly stricken. She gives a small shake of her head as she appears to grimace at me, and I scowl because I can only assume she doesn't understand what I'm saying. I pause for a moment as, even though the train is now moving, the woman that had seated herself next to Louisa, suddenly clambers to her feet and shifts to the other side of the aisle. Relieved that the intruder has gone, I stretch my legs out and begin to elaborate.
"You see, Louisa, the surface of your skin is naturally slightly acid, and maintaining a skin pH of four to four and a half ensures that all your resident bacterial skin microflora remain attached to the skin." I tell her earnestly, perplexed by the way she shifts in her seat as if she is uncomfortable, pausing in case she has inadvertently sat on something unidentifiable. When I am satisfied I have her attention again, I continue.
"If your skin surface becomes too alkaline, you will shed that valuable microflora, with the loss of the bacteria leading to…."
"Yes, alright Martin!" She mutters sharply through her teeth, her tone vehement to the point of crossness, fixing me with a rather mulish stare as I feel a sudden, dull blow to my shin.
This time I am utterly clueless as to what trespass I have now committed and I raise an eyebrow at her questioningly. Even more inexplicably, it seems to assuage some of her irritation with me and she simply returns my query with an incredulous glance of her own. Though, under the circumsatances, I would use fortunately rather reluctantly, events do conspire to make her annoyance of short duration. One of two inebriates in our carriage begins to sing, loudly and tunelessly, aggravating his companion whose chief complaint appears to be only that the lyrics are incorrect. For every insult thrown, the drunken caterwauling only increases in volume while, around us, passengers begin to exchange dark looks of disapproval.
Louisa, however, seems to find it all highly amusing, swivelling frequently in her seat in order to identify the culprits, and biting savagely at her lip, attempting to curtail her delight in the fervency of each advancing verse. When our eyes meet, she grimaces playfully and, by the time we alight, her delight in the world, and her belief in everyone in it, has quite obviously returned. Even her approval of me seems to have been reinstated as she takes my free hand and bounces along breathlessly beside me for the duration of the walk home. The sun begins to set and, with a cool breeze whipping the leaves along the gutters apace, the temperature begins to drop markedly. Laughing, she begins to sing the very same tune as the tone deaf drunkard on the train, an apparently popular song of a recent times she tells me which, of course, means nothing to me. But, if I'm surprised by her ability to carry a tune, I'm even more astonished to find that her voice is actually rather pleasant to listen to. Even though we pass people in the street, and some of them even look at her, I realise that I feel no discomfort.
To paraphrase Nietzsche, if one has a why to live for, it enables one to bear almost any form of how. Of course, medicine is and has always been my why, and now I find the vocation toward which I had worked my entire life as rewarding as I always hoped it would be. Cautiously, I might even consider my career to be flourishing. Yet it is undoubtedly the how that has undergone the most astonishing and improbable alchemy. Where previously I have always laid plans to utilise every minute of free time I have, by writing myself lists and scheduling chores, with barely a second thought I have frittered my day off away, in the pursuit of absolutely nothing constructive.
Later, my transformation will be almost complete. After supper, I will raise no objection as, yet again, she slips her latest Dave CD into the player. I will also wince at the volume but raise no complaint. As she slides in beside me on the sofa, her new paperback in hand, and I glance at her over the top of my magazine, it still seems miraculous that, after a whole day together, she isn't so irritated by me that she needs now to sit in another room.
"What are you reading?" She asks, after a few minutes, as she always does.
"Umm, a paper on salvaging feet…it's ahh, it's research presented earlier in the year into…improvement of microvascular blood flow, umm…resulting from epidural spinal cord electrical stimulation…as a form of pain relief…"
"Is it interesting?" She asks casually, swinging her legs across my lap.
"It's the Journal of Vascular Surgery. It's always interesting." I reply matter-of-factly, lifting my arms up out of the way of her knees as she wriggles into a more comfortable position.
For a while she seems content to concentrate on her novel, leaving me to plough on with my reading. Though I immerse myself in the world of capillary density and red blood cell velocity, I am suddenly conscious of how comfortable this all is, how normal it seems to share an evening like this together. Her leg begins to bounce, in time to the music, and I clear my throat loudly and glance at her but she is apparently oblivious to my hinting. Placing my hand firmly on her knee though is marginally more effective however, and she mutters a quick apology and flashes a nervous smile at me. That I can concentrate at all feels like a sleight of hand, an act of legerdemain.
It had always been so important to me to arrive home to a well ordered, quiet, predictable flat; the soft ticking of the clocks the only sound to greet me. And, for the last month at least, it has been none of those things. Instead, as I place my key in the lock, I have no idea of what it is that might be about to greet me. Silence was the first to go, with tidiness and order not far behind. Almost every deeply held tenet upon which I had based my behaviour and habits has been challenged. Somehow, every cupboard that is left open, every discarded CD piled carelessly atop the speakers, every random shoe I stumble over, has all ceased to matter to me. Even the exiguous undergarments that seemed to adorn every door handle, festooning our bedroom and ensuite like brightly coloured jubilee bunting, no longer afflicted me with rapid onset hypertension. As long as she agrees to my request, that she will always tidy her things away prior to the housekeeper visiting, then I will force myself to turn a blind, if somewhat watery, eye.
The truth is that, whatever initial sense of irritation I'd be struck by as I stepped into the flat, however deep the breath was that I forced myself to inhale, it all inevitably disappeared by the time I finally located her. The first time I walked in to the spare room and I noticed her face change when she saw me, it had struck me that her expression was vaguely, yet pleasantly familiar. It had only been apparent for a split second but, instantly, it brought back the noise and smell of a long ago railway station platform. When Louisa's eyes shone and her mouth curved into the most luminous of smiles, I'd realised when I'd felt that welcome before: that first glimpse I'd see of my Auntie Joan as she waited for me on the platform, her hands clasped in front of her chest as she scanned the windows of the slowing carriages. So perhaps now, more-so than I probably deserve, I have the good fortune to have two people in my life that seem genuinely pleased to see me.
I close the journal and place it on the broad, brown leather arm of the Chesterfield. Dave is becoming so familiar to me that I'm even starting to recognise individual songs. Currently, it's the slow, quiet one, with the weirdly electronic sounds that are somehow oddly disconcerting; pop music is so extraneous to me that I pause, waiting for the discomfiture to hit me, for the foreignness to aggravate me and the relentless beat to pulverise my senses.
"Martin..." She says quietly, just loud enough to wake me from my reverie, and I turn my head toward her, stroking her thigh absent-mindedly as I do so.
"I had a really nice day." She adds tentatively, breathless and with a hint of her nervous smile.
I lift my chin in acknowledgement and, for a moment, we simply gaze at each other in silence before I manage to squeeze out a rather constricted affirmation. As unfathomable as it is to me, as far removed from the behaviour of the person I always considered myself to be, I must admit that I, too, had an agreeable sort of day. It seems rather significant that, as much as I felt awkward and occasionally out of place, not for one minute did she make me feel flawed, or rejected, or unworthy. Louisa wanted me there and I wanted to be with her, and surely that's all that matters. I watch with secret satisfaction as, unbidden, she clambers onto my lap, tugging at her skirt unselfconsciously, pulling it up over her thighs so she can sit astride me. I watch her long elegant fingers deal effortlessly with my shirt buttons and reef impatiently at my tie. By the time the song about silence starts, I am already breathless and impatient, her mouth over mine, insistent as she grasps my jaw in both hands. Skin on skin, her fingers in my hair, I wrap my hand around one perfect breast, as always, marvelling at how perfectly we fit together, as if we had actually been designed with one another in mind.
As if today were not remarkable enough, as if we were the only two people in the world to ever feel this level of need, and because passion and desire are suddenly the most effortless of emotions, she takes me, there and then. The beat thunders relentlessly around us in the brilliantly lit room and the bass thumps in my chest as she wraps her arms around my neck. Suddenly, I am listening to the most suggestive piece of music I have ever heard; mesmerising, evocative and inflammatory, and I feel as if I am enveloped by warm silk as we reach its crescendo. As my hands clutch at her bum, helpless as I follow the rhythmic rotations of her hips, she presses her lips to my ear and cries out for god.