It starts the moment I walk inside the flat. Libby is standing at the foot of the stairs, hands on hips, her eyes flashing with a thousand unasked questions.
"Was that who I think it was?" She says, a knowing smirk spreading from one dazzlingly diamond-clad ear to the other.
I pause uncomfortably. Libby is my closest friend but my heart sinks a little. I am desperate to float along in my little bubble of exhilaration for just a bit longer.
"New earrings?" I counter, wondering if perhaps they are a gift from Daddy, or even the Australian, both of whom are very generous when it comes to rewarding Libby for simply being Libby. "Very nice."
She holds my gaze and gives a triumphant cackle.
"Hah!" She says emphatically, ignoring my deft sidestep. "I thought I heard his dulcet tones wafting up the stairwell. I want to know everything!"
The spectre of Martin, with his arms encircling me, is still so close and, while I can still smell him and taste him and remember the divine feeling of his hands upon me, I want to slip into bed and savour each sensation while it is still so fantastically real. In the privacy of my own room, I want to examine the whole evening in minute detail, and relive it over and over again. What I don't want is to have to dissect it, with Libby, in case it's is somehow tarnished or, worse still, my sensation of bliss is obliterated by her logic, her bald facts and her grim realities.
To be fair to her, it's normal for us to discuss boys with each other, especially when the relationship is new and exciting; we've done it so frequently, one of us arriving home breathless, the other relishing every moment of the recounting, both revelling in the ensuing hilarity. But, now, it feels like a supremely bad idea. As I keep telling myself, Martin is so different. He's private and quiet and, as I'm coming to understand, actually incredibly shy. I just know that he'd be horrified if he thought I was discussing anything about him with anyone else plus, as I realise, it's something that feels so incredibly precious, to me at least. It seems that I have an overpowering need to protect what we have from everyone, even Libby.
I expect that she will want details and specifics and, with increasing horror, I know she is guaranteed to demand to know if I have kissed him, and what it was like. Libby places great store by a man's skill in this area and she has repeatedly schooled me that it's a non-negotiable standard. But, if I tell her, I'll feel like I am betraying him and, if I refuse to answer, she'll then assume he's just another in the long line of Louisa's dud romances and, intolerably for me, that will just draw her pity. The fact is, I'm feeling more dizzied, more laid bare than even she promised me I should be; the desire I'm experiencing, the sensation that I'm being turned inside out with need, she told me I should accept nothing less and, now, I finally understand what she meant. But I just can't tell her that.
"Listen, Libs, I'm really really tired actually, can this wait until the morning?" I say with a plaintive smile, hoping that I will be on way to work before she's even out of bed. "Please?"
She fixes me with an quizzical stare.
"Sure, sweetie," she says after a moment, as she watches me open my bedroom door. "You're sure you're okay though?"
I pause with my fingers gripping the handle.
"Never better." I say quietly, as my face twists into a self conscious smile.
Of course, Libby doesn't miss a trick. As I turn my back on her, I hear her utter a gleeful, slightly wicked chortle and, although she probably thinks I'm way out of my depth, I decide to view her mirth as tacit approval, and I abandon her for the dreamy solitude of my stuffy, humid room.
As I suspected, the next morning I'm up and out of the flat before anyone else has even stirred. I woke early, curled up on my uneven mattress, wildly entangled in the top sheet, my hair like a birds nest but immediately, I was overtaken by an unfamiliar rush of excitement. My head is still dreamily full of Martin; an intoxicating, thrilling warmth that flows through my veins and seeps from every pore on my skin.
Everything seems somehow fresh and more altered this morning, I am ridiculously exuberant, and filled with childish delight, as if I'm holding a handful of colourful, hand held windmills up into the breeze or lying on my back in the long grass, chewing a Toffee Apple. I allow myself to momentarily bask in the sensation, smiling to myself of how disapproving Martin would be of that particular analogy. But I know that this is really it for me; at twenty one, this is how it feels to finally be in love. In a few moments I must get up and morph into the focused professional I'm determined to be but, for a few precious moments, I am back, light-headed and full of longing, enveloped in his arms.
Eventually, I drag myself out of bed. It's mercifully cooler, more of a trouser sort of temperature, which is probably more appropriate considering I have a schedule for the day consisting exclusively of tutoring boys under eight. I can't help but think of Martin as a vulnerable little kid of a similar age, being packed off to boarding school and, since I now have some inkling of what he endured, I admit it pains me. The thing about studying child psychology, especially in the early years, the more you learn, the more you realise you don't know, and the more you understand how important it is to tread carefully. Plus, I'm loathe to question him much further because, if he did want to confide in me, with the way I feel about him now, I know I'm a bit too invested to be objective.
I think about how everything had just bubbled over in me at Richmond Park and the way I'd just impulsively kissed him. Seeing him, even fleetingly, reveal the awful things that had happened to him just served to make my attachment to him even stronger. I was almost choking, breathless with empathy, and feeling in my desperate need to try and take some of that pain away from him, as he'd done for me all those years ago. But Martin does seem a lot more stoic than I am; measured and implacable in his responses to things that seem to force my emotions off the scale. Thinking how impetuous I have been makes me feel a little uncomfortable, and I wince as I drag the brush through my tangled hair. Tying it up in a slightly severe bun, to try and gain some sort of control over it, and myself, hopefully adds an air of respectability and maturity to the bright-eyed, slightly frothy demeanour that seems to have overtaken me this morning.
Even a long, arduous day of tutoring barely receptive, high-spirited little boys hasn't dented my good humour and the time has actually passed mercifully quickly. Late in the afternoon, as I wander down Graham Terrace, swinging my handbag jauntily, I start to think about what I might wear in Saturday night. Somehow the location lends a serious air to the occasion and, as a result, I feel an anticipatory roost of butterflies, migrating en masse into my abdomen. Clothes are my thing, and I've always found vintage styling to be appropriate, whatever the occasion. But my rather limited selection of footwear is a whole different kettle of fish and I wonder how much of a trade off of information will be required in order for me to access Libby's fabulous shoe collection.
When I arrive home, Holly and Toni are downstairs and, as I come through the front door, they smile at me and I have the distinct feeling that I've interrupted them mid-discussion. I also have a sneaky suspicion, due to the stony, awkward silence, that I was the subject especially as, after she had answered the telephone yesterday, and spoken briefly to Martin, Holly had attempted to give me the third degree. Fortunately, I'd excused myself with the justification that I must race to get ready but, seeing her now, I knew that I was about to face a grilling, and that it was probably better to get it over and done with.
I smile to myself when I look at her; resplendent in a peachy-coloured, angora twinset, and pearls, on a summer afternoon, in our humid, dingy flat. Always impeccably presented, the rest of us suspecting that, having exhausted all of the avenues that college offered, Holly is now waiting patiently for Mr. Right to ride his polo pony right up to our door, and she means to be prepared. The law and commerce faculties had not been productive hunting grounds for her and, politically, the liberal arts campus was an idealogical impossibility. In fact, the only liberal thing that Holly was known for was her application of mascara, and today's efforts did not disappoint. Her eyelashes were dark and heavily weighted, more in the style of Twiggy than Thatcher; each lash, top and bottom, standing to attention, rigid and immobile. I recall the time when Libby suggested that she count them to make sure she had an even number on each side, and I smile to myself at the memory the cold, corrosive stare with which Holly responded.
But, I also remember Libby's warning that Martin is exactly the sort of man that our cello-playing, social climbing friend has set her sights on, and I feel a little bit uncomfortable at the thought. Holly would breeze through any social occasion, always knowing exactly what to say; who was who, and what was what, came to her as second nature, and it was exactly realisations like this that brought all my insecurities to the surface. Holly didn't even know the meaning of the word gauche, with the aid of half a can of hairspray, her blonde hair is always perfectly coiffed, her French nails immaculate and her skin radiant. Her voice has just the right combination of posh vowels and breathy intonation, and everything she says is uttered with a confidence and assertiveness that I just can't seem to own for myself.
"Louisa." She purrs, and her hand comes up to her neck, curling one of her pearl strands languorously around her finger. "Spill the beans. Toni and I are just dying to hear all about this new man of yours. He sounds de-vine on the phone. Who is he, and where did you meet him?"
I look at her, and then across at Toni, who I have to say does not look in the slightest as if she is dying to hear about my good fortune. If I had to pick an emotion, I'd say her face displays more resentment than anything else, but that is Toni in a nutshell.
"Oh, well, not much to tell really." I say, attempting to smile pleasantly and keep my fizzing heart a little under wraps. "Martin is someone I knew a few years ago. We met in the village, through his aunt, and, umm, well, we recently reconnected."
"He sounded terribly commanding on the phone. What does he do?"
I knew that this would be her opening gambit. Everything in her life revolves around the attainment of privilege and what she perceived as success. I also knew what her reaction would be, but I can't lie, and there is no avoiding it. I turn away and pretend to search in the fridge, adopting an enigmatic expression and the most ambivalent tone I can muster.
"Umm, he's a consultant." I say absently. "At St. Mary's."
There is silence and then, from a yard away, I hear the air being expelled rapidly and forcefully through Holly's perfectly formed but suddenly widely-flared nostrils.
"Oh." She replies casually, and I notice that she is self consciously adjusting the strands of her necklace, ensuring that the pearls lie perfectly spaced and even on her heaving, pastel shaded, angora-clad décolletage. "What department? We may have mutual friends."
I feel myself frown slightly. I haven't asked much about his work and I wonder now if I have seemed rude and disinterested to Martin. It is just that he doesn't seem to ever want to talk about it and so it hasn't really ever featured much in our conversation.
"Umm, I'm pretty sure it's the vascular one." I say, endeavouring to seem vague and indifferent, as I reach for the milk and check the use-by date. "Cuppa anyone?"
"Louisa, how thrilling! No wonder Martin sounds so wonderfully compelling. You've only gone and bagged yourself a vascular surgeon!"
I turn to stare at her, frowning, with a such a sudden flare of irritation that I suddenly feel somewhat belligerent.
"I haven't bagged myself anything actually, Holly, and I couldn't care less what he does for a job. Honestly! You make me sound like some sort of horrible gold digger!"
"Say what you like Louisa. Consultants are getting up towards the top of the food chain, and vascular specialists are the cream of that particularly tasty little crop. Well done you."
I feel my mouth drop open in horror. How does she even know these sorts of things?
"And, I repeat, I don't care what he does." I say coldly, and I feel myself begin to flounce angrily, leaning on the countertop an an attempt to calm myself, and glaring back at her.
"Is it serious?" Toni asks, smiling at me, glassily.
"What?" I reply, in a sort of helpless frustration, now turning my stare towards Toni who, unsurprisingly, doesn't seem to want to look at me.
"You should know what you are getting yourself in for, that's all. Surgeons do have a reputation Lou. I hate to be the one to point that out, but it needs to be said." She says haughtily, carefully unfolding and refolding the cuffs of her oversized jacket.
I understand her completely. Toni clearly thinks I'm either too naive or, worse still, too uncouth, to involve myself with a man of Martin's calibre. I know it's exactly what she means because haven't I agonised over that endlessly myself? I didn't mind Libby alluding to my lack of sophistication potentially being an issue between Martin and me because she's my genuine close friend, and she's been party to all of my previous colossal errors of judgement where the opposite sex is concerned. But Toni, with her barely disguised contempt, honestly, she can go to hell.
"We'll worry about that if and when happens, shall we Toni?" I say pointedly. "Because, you know what? I've never felt any of the sort of desperation to get married that I've noticed in some others, so, actually, I'm happy just having a bit of fun for the moment. Keeping it light, you know?"
I realise that the music has stopped and suddenly the flat is silent, and the atmosphere vaguely hostile. No one moves.
"Well I for one am thrilled for you Louisa. He sounds like just the sort of distraction you need for the summer." Holly chimes in after a moment, her voice dripping with deceptive sweetness.
"Thank you." I say lamely, forcing myself to smile brightly back at her, and ignoring her patently insincere support, never mind the aspersions she has just cast on Toni's true feelings.
However, again, I know what she's really thinking and I can't help but dwell briefly and painfully on her ulterior motives. Indubitably, at the end of summer, should Martin decide that he has actually had enough of me, then Holly will have positioned herself to swoop in and supplant me before my place in his bed is even cold. In the meantime, should she meet him, she will be sniffing around for any opportunity he offers by way of unattached colleagues and available friends. The higher up the food chain the better, I'm sure of it, I think with disgust.
"I can't wait to meet him." She trills and, again, I flash her another mirthless smile, before picking up my tea and retreating to my room with as much dignity as I can muster.
Having escaped to the relative sanctuary of my cramped little space, I am reminded with dismay of how many outfits I tried on this morning, and how many I left strewn over the bed and on the floor before I chose the one I am currently wearing. I don't have the energy right now to sort them so I just push them all to one end and curl up in the available space, pulling the clips from my hair and unraveling my tightly wound bun absently as I think about the conversation I've just had.
I battle with quite overwhelming feelings of resentment for a while until I calm down and attempt to rationalise everything that was said, and put it into some sort of context. Both Holly and Toni behaved exactly as Libby said they would and I find myself giving a helpless and incredulous snort of laughter. I don't know which of them annoyed me the most; I know I am sensitive to the way everyone seems to want to point out surgeon's reputations to me. I also know that it upsets me mostly because it just assumes I have nothing much else that might appeal to Martin other than being female, but also because it casts some rather unpleasant aspersions on his character, neither of which make me feel very happy if I'm honest.
The sickening feeling that started to linger, when I agonisingly imagined Holly replacing me, stubbornly refuses to go away. I wish I didn't always fall prey to these crippling feelings of insecurity and self-doubt but they seem to lie in wait for me whenever things become difficult or threatening. Imagining myself in his bed should not come with the fear of imminent replacement, frankly, that is just being ridiculous and now I am cross with myself. Staunching that particular emotional bleed, I suck in a deep, long restorative breath and abruptly sit upright. I'm at the right height and I stare at myself in the mirror, long and hard, forcing myself to remember above all else what it was like to feel his hot breath on my throat, and hear him say my name so provocatively that just the thought of it now makes my breath catch in my throat. My name, said with what seemed like a genuine, aching desire, in such a low, desperate tone that just thinking about it now makes my mouth dry. I swallow hard and my breath releases in a shallow shuddering sigh.
I couldn't have been more insincere with Toni if I'd tried, but it doesn't concern me at all. If I'm honest it doesn't really feel like I am merely keeping it light or simply just having fun and that's absolutely fine. It isn't as if I don't enjoy being with him, because I do so very vehemently. But, I realise, fun is everywhere. It's trawling the markets with Libby, it's karaoke night, it's French and Saunders, it's Trivial Pursuit. Fun is commonplace and easily obtainable, lightness is insincerity and shallowness, and Martin is, thankfully, none of those things. Actually, he sort of transcends all of that for me, he always has. I know I can't explain it, but a little annoyed voice deep inside me reminds me that I don't have to justify the way I feel. To anyone.
Wednesday comes and goes mostly without incident. Holly opened her mouth again, as I was leaving for the bus stop in the morning, and I could immediately tell by her smarmy tone where she was going. I stared at her with narrowed eyes, daring her to continue, and she promptly changed the subject and turned away. I think she knows that there is now a line in the sand, although it hasn't seemed to prevent her from turning answering the telephone into an Olympic sport. Of course she gets to it first, she has an extension in her room, right next to her bed, though I can't recall without cringing what Libby thinks that is for. Everything is in Holly's name, including all of the utilities, and she never hesitates to remind us so, if she wants to elbow us out of the way in the kitchen on a regular basis in order to satisfy her petty competitiveness, then that's the way it has to be.
Libby usually finds it hilarious, muttering things under her breath like "That'll be the London Symphony" or "Edward Windsor just can't take no for an answer," and grinning at me wickedly. Under normal circumstances, I couldn't care less but it's almost as if she knows I'm expecting Martin to call me to finalise arrangements for Saturday, and she is deliberately trying to obstruct me. Perhaps I'm just a bit over sensitive but I can't help it. In the end I have no excuse for loitering in the kitchen so I retreat to the living room with the latest NME, distracting myself with an article on Dave Gahan, and finishing off the dregs of a bottle of Baileys I'd found in the back of my wardrobe.
Libby clatters loudly through the front door, clutching an armful of clingfilm-draped dry cleaning, a plain brown paper bag from the offie under her elbow which is clanking rather obviously. Normally she sneaks her alcohol supply in under the cover of darkness, her theory being that neither Toni or Holly ever share theirs so why should she. I laugh at her perfect timing, having moments before watched surreptitiously as Holly made her way upstairs, late for cello practice which is normally already well underway. Prior to that, Toni trudged dejectedly out of the flat to meet, rather unenthusiastically, an old friend from school who had just announced her engagement. Her face was like thunder and I couldn't help but feel the teensiest bit of satisfaction at her obvious discontent which wasn't very nice of me but, actually, I don't care. That's Schadenfreude again, Louisa, I tell myself reprimandingly, all the time knowing Libby will relish it even more as if that somehow makes my reaction seem not quite so mean spirited and awful.
Libby blows me an extravagant and comical air kiss. She shuffles past awkwardly, humping her load up the narrow stairs to hang up her clothing and stash her vodka, and I listen to her footsteps on the ceiling above, while I use my fingers to make sure I have consumed every last smear of creamy liqueur from my glass. Holly has finished her chords and now launches into one of her familiar pieces. It's Bach's cello suite and I'm always quite happy to listen to it, even if she misses a few notes and has to stop and start again. I even find myself closing my eyes to listen and I lean my head back against the lumpy arm of the sofa and smile to myself as I recall how mercilessly I took the proverbial out of Martin all those years again for his taste in music, calling him a geriatric and teasing him that he was old before his time. On reflection, he wasn't much older than I am now.
As if my thoughts have summoned him like some sort of phantasm, the peaceful musical interlude is interrupted by the insistent ringing of the phone. I glance at my watch and, noticing that it's eight o'clock on the dot, conclude that it must surely be Martin. Before Holly can put her bow down, I'm up off the couch and leaping across the room as if I'd disturbed a wasp nest, and I utter a breathless, urgent greeting into the receiver as I snatch it from the cradle.
"Umm, Louisa, it's Martin." I hear him say cautiously, and instantly I feel swamped by an exquisite blend of excitement and longing.
I am aware that I only have a few precious moments of privacy in which to make our weekend arrangements and I hope he understands both the urgency and the stiltedness in my voice. There's no time for anything more, indeed I only have a short opportunity to reassure him of the fact that I am very much looking forward to seeing him when I hear the thump of footsteps descending the stairs. It's Libby and she smirks at me knowingly, gazing at me with her head on one side, arms folded across her chest, eyes sparkling with merriment.
Whispering a rapid and slightly forlorn goodbye, I hang up gently, and pause momentarily as I wait for my heart rate to slow.
"And?" She says, grinning broadly at me now.
I can't help myself, I feel like my heart is an enormous and out of control wind up toy, trying to smash its way out through my ribcage. I hear myself inhaling, my breath squeaky and shallow and, when I do finally manage to speak, I'm aware that I am gushing rather effusively.
"Oh my god, Libs!" I gasp as she starts to laugh at me. "We need to talk about shoes!"