At the last minute, I decided on a haircut and, on a whim, a hot shave. I'd slept like the dead last night and awoken this morning with a disconcerting nervous energy; edgy and impatient, and so fidgety and restless that I'd even begun to get on my own nerves. After an early breakfast, I'd polished all of my shoes, paying particular attention to my recently acquired black calfskin George Cleverley's which are, quite frankly, a work of art. Then I'd set about wiping down all of my shoe trees before carefully replacing them and returning each pair to the wardrobe. I'm on the tall side, I have large feet, and my preferred method of transit is to walk so, consequently, I find myself very hard on footwear. For a number of reasons, it's important that I am impeccably presented this evening. I am certain to encounter my mother and I don't want to provide her with ammunition, any obvious flaws or faults over which she she can disparage me. The short length of time it takes me to wear out a pair of shoes has long been a thorn in her side and I don't need her to again humiliate me publicly over what she considers my complete absence of elegance and refinement.
The thought of encountering her again does nothing to stave off my snowballing discomfort and I charge down the street like a man possessed, arriving at the supermarket as soon as it opens, feeling strangely awkward as I make my way around the aisles and consider my selections. Once again, this is such new ground for me and I have absolutely no idea really; is it presumptuous to prepare for an overnight guest, to plan ahead and wonder what Louisa might like for breakfast? Am I impertinent to make such bold assumptions, attempting to predict her tastes and adding them so confidently to the shopping basket? I want her very badly to stay but it seems my choice is either to be overconfident and humiliated if she doesn't or underprepared and embarrassed if she does. However, reminding myself how eager she'd been to remove my clothing while I sat dazed and transfixed, like a rabbit in the headlights, sees me exhaling rather heavily, choosing a large box of premium, hand-made, organic muesli from the shelf and placing it assuredly amongst my selections.
I find myself wondering more and more about what she likes, and my previously rather tentative attempts to look after her have suddenly become more imperative. It's mystifying to me, bafflingly so, how rapidly everything seems to have started to revolve around Louisa. Work goes on but, outside of that, her ability to elevate my spirits is disarming, just thinking about her joyful optimism, her reassuring touches and her encouraging smiles, can lift my mood immeasurably. This must be what people mean when they say that they are growing rather fond of someone. It's enough just to be near them and, when you are apart, they are constantly on your mind.
So I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised at how immeasurably my week had improved when I'd arrived home to discover Louisa's message on my answerphone. Prior to that, I'd spent several days lecturing myself about my rather unseemly, emerging neediness and, though I had reassumed my veneer of composure and self-reliance, I still experienced the usual dull, unremitting ache of longing. On the day of my lunch with Chris Parsons, I'd fortunately managed to arrive home at a reasonable hour. I was ravenous and I prepared myself a simple meal as soon as I walked in; strangely, all my needs seem to be so much more intense than usual. I am not hungry, I am starving, I am never just thirsty, I am as parched as the barren landscapes of the Gobi Desert. Exhausted, or jumping out of my skin; every action seems over animated, every response touchy and extreme.
The barber tilts me back on the chair and the ritual of the hot towels begins. I've been coming here long enough that he makes no attempt at conversation, and we communicate through a series of nods, grunts and monosyllabic instructions. It feels for all the world as if I am undergoing some sort of ancient ritual and I feel myself relax as the delicious, penetrating warmth infuses my skin; calming, and almost sedating me as I close my eyes and drift into a state of repose. The background noise fades away and my thoughts drift pleasantly to Louisa and her seemingly indomitable high spirits. She will need every ounce of the youthful resilience she possesses if I cannot shield her from my mother tonight. I listen to rhythmical scraping of the razor as it sweeps against my skin and I can't help but compare its cold, deadly blade to the sharp vindictive cruelty of my mother's spiteful tongue.
When I'd realised that the answerphone message was from Louisa, I'd been anxious of course, to finally speak to her. I'd hurriedly played it back and been relieved that she had sounded bright and effervescent, and I'd even caught myself smiling as I replayed it a second time, wondering what it is about the way she says my name that makes a sliver of excitement pluck at my nerves. I'd forced myself to put away all my supper dishes before I returned her call. No point getting into slovenly habits just because the axis of your world has just shifted slightly. With so many things in my life seeming so completely out of control it seemed even more important to cling to whatever order and predictability I still had left. By the time I folded the tea towel and placed it over the handle of the cooker my heart, though, was racing.
And so I had dialled, the call had gone through and Louisa had answered, her voice so reassuringly eager and enthusiastic. She, of course, doesn't feel the requirement to hide herself behind any grim mask of cool detachment because she has absolutely no need to. Louisa, genuine, natural and being herself, is always enough. I hadn't had the chance to ruminate on any parts of my conversation with Chris Parsons but, as I listened to Louisa's breathless retelling of the highlights of her week, I knew that something had changed within me. We'd finalised our arrangements for the weekend and I'd finally found my voice, hesitant as it was ,unsure and feeling out on a limb as I am.
"And, Louisa, I was thinking...that is to say, I was wondering if...if it might be prudent to...to perhaps...umm..."
"Bring a toothbrush?" She interrupts and I can hear the impudence in her voice.
I clear my throat awkwardly as I feel the heat of a blush scorch across my whole body.
"Umm, yes. Yes, that would be...umm...a good idea. I was going to suggest that you wear shoes that are comfortable to...umm...to stand around in for long periods but, umm...ahh...yes...a toothbrush. If you like..."
There is a moment of awkward silence and then I hear her give what sounds like a nervous snort, and she hesitated before eventually replying, her voice low and breathy.
"Thank you Martin, I will consider the shoes...and the toothbrush..."
I'd swallowed hard, and there'd been yet more silence between us, while a pulse throbbed in my temple and I'd had to wipe my hands on my handkerchief. As I cleared my throat again and experienced a wave of anticipation such as I'd never felt before, I bade her a gentle and reluctant goodbye and, after I had replaced the receiver, I'd sat at my desk for a moment and stared at the Buddha, his smug smile, tonight, disarmingly perceptive. He'd appeared dull and mediocre in the spare room, almost as if he was sulking at the loss of his former importance, so I'd brought him in here and he'd rewarded me by returning to his glowing, exquisitely patinated self. But now I had to contend with his disconcerting gaze and, as I stared at him, I thought about my conversation with Chris and suddenly I needed to move away. I stood up and began to wind the clocks thoughtfully, trying to focus on what I was doing, but it was in vain as I battled with the intensity of my response to her suggestion. Hurriedly, I removed myself to the anonymity of the living room, not only fleeing his penetrating stare, but hopelessly trying to avoid the rather alarming realisation that has just lacerated my equilibrium.
I had immediately sought solace, as is my habit, in a medical journal, this time The Lancet, and I had struggled through an article on cytotoxic chemotherapies, when Chris's voice began to intrude into my thoughts. At first, I experienced only a mild discomfort as I thought about pop concerts at Wembley, followed by slightly more angst as I recalled his jibes about Louisa's inevitable need to change my manner of attire. But, while that idea is admittedly unsettling, it's not entirely responsible for the peculiar and rather overwhelmed way I currently feel. There's an unfamiliar emotion that seems to have crept up on me so stealthily that I was, until today, unaware that I was even being stalked.
Of course, I can't quite remember the name of the song to which Chris referred but I recalled enough of its title to now be quietly stunned by my reaction. That is to say, I hadn't reacted at all. No bluster, no denial, no affront, nothing. The idea is suddenly bewildering and I give my magazine a brisk shake and attempt to focus again, but the columns blur and the words are meaningless. I shift in my seat, plumping the pillows and resting my elbow on the arm in the vain hope that a minor alteration in my position could arrest what seems to be an avalanche descending upon me. I want to assail the feeling with logic, with sensible arguments that disprove a seemingly ridiculous hypothesis. I barely know her. We are so different. She is beautiful and effervescent and delightfully unpredictable, and I am none of those things. I growl loudly with frustration and annoyance, angered by the unlikeliness of her ever reciprocating my feelings, miserably aware of the improbability that I would ever make her happy, and desperately denying even my right, as such a flawed and difficult human being, to experience this state of mind.
But yet, despite my futile attempts to eschew and to rebuff the idea, despite my scant knowledge and even more meagre experience of the emotion, even despite the fact that it goes against everything I thought true of myself, throwing as it does endless potential difficulties into my controlled, well ordered, highly disciplined existence, I am suddenly, intensely, disconcertingly self aware. Irrefutably, I am in love with Louisa. The magazine slips from my hand and I slide my palms up my cheeks, covering my eyes and pushing my fingertips firmly into the ridges of my eye sockets, rubbing my temples firmly, desperate to relieve the unrelenting pressure in my head.
"Oh my god, Louisa." I groan, aloud, alone in my flat and no one to hear me, no one to witness this, my ultimate moment of clarity. No one to watch me as I stare into a maelstrom of fear and desire and exhilaration and need, no one to to reassure me that my trepidation is normal and that my anxiety is unfounded. Discovering this, happening upon this terrifying truth, finding myself, usually so reliably remote, aloof and dispassionate, now incontrovertibly transformed. I am in love with Louisa. Finally I know how it feels, I just wish with all my heart that I knew what to do.
And so it seems, a truth that's finally acknowledged is a truth more easily managed and, for the rest of the week, I feel buoyed, uplifted even, and the secret that I hold inside me feels like a shield, a shelter, a softly insulating layer that makes even the onerous prospect of Saturday night in the company of my parents seem somehow slightly more tolerable. The barber applies the second hot towel and I feel the steam penetrating the pores of my face, so cleansing and refreshing. The shaving foam feels soothing and light, fizzing gently against my skin, pleasantly cooling the exfoliated surfaces of my face. As he begins the ritual again and I feel the blade slide slowly and carefully up my neck, I feel suddenly calmer, and peacefully accepting of what now seems like a particularly miraculous phenomenon. I am in love with Louisa and everything must now be different.
He gently pats down my face, removing the excess foam in a soft repetitive rolling motion that only adds to my feeling of calm. There's always an aftershave lotion though, it's an unavoidable part of the custom, but he knows now to choose only the unscented kind; gazing at me impassively from under hooded eyes as I wince from the rather intense, post-application flush of pain. It seems an appropriate analogy somehow; the softness, the passivity, the surrender and then the sting. All I can do is hope that the sting never comes, in defiance of the voices that whisper in my head that, undeniably, inevitably, it will.
On my way back to my flat I pass a young man carrying a huge armful of flowers, a ridiculously oversized bouquet; gaudy and exuberant and suggesting to me only that he has done something absolutely appalling that he has a great need to apologise profusely for. But it gives me pause for thought and, as I pass the florist, I hesitate before cautiously pushing the door open, sidestepping the overflowing vases tiered from floor to ceiling, a visual assault of colour that I find slightly confronting. I look around awkwardly. Why on earth should I find this so difficult? Why do I feel so uncomfortable partaking in such a culturally acceptable practice, such a behavioural norm? Just because I couldn't care less about flowers, have never bought them and don't really understand their significance, dying so quickly as they usually do, it shouldn't mean that choosing some for Louisa is outside my expertise.
The woman behind the counter smiles at me, and she seems to be quite knowledgeable and reasonably helpful. I explain that I don't want anything scented, recalling a chintzy bunch that sat on reception in the vascular department for a week, frankly filling the air with the stench of rancid cat urine and forcing me from the room on more than one occasion. My eye is drawn to the more simple shapes and the darker colours. I eschew anything that looks like it came from a cottage garden or should be adorning the bedside cabinet in the geriatric wards, instead choosing some rather tactile looking, large, unusual blooms that she tells me are called Zantedeschia. I order a dozen; black, satiny and dramatic and I notice that she looks at me thoughtfully as she trims the ends and binds them together with some sort of parcel string before wrapping them in layers of plain brown paper. It is only then that I realise I don't have anything that even vaguely resembles a vase and so I ask her to show me anything suitable, I choose a utilitarian piece of Polish crystal, sign the credit card slip and make my escape, anxious as I am that no one sees me before I can safely slip into the privacy and the cool, quiet, restorative atmosphere of my flat.
I'd wondered if it were possible to see Louisa today, to perhaps meet for lunch, just to see her, to reassure myself somehow, and I'd asked her when we spoke a few days ago, curious of where was she working today, hoping she'd say that it was close. Disappointingly, she was to be in Hampstead, and I'd sensed she was annoyed about the length of the commute she would have to undertake to fill in for another tutor, so I'd almost offered to drive her myself but I couldn't quite bring myself to do so, terrified that I would sound needy or, worse still, desperate. I was however brave enough to ask about her plans for later in the afternoon, only to be met by an incredulous snort and a slightly patronising explanation about the rigorous endeavours she must undergo immediately prior to the event, in order to ready herself for the function. I had no idea that she must attend something called a day spa, with the ever present Libby, in order to prepare; or that she would require the services of a hairdresser in order to consider herself presentable. I was puzzled but acquiescent and had quickly changed the subject as it dawned on me just how excited Louisa was about the evening. I groaned internally as I imagined all the possible ways that the event might be spoiled for her but I had remained silent, unwilling to tarnish her apparently eager anticipation.
So, without any further arrangements, I face the rather pleasant prospect of a quiet afternoon at home, free to spend it how I please. Anxiety waxes and wanes within me, sometimes intense but, mostly, I am mostly able to bury it in my usual expert fashion, determinedly submerging my fears beneath layers and layers of impenetrable fortifications. Besides, after all, I am a pragmatist and whatever happens will just have to be borne, regardless. Somehow, knowing that relentlessly cheerful Chris Parsons is going to be in attendance has assumed a great deal of significance. I realise I will owe him a great debt of gratitude should Louisa and I survive the evening unscathed. The sun is shining and I open the blinds, flooding the living room with sunlight, making myself an espresso after lunch and settling down with a biography of Sir Thomas Lewis, wincing uncomfortably as I read the summary describing him as a dour, work-obsessed loner who devoted himself to the study of cardiovascular research. Even up until a few weeks ago I probably would have read that as high praise indeed but now I simply feel like an uncomfortably bright spotlight is being shone on my life, probably rather unfavourably.
After a while, I decide on some musical accompaniment and, with the unusually deep blue sky, the glare of the sunlight off the brilliant white walls, and the heat of the summer afternoon causing me to remove my suit coat, I select a recent purchase with a distinctly Iberian feel: Rodrigo's Concerto de Aranjuez, which seems to perfectly suit the languid tempo of the afternoon, the build up, the slowly increasing intensity, the calm before the storm. I glance at my watch. Three hours to go.
By five o'clock, as my apprehension and excitement burgeon in equal measure, I decide to shower and ready myself. I slip my book carefully onto the shelf, practising as I do the Dewey Decimal system, although somewhat informally compared to my former slavish devotion to this satisfying system of classification and order. I place the assorted magazines that I have assembled over the course of the afternoon into my briefcase, which I secure shut and place on the floor in the footwell of my desk. I pause for a moment with my hand on the very spot where Louisa was perched only a few short weeks ago. The very moment in fact when I'd realised my resistance was futile, and one of the few times in my life when I'd thought to hell with the consequences. I swallow hard as I allow my mind to wander back to that moment, and then forward to now, to tonight, and whatever those consequences might be. The yin and the yang. The Terror and the Thrill. I take a deep breath and walk briskly toward the shower.
It's almost a novelty for me, dressing for tonight, and I do so carefully, winged collar shirt, braces, cummerbund and my grandfather's cufflinks, his initials delicately monogrammed in silver over the rich dark blue enamel. While I can tie a Windsor knot with my eyes closed and one hand behind my back, the perfect bow tie requires more studious concentration, and I stand in front of the mirror for several minutes, tying and retying until I am completely comfortable with the result. I select a pocket square and arrange it perfectly, before sliding another handkerchief into my trouser pocket; I desperately hope she won't require it but this is Louisa and I can never ever be sure of her reaction to anything. I stare at myself for a moment, groomed as I am to within an inch of my life, but still wondering where my mother will find fault, what criticism she will wield with such precision and accuracy that it pierces my armour, which glaring inadequacy she will seize upon to coldly flail me. Whatever failure she inevitably highlights, all I can hope for is that my humiliation is not witnessed by Louisa. The door buzzer goes and I feel a rush of excitement. I run my hand over my hair one more time and, inhaling deeply, stride purposefully toward the door.