I remember so clearly hearing the voices and, completely inexplicably, being drawn toward them. Already half claimed by sleep, exhausted and overwhelmed, I'd tottered down the stairs, clutching at my empty plate before bursting, inelegantly, into the room. And that was when I saw him, coming sharply into focus as everything else blurred into insignificance. He was thinner then of course, with a composure and a sort of spare elegance surprising at his age. The intensity was there though, the gravitas and, dare I say it, the imperiousness. Though I was vulnerable and bone weary, though my eyes stung from the shedding of endless tears and my heart ached desperately from anguish and disappointment, my attraction to him was instant and undeniable.
Of course, in my typical fashion, I'd blundered into what was clearly a reunion of sorts and, though I'd had the wherewithal to quickly remove myself, it was not before he had shocked me, calling me Wheezer, and immediately putting me on my guard. My nom de plume, my alter ego, an epithet I shared with no one ever, Wheezer was my confidante; privy to all of my most private of thoughts: the painful, the confusing, the grief-stricken; the extreme emotional pendulum of an abandoned teenage girl.
Bizarrely, it seemed we'd met before but, of course, I don't recall the occasion. Martin clearly did though and, with enough clarity that I felt the ache of an exhumed unhappiness, he had been able to describe yet another set of circumstances where my parents had effectively abandoned me. Of course, he'd been coldly factual, almost brutal in his honesty and I'd learned quickly that he was not one to sugarcoat things. But, despite his bluntness, despite his lack of interest in popular culture, his aloofness and his disdain for many of the things I considered important, despite his disinclination to suffer fools and remember names, I'd recognised something in Martin, something that had just seemed so very significant to me.
So important, in fact, so necessary and so sustaining that, despite my best efforts to move on, and even though so much murky, brown water had flowed beneath this bridge since then, I had been unable to forget him. I suppose there are things about Martin that I think I always recognised, even though I was probably too immature to understand why. I just seemed to know instantly that he was a man of integrity. A man of substance, honourable and honest to a fault. And now my childish crush has turned into something infinitely more adult, and I sit on the edge of his enormous desk, readjusting my clothing. Breathless, more than a little dazed, and filled with a delicious warm glow, I feel an incredulous smile spread across my face.
That Martin, with his incredible intellect and his many achievements, with his drive, his ambition and his stellar career potential; that he should see something worthwhile in me. This taciturn, undemonstrative man, with his perfect manners and his unassailable dignity, who keeps his emotions so restrained and his thoughts so contained. But now I know that, despite his desperate need for privacy and his endearingly childlike shyness, he can be ignited, he can be electrified. By me. I give a small involuntary shake of my head and, as I think about the way his hand felt as he caressed my thigh, I feel breathless again. I really hope he comes back.
And so I wait, expectantly, but after a while, as a series of industrious noises emanate from the kitchen, I come to the disappointing realisation that Martin, ever purposeful and immune to distraction, does in fact mean to steadfastly prepare our lunch. I sigh but I'm still smiling to myself because that's what happens when you are in love, isn't it? Even the most frustrating, perplexing and enigmatic of traits suddenly seem captivating and adorable. Missed meals and unplanned deviations are anathema to him, ensuring that I eat healthily and regularly is a responsibility he clearly feels quite determined to take seriously. I shuffle off the edge of the desk, make myself presentable and wander off to join him.
I discover him intent on preparing something, the ingredients placed neatly to his left, all symmetrical and equidistant apart, and I smile as he expertly wields the knife, coring an apple with the sort of focus and precision I suppose you'd expect. I cannot actually believe that people this organised, this disciplined, actually exist in the world and, though I should tease him about it, I just can't seem to bring myself to. When I look around at his flat, his lifestyle, his achievements, I don't think I have a leg to stand on really. He glances up at me, shy and irresistibly hesitant, his eyes so soft and blue in this light.
"I'm just making a salad, are you hungry?" He says gently, clearing his throat self-consciously. I see that he is now wearing an apron and, instead of taking the mickey, I feel as though I might melt.
"I'm certainly feeling a bit dizzy..." I reply, smiling at him meaningfully.
He frowns and his expression is now speculative.
"Did you eat breakfast?" He asks, as if he already knows the answer.
I hear the doctor in his tone but, now of all times, I don't want a lecture and, worse still, he has total missed my innuendo. I groan at him, like a castigated adolescent, not least because, as usual, he is right.
"No, of course you didn't." He says, a little crossly. "But I see that you had the time to buy wine...and..and...the...the.."
He gestures at my paper shopping bags in frustration, waving the knife in their direction, and glaring at me so reproachfully that I can't help myself. Realising what a torment my lassitude concerning meals must be to him, I start to laugh.
"After Eights!" I interject, enthusiastically. "I brought them as a treat actually Martin, and I want them to still be here next time, so no chucking them in the bin the moment I've gone, got it?"
He glares at me, as if he about to take up the challenge, but I merely stare back, inclining my head to him in a way I hope indicates that I mean what I say. I may as well start drawing a few lines in the sand now, I think, and the war over my chocolate consumption is not one in which he has even the remotest chance of winning. He opens his mouth to speak but I interrupt him.
"Pick your battles." I warn him and he hurriedly looks away.
I can't tell him why I missed breakfast. Primarily because, overnight in the fridge, the milk had not been able to cling to life any longer and it only took me one sniff this time to come to that unhappy conclusion. Then, as I had been in the act of pouring it down the sink, a not uncommon pastime in our flat, Libby had dropped in to pick up some clothes and, of course, she'd wanted a synopsis of the previous evening. I'd grabbed her arm and steered her into my room, not because I was particularly keen to talk about Martin but because I was literally busting to tell her about Toni and her hilarious, presumably one-night stand.
"Oh my god!" She'd squealed in a sort of high pitched whisper, clutching at my forearm, and bouncing for joy as we sat on my unmade bed and raised our eyes cautiously to the ceiling above.
I knew she'd find it as amusing as I had, though I did tone down the degree of Martin's severe discomfort, omitting completely the details of his express departure, and soon she was helpless with mirth. Like me, she was also quite shocked, and incredulous as the story progressed to the point where the shouting really started in earnest.
"Nooooo!" She squawked, incoherent and bordering on hysterical as I banged my hand on the wall in a demonstration of the rhythm that was by now only too familiar. "What was he shouting then?"
I started to laugh so hard that I could barely get the words out. My eyes were watering and I gasped for breath, unable to look at Libby for fear I will literally explode.
"He..he...he...yells...U..U..U...use it, bbbbaby, use it..." I splutter and I nearly fell off the bed because I was bordering on hysterical.
Libby was literally crying then, tears rolling down her face, her mouth open, her expression disbelieving.
"Noooooo! Oh my god no!" She shrieked up into a pillow. "And you could hear every word?"
I nodded and I start to laugh again, rolling onto my back and covering my face with my hands. I could barely breathe and I'm gasping as I recounted it to her, the mirth and disbelief threatening to choke me.
I stifle a giggle now, recalling it, but I'm jarred from my reverie by Martin's quiet insistence that I take a seat, and that lunch is now ready. I can't help but smile at him as he carefully removes his apron and folds it into neat, orderly square, his every action so thoughtful and controlled. I look around for my empty glass, only to spot it washed and upside down on the draining board and, though I think about helping myself to another, I decide against it. As much fun as it is to playfully aggravate Martin, I realise that I don't actually want him to be silently judging me, lumping me in with the binge drinking culture, bladdered and taking home random blokes they meet in bars. And, while my newly found need for his approval probably has a lot to do with what happened last night, I also realise that the chaotic, grimy student life is rapidly losing its appeal.
I am hungry and my stomach lets out a loud, long rumble as he sets the plate out in front of me, which of course prompts his eyebrow to arch and for his expression to become every so slightly righteous, but I ignore him, instead complimenting him in on the crumbed chicken thing he has prepared, which smells absolutely delicious. He clears his throat bashfully and I wait for him to sit down and shake out his napkin before I help myself to salads. Of course Martin has real linen napkins, in the purest white; no brightly coloured paper serviettes or kitchen roll for him, I think to myself, smiling at him happily.
As usual, he eats in silence, glancing at me self consciously as I praise his efforts, sipping on his ubiquitous glass of water and listening politely as I bang on about the previous evening's events, careful to exclude the situation that clearly upset him. Every so often, I am aware that he is looking at me but, if I try and meet his gaze, he looks away hurriedly and reaches for his glass of water, or clears his throat.
I wait for him to bring up the subject of his father's farewell but he is strangely silent, seemingly content just to listen to me, occasionally muttering in assent or answering my questions, monosyllabically. So I tell him how much I like the way he has decorated his flat, how comfortable it is, and how he has a collector's eye for interesting things. Even by Martin's standards his responses are awkward though and, if I am honest, even a little unenthusiastic, and so, soon, I too grow quiet and we finish our meal in a slightly difficult silence. I offer to do the dishes but he declines, instead asking me if I prefer tea or coffee and directing me to sit on the enormous Chesterfield couch in the adjacent living room.
There's still so much to look at though and so, ignoring his request, I find myself wandering around the walls; gleefully inspecting the speakers that sit either side of the fireplace. They are a brand I have never even heard of but they look expensive and rather high end, and I'm rather tempted to ask if I can give the stereo a blast but it's clearly hidden away in the row of cupboards and I just can't find it in myself to be that bold, especially as Martin's mood seems to have definitely become a little sombre.
He's behind me now, passing me the mug and glancing at me from under his eyebrows, muttering: "One sugar," as he places it carefully in my hands, gesturing with arm and directing me back toward the couch. He waits for me to sit down before cautiously lowering himself next to me; once again as if he feels he needs to carefully gauge the appropriate distance. I'm not sure what has gone wrong but I am now getting the definite impression something has and I start to wrack my brains as to what I might have done wrong. The silence is now alarming me and I tentatively put my hand on his knee and at least he doesn't flinch, so I leave it there. Though he feels so strong and solid and reassuring to me, disappointingly he sits disconcertingly still, cool and unresponsive.
A niggling little voice begins to chip away at my self confidence, does he regret asking me here? Does seeing me here just prove to him how unsuitable I am? Is he wondering how to get me to leave, is he considering his options for flight. As despondency starts to creep in I realise that he is looking at me, his face blank and impassive and it's enough to make me lose my composure.
"Martin, is there something wrong?" I hear myself say, and there's more than a hint of terseness in my tone, probably more than I intended as his head flies up in alarm.
"What?" He asks, and he looks suddenly very concerned. "No! Umm...no...I...no, there's nothing wrong. Why?"
"You've barely said a word. I feel like I've done something to upset you."
"Nooo!" He replies vehemently, but I notice that his expression is cautious.
He reaches over and puts his mug on the little low table, before gently removing mine from my grasp too. His mouth twists and I notice that he is breathing deeply, as if it's some sort of calming ritual. As I'm pondering why he needs to do that, and what might be coming next, he takes my hand from his knee and clasps his fingers around it, gazing down in silent contemplation. After a moment, I feel his thumb begin to gently rub my palm and the sensation is mesmerising; intimate and comforting and surprisingly sensuous,
I sigh deeply.
"Is this about last night?" I ask him quietly but he doesn't look up, and he doesn't reply.
"Because, if it is, I'm really sorry that it upset you but it's one of those things that happens, you know, when you share houses with people. I mean all of them, basically strangers when we moved in together. So, you know, you just have to learn to laugh things off really."
I notice his shoulders shift and he straightens up, his expression unreadable.
"Umm, Louisa...It wasn't...it isn't that, although I will admit to, umm, to not enjoying bearing witness to your housemate's peccadilloes at such close quarters. And yes I did...I found the situation umm, rather distasteful but...ahh...in no way was I, or am I, upset with you."
He glances up at me and I smile at him reassuringly. I don't know what else to do.
"And, as for living with strangers, I did spend ten years at boarding school." He adds, and there is almost the hint of a smile about his cheeks, a crinkling around his eyes that transforms his face. It's enough to make my heart skip sideways.
Without a second thought, I slide in beside him, my arm across his chest and my head nestled against his lapel. I hear him sigh quietly and I feel his arm go around my shoulder, pulling me closer. Slowly and cautiously, I bring my knees up and, when he doesn't seem to object I slide my legs over his lap and curl into him, joining him in his contemplative silence for a few moments, hypnotised by the slow and languid movements of his fingers as he absently caresses the bare skin of my legs.
"Louisa," he says, in that velvety way he has of saying my name, that makes me literally melt. "The next few weeks for me..well they have just become absolutely chaotic and, umm, I'm not sure if I will have an opportunity to see you again before this blasted farewell."
"Oh, right." I reply and the disappointment in my voice is obvious.
"I'm sorry., I really am but it's... it does seem an opportune time for me to, umm, explain some things to you. Some, ahh, factors that you might not have considered..may not be aware of before we..before we...umm"
"Okay." I say slowly, and suddenly I'm apprehensive again. Despite my best efforts to ignore them all, I've been warned about surgeon's reputations so often now that a tiny bit can't help but have taken root in the depths of my mind, fed and watered by my chronic insecurity. I have a sudden overwhelming feeling of anxiety and, as usually happens, I blurt out something ridiculous.
"You're not going to tell me you're celibate are you Martin?"
"What?" I hear him say, and he sounds completely horrified.
"Joke, Martin, It was a joke."
"What made you say that?"
"I don't know. I honestly don't know why I said it. Sorry. Umm, never mind. Please carry on."
He takes a moment to refocus and I chastise myself for interrupting him. I should know by now how difficult it is for him to talk about things and yet, every time he pauses to collect his thoughts, I have this ridiculous need to blather on like an idiot.
I reach up to his face and gently caress his cheek. Always so smooth, the man must be forever shaving, I think to myself, adding Martin's impeccable grooming to the long list of things I appreciate about him. I feel that familiar swell of affection in my chest and I realise that I need to help him a little bit.
"I think it sounds like a good idea actually," I say thoughtfully. "You know, to be upfront with me from the start."
"Mmm." He murmurs, his mouth close to my ear, and his fingers absently drawing figure eights on my calves. It suddenly dawns on me that, perhaps, he finds it easier to talk to me this way; in close physical contact, intimate, but somehow less exposed. Perhaps, face to face, whatever he has to say will be too much for him.
"Louisa, my work, my area of speciality, it's aah, it's very demanding. Especially time wise. It's not unusual that some weeks I might be working ninety, a hundred hours. Obviously, that's the exception rather than the rule but, ummm, please, I need you to understand that a lot of the time you will have to come second, and that's umm, that's no reflection on you."
I feel his lips brushing my forehead and I wrap my arm around him more tightly, as if to encourage him to continue.
"I know that for people who come from outside the medical sphere, frankly, it can be difficult for them to understand. And, ahh, it's not been an issue for me previously but now, I'm worried, I am a little concerned that, perhaps, you don't realise how little free time I actually have."
I take a deep breath.
"To be honest Martin, I haven't given it much thought. But I'm really glad you brought it up."
I hear him sigh and it occurs to me that so much more goes on behind his quiet facade than anyone would ever give him credit for. Nothing is left to chance with him, everything is so carefully considered. All the time I spend watching rubbish tv, skylarking with my friends, reading crappy magazines, going to the pub and generally behaving like a big kid, and all, the while, diligent, thorough Martin is working, and thinking, and planning.
"If I have to cancel things at the last minute, if I don't turn up or I umm, I disappoint you, I need you to understand that it's never about you, it's never that I don't want to be with you, ... do you think you will be alright about that or will it make you disappointed, and really cross with me?"
Now, it's my turn to sigh. Not because I'm unhappy about what he's saying the future holds for us, but because it's slowly dawning on me that this is a speech Martin feels he must make because he thinks we have some sort of future together. I'm embarrassed to feel the prick of tears in my eyes and I swallow hard, desperate to defeat them.
"No, it's fine, it really is. You know, obviously I'd probably be disappointed at the time but I would understand so it's really good that you decided to bring this up now, I can't say I didn't know what I was getting myself into."
The arm that was around my shoulder slides up and I feel his hand stroking my hair, as usual, so surprisingly gentle. He plays with my ponytail for a moment before eventually pressing his cheek to my forehead, and breathing in heavily. I sense in him a real reluctance to continue and I wonder what on earth it is that concerns him.
"I get the impression that's something else you want to say. Do you want me to promise again that I won't be cross?"
There's a painful few moments of silence and I feel his chest muscles tighten beneath my cheek and for an instant he takes on his granite-like state; tense and rigid, his stress palpable. Eventually he speaks, and his voice is cautious and even afraid, which reminds me just how difficult he finds it to express how he feels and I'm annoyed at myself again for my own impatience. They teach us about this, about allowing the quiet kids to have their moment, being patient with the less articulate, encouraging the introverts to find their voice. Yet here I am, not able to practice any of it, unfairly demanding instant responses when clearly, he is finding this terribly difficult. Beneath my fingers I feel his cheek move, his jaw flexes but no words appear. After a moment, he clears his throat.
"I think you have an, umm, inkling that I didn't have a particularly enjoyable childhood. Umm, except for Joan and Phil of course, umm, in Port Wenn, but, generally, nothing to look back on, ahh, particularly fondly." He says calmly, and I find myself shifting my position slightly, leaning in to him even more deeply, holding him just a little more tightly, eager to comfort him in any way I can.
"The upshot is that, well, as I mentioned, my parents and I..." He pauses uncomfortably.
"You don't speak."
"Mmm." He says, waiting a moment before continuing. "You asked me how I thought it would be, stuck in a room with them, listening to my father's outrageous self-promotion and I need you to know, I need you understand, that I will be sickened. I will, umm, I will be disgusted, probably, and I will want to leave almost straight away. Ahh, agreeing to attend was a grave mistake and asking you to come with me, worse folly still."
"Oh right." I reply and I am a bit surprised at the vehemence of his statement and the apparent strength of his dislike for his parents. "Christopher and...what's your mum's name."
Another pause and then he replies in a cold, clear voice. "Margaret."
I find the whole situation quite baffling. After I read his life story, though it has to be said that his dad is pretty egotistical and his mum seems to be a woman of a certain type, all charity balls and society columns, I did struggle to imagine how a professional man, his wife apparently so well-regarded in the community as she appears to be, a well off and well connected couple, how could they actually be that awful to their son. I know better than most how complicated families can be, and my few short weeks tutoring have shown me that dysfunction has nothing to do with social status and income, but still. And I suppose the most perplexing question is how on earth were they able to raise a son the calibre of Martin, if they are so horrible, so without merit.
"Well, you know what? I'd still quite like to go, I mean, if you still want to that is?" I say carefully. I already know what I'm going to wear.
He doesn't respond and I twist around to look up at him. His state of agitation is clearly written on his face, as he stares coldly at the wall opposite, no longer caressing my leg, but instead choosing to grip the the arm of the couch so firmly that I notice his fingers are white.
"Whatever you decide Martin, I don't mind, but, you know, we probably need to decide now if we're not going to see each other before then, don't you think?"
He looks down at me, with a strange expression on his face as he seems to be fighting to compose himself.
"Umm, if you really want to go, then I..I umm, I suppose...we should go...l
"Look, we don't have to stay long, you know, if it's really awful." I answer quickly, desperate to reassure him. "Let's just go somewhere nice together, let's try and ignore your parents and see how we go. If we need to, we can leave, I mean, how bad can it possibly be?"
I hear him mutter something in my ear but I don't ask him to repeat it, instead I pull away from his chest and reach up to kiss him softly on his cheek, running my hand across his hair, relishing the silky feel as it slides through my fingers. He looks so vulnerable in that moment that I would do anything to protect him. I want so badly to tell him how much I love him, that the sum of us is greater than our parts, that there's nothing his parents could possibly say that could change how I feel about him but I pause and frantically try and collect my thoughts because I've read far too many Cleo articles and I am only too well aware that gushing and premature declarations of love are guaranteed to drive a man away, scare him senseless, and I'm not prepared to do anything that jeopardises what we have together.
"It will be fine, I promise you." I tell him and, in that moment, I fervently believe it. The look in his eyes makes my heart lurch and all the love I feel in this moment, it has to go somewhere, I have to express it somehow as it bubbles and froths inside me with an intensity I can barely control. I pull his mouth down to mine and kiss him; languidly and serenely, as if I need to reassure him that we have all the time in the world, and that I'm not going anywhere. I kiss him as if it's my seal to the contract I've just agreed to; understanding the demands of his career, and his difficult parents, juggling our disparate lives and our mismatched lifestyles.
But, as relaxed and unhurried as my intentions were, I feel a gradual surge in intensity as he coaxes me into his lap and the tranquility of our embrace soon evaporates. Suits are all very sexy for walking around in, and I admit that I am, and always have been, very partial to the way a man looks in a well cut one but, now, I hear myself imploring Martin to remove his jacket, threatening him with bodily harm if he doesn't at least shed one layer. For a moment he even appears to hesitate, his expression almost concerned and then I watch with amusement as he carefully and elegantly slips out of it, folds it neatly and turns sideways with great difficulty to lay it over the back of the couch.
"Tie?" I say and he obliges, this time with slightly more abandonment. He stares at me, almost transfixed, his expression unreadable as I slide his braces off his shoulders, smiling at him suggestively as I slowly begin to undo the buttons on his shirt. My hands find his chest, as deliciously smooth and firm beneath my fingertips as I recall from last night. I'm straddling his lap now and my mouth is on his neck, and the Adam's Apple that had transfixed me so when we'd first met. His hands seemed to be stuck fast to my waist as is if he's suddenly terrified to touch me but I hear him gasp and I feel the muscles of his abdomen contract as I run my hands over them, revelling in the delicious feeling of his bare skin. I have this sudden breathtaking need to feel him against me. For a moment, I sit up, freeing my arms so that I can grasp the sides of my t shirt and pull it over my head. Smiling at him, I toss it onto the floor and reach around behind me to undo my bra. Before I can release the catch, his hands come up and grab my wrists, and he gazes at me
"Louisa." He croaks desperately, his eyes glassy and his face aglow. "Please. Stop! We need to talk."
I pause and look down at him. His chest is rising and falling rapidly and I know he wants this as badly as I do. From where I sit, even in my limited experience, I'd say it was obvious. He lets go of my arms and, as they fall down to my sides I remember what Libby had mentioned to me, that this was a topic he was bound to raise. In the heat of the moment, it had completely slipped my mind.
"It's okay." I say, and I can't help but smile at him, drawing my finger across his stomach, tracing along my way along, lightly, just above his waistband.
"Ummm...What do you mean?"
"If you wanted to...you know...it would be ok...we're...ummm...we're protected."
"You're taking the pill? An oral contraceptive?"
"Yes, Martin, I'm taking the pill."
"Right. Good." He says firmly, but still he hesitates and, suddenly, it seems like the moment is careering toward ruination. I lean against him and chew on his earlobe, the touch of our skin feels positively divine and I press harder against him, whispering his name and running my fingers up and down his rib cage until I hear him moan as goosebumps ripple across his torso.
"Oh god, Louisa." He says breathlessly. "Please...Oh god...I need...I need.."
"You need what, Martin?"
"I need to ask you...I'm assuming you are, umm, regularly screened for STI's."
I sit back abruptly and stare at him
"What?"
He clears his throat and I can see he is in an agony of discomfort. I bite my lip as he speaks, reaching up to twist my ponytail around my finger as I focus on his words.
"Screening for Sexually Transmitted Infections. Genital swabs, blood tests, urine samples, a physical examination. Have you..umm...have you had any of these performed."
I put my hand up to his cheek, and I can't hide the emerging smirk. Martin Ellingham you don't realise what a debt of gratitude you owe Libby right now. She'd warned me to be prepared. She'd told me that anyone in the medical profession will always ask this very question so, when I'd been to see Campus Health, I'd got the lot done.
"Oh, that." I say and, grinning, I gently slide his open shirt to one side and lightly brush my fingers over his nipple.
"Are you sure?" He asks hesitantly. "You've seen the results? Many STIs are asymptomatic and, just because you don't have any physical signs doesn't mean..."
"Martin! Enough!"
He stares at me sheepishly.
"I'm sorry, I have to ask." He says quietly.
"Yes. And you've asked, and I've told you the answer so could we just shut up about it now please?"
He glances at his watch, a little impatiently and, suddenly I lose patience with him. I swing myself back on to the couch and scrabble on the floor, reaching for my t-shirt.
"Are you trying to tell me it's time to go? Because that's fine, Martin, it really is." I say, not caring how tart I sound. My shirt is inside out, I can't seem to correct it and I feel, inexplicably, ashamed. Barefoot, in just my bra and skirt, I suddenly feel a bit uncomfortable. Raw and quite defensive.
"No, Louisa, please...I wasn't...I don't want you to go." He looks at me helplessly and gestures sadly down the hallway. "I wanted to check...that there was still time...I didn't want to...you know...umm...have to rush anything..."
He looks so defeated, I'm instantly filled with remorse. Once again, I've jumped to horrible unnecessary conclusions. I stand there, holding my tangled shirt like a ball, feeling vulnerable and exposed and rather stupid. Once again, I'm the inflamed one, the passionate, emotional one, nought to sixty in seven seconds, and crashing into the wall at the first bend. As usual, Martin is being sensible, trying to maintain a cool head despite my best efforts to experiment, to test my power over him, to tease him and make things difficult.
"Oh, okay..." I glance up at him hesitantly and I realise he's staring at me.
"You're so beautiful." He says suddenly, and his voice is low and soft as he takes a step toward me. "I've never wanted anything more in my life. Please, Louisa, don't be upset with me."
I can't resist that look, his expression so vulnerable and shy, his eyes with a childlike hope that wrenches at my insides. I smile at him gently, unresisting as he pulls me toward him and kisses me with a slow persuasive intensity that leaves me in no doubt of what he wants. His hesitancy disappears as he proves the dexterity of his surgeons fingers and releases my bra catch in one deft movement and before I even realise what is happening, he has slipped it from my shoulders and discarded it carelessly. That somehow makes me very happy, as if even Martin can feel so much passion that he does not feel inclined to pause, and neatly fold our recklessly shed clothing.
He swears under his breath and now it's the cuff links that are impeding his progress. They quickly come asunder and he plunges them into the pocket of his trousers, slipping neatly out of his shirt, which also drops where it falls. He's as gorgeous underneath all that clothing as I knew he would be, and I delight in the sensation of his bare chest and arms underneath my fingertips. We are making slow progress across the room but it is clear where we are headed and it feels as if we both want to revel in every moment. We pause outside his office door and I realise I'm making noises that I don't even recognise; low, whimpering sounds of pleasure as I respond to the sensation of his mouth exploring every inch of my skin.
He pauses for a moment to concentrate, as I helpfully inform him that the zip on my skirt is bit tricky. It's probably not totally necessary that he removes it but, as I'm quickly and rather gratefully coming to realise, Martin likes to be thorough. He swears under his breath and I start to giggle, so he instructs me to turn around which seems to make the difference; I hear the whiz of the zip, my skirt falls to the floor and I step out of it. He stands for a moment and gazes at me, I feel myself blush under the intensity of his stare. It's one of those moments where nothing else exists, just Martin and me, and the electrifying, overpowering need we have for each other. Remember to breathe, Louisa.
I decide that it's time to find the bed and I reach out to take his hand. As our fingers touch, our little bubble of longing and desire is shattered, exploded into the ether by the insistent peel of the telephone, as Martin hangs his head and lets out a long frustrated groan. He glances at his watch, removing it in the process and pushing it into his pocket, before looking across at me with an apologetic frown.
He steps toward the hallway and I can see he's listening intently, waiting for the answer phone to kick in. As he turns his back to me, I notice the muscles of his shoulders approvingly, enjoying their width and their obvious strength. I follow him and run my hand down his back and he is unflinching as the answer phone clicks in and we hear the clear concise tones of an older woman, her tone deferential and calm.
"Anita Holm." Martin says softly, and I can tell he is relieved. "My housekeeper."
We listen for a moment and suddenly his face crumples.
"Did she just say what I think she said?" I say, in horror.
"Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit." He says, throwing himself at the answer phone and smashing his finger down on the "play" button.
"Good afternoon Mr Ellingham, it's Mrs Holm speaking. I just wanted to remind you that next week I will be away on holiday. I think I told you, I'm visiting my sister in Dorset. In view of that, I've made a slight alteration to our usual schedule and I was hoping I could drop off your linen and your clean washing this afternoon. I'm leaving home now as a I have a few other errands to run so, if you are not there, as usual, I will just let myself in with my key. Thank you Mr Ellingham. Goodbye."
I can't even look at Martin. I just shake my head incredulously and then I make my way, slowly, across the flat, collecting our clothing, resigned to the fact that the forces of the universe are conspiring against us. Without even glancing at him, I toss him his crumpled shirt and wander off to the bathroom, leaving him apologising, miserably, in my wake.