The cornices in Martin's ceilings really are a work of art. As I gaze up at them, it's mind boggling to think that, not much more than twelve hours ago, I'd walked out of my flat, and climbed into a taxi; a hopeful yet hopelessly inexperienced ingenue. Of course I had more than just a rudimentary understanding of what might lie ahead, but I was also desperate to discover that there was more to it all than I'd so far experienced. I was so eager to find something more within myself, and so very desperate to feel something other than the ambivalence and, worse still, the frustration and disappointment that had clouded all my previous physical relationships.
And now, by some sort of miraculous transformation, I'm lying on the floor of Martin's flat, with glazed eyes and a noticeable languor, feeling like some sort of satyric siren who's just discovered the elixir of life, the panacea for rather a lot of evils, if my tingling limbs and overwhelming sense of gratification are anything to go by. I watch as he clambers to his feet and turns his back on me, self consciously, adjusting his clothing and picking up his jacket, folding it over his arm before turning around to glance down at me, clearing his throat.
"Umm, are you alright?" He says quietly, with just a hint of embarrassment in his tone, and a touch of concern wrinkling the skin around his soft grey eyes.
I can't help but grin at him as I sit up and reach for my shirt, feeling like some sort of femme fatale, heady and incredulous about this unprecedented rush of lust that has sprung from within me. I'm sure that my eyes must be sparkling with amazement at my own unrestrained enthusiasm, my face pink as I totally revel in our delicious spontaneity.
"I think you know the answer to that..." I reply, surprised to hear my voice sound so low, and my tone so brazen.
"Are you alright?" I add, and he raises an eyebrow at me.
"Mmm." He replies slowly, swallowing heavily. "Ravished, on my own floor...after Sunday breakfast...ummm...Unusual, to say the least."
For some reason, I find his words reassuring, temporarily assuaging a deep underlying fear in me that I can't quite shake, instilled by the endless opinions I'd received when anyone discovered that Martin was a surgeon. Of course, I hadn't wanted to believe he was a womaniser, that he might be a serial philanderer, just because of his occupation, but a little bit of it had eaten into my psyche regardless.
"I'm not sorry, by the way..." I say, defiantly, fighting to suppress a self-satisfied smirk. Right now, I probably don't care how many woman have gone before me, the only thing that matters is that I am the only one now.
I hold out my hand and he pulls me to my feet, looking at me with a strange expression on his face; I note the return of his imperious gaze, the one that disconcerted me so when we first met again, in that little Japanese restaurant. But this time, it's different, because I realise that his haughtiness is combined, very unusually for Martin, with a semblance of what I now know constitutes his smile.
"No, nor will my dry cleaner be." He says airily, as he examines the front of his shirt. "I fear that, at this rate, I am going to make him rather a rich man."
He glances at me for a moment as I wriggle back into my top, before I watch him turn and disappear down the hallway. I'm surprised to see that he almost appears to be sauntering and I choke back a surprised giggle as it dawns on me that what I am witnessing is, in fact, Martin Ellingham's swagger; dare I say it, as cocky as one of his Auntie Joan's White Dorking roosters. Suddenly, I feel deliriously, and rather thrillingly, content.
When we both re-emerge, nearly re-attired and vaguely self-conscious, he suggests that we set out on a walk through Kensington Gardens and I agree happily. There's an entry gate to the Broad Walk not far from the end of his street and, as he looks sceptically at my footwear, I'm forced to remind him that hiking about the place wasn't exactly uppermost in my mind when I packed my overnight bag. I see his face colour and he clears his throat nervously before he changes the subject and asks me, somewhat hoarsely, if I will be warm enough without a jacket. I growl at him, saying his name in the most threatening way I can muster without bursting into incredulous laughter, pointing out to him rather tersely that I am not a child, and I can actually dress myself. As he opens the front door for me, the phone rings and we stand momentarily in silence as it seems he has no intention of going back to answer it. I suppress a snort as the answer phone kicks in, and Martin's idea of a greeting fills the room, glancing up at him and smiling as I notice both his frown of concentration as he listens, and his apparent obliviousness to the cold unfriendliness inherent in his message.
After the long piercing beep, the chipper tones of Chris Parsons ring out, though from this distance neither of us can quite make out what he's saying, as regularly punctuated as his comments are by bursts of laughter and vehement exclamations. Martin merely looks relieved and inclines his head in the direction of the street, and I realise that he has no intention of checking the message, though when I ask him why, he replies coolly that it's not work, so it can wait, ushering me gently through the door and down the stairs. Once we are out on the street, I'm relieved to discover that the temperature is quite pleasant and that I will not have to suffer the indignity of me being cold and, worse still, Martin being right. I reach for his hand and he pauses, glancing down at my proffered fingers and then, quickly and anxiously, at me.
"What's the matter?" I ask him crossly.
"Ummm, nothing." He replies uncomfortably, but he doesn't move, instead he glances down at my hand again, swallowing so heavily I actually hear him gulp.
I stare back at him in disbelief.
"Oh my god, Martin, please don't tell me that you won't hold my hand in daylight, not after you've just spent the last twelve hours sha..."
"Alright!" He interrupts hastily, grabbing at my wrist and clasping my fingers in his, throwing me a desperate sidelong glance.
"Thank you!" I reply curtly. "Honestly!"
"Yes..." He replies and we walk on in silence, past all the marble columned doorways, the wrought iron fences and the expensive cars.
As we wait to cross Kensington Rd, he gives my fingers an apologetic squeeze.
"I wish I could explain..." he says quietly.
"Perhaps you should try..." I reply, after a moment, wondering if he has any idea how his rejection of such a simple act of togetherness makes me feel, all the time as I'm trying to keep my frustration with him under control, trying desperately hard not to let it spoil everything.
"Louisa, trust me, it wouldn't make any sense to you." He replies and I'm surprised at how sad and regretful he sounds.
"It might make more sense than believing you're ashamed to be seen with me, which is how I feel right now." I say, probably too churlishly, as my disappointment threatens to bubble over.
"What?" He asks, incredulously. "You can't possibly think that."
The road is clear and I snatch at his arm as I step off the kerb crossly, and say nothing.
"Louisa, if I may so, that's utterly ridiculous..."
"Ridiculous now, too, am I? What else am I supposed to think Martin?" I bark at him, striding across the zebra crossing like a woman possessed but he merely lengthens his stride and, even more annoyingly, I can't even storm angrily away from him because he's gripping my hand now, actually like he is a man possessed.
"Please..Louisa..." He says and he sounds bewildered, and slightly panicky. "Please, calm down..."
"Calm down?" I ask him heatedly. "Calm down? What's that supposed to mean? Is that what you said to all your other bloody girlfriends when they objected, or were you happy to actually hold their hands and parade them around London?"
"Other girlfriends?" He says and he stops suddenly in his tracks, without relinquishing his hold on my wrist, so I'm forced to turn around and face him.
He looks at me, appalled, his eyebrows almost knotted together, deep vertical grooves creasing his forehead, his lips parted, hurt and plainly horrified. I toss my head, staring back at him defiantly but, inside, I suddenly feel absolutely rotten; waspish, mean and really unfair.
"Yes..." I say quietly, suddenly hoping that the ground might swallow me up. "...No...I don't know, actually...I just don't understand...ummm...why things change, why you change, so dramatically once you step outside your house. Or if there's other people around you. And, well, the only explanation that makes any sense is that you're embarrassed by me, that you don't want anyone to know we're together..."
I glance up at him and he is staring at me, forlornly. I see his mouth twitch, as if he wants to speak, but there is nothing but silence, an eerie, disconcerting quiet that makes me feel sick.
"You're not denying it then." I add, and my voice sounds desolate.
"Of course I am denying it!" He replies vehemently. "If you'd give me a chance to answer you! But, umm, before I've even had time to think about how to...how to tell you...umm, how I really feel, you've already made up your mind...you're already angry at me and you're...well you're bombarding me with accusations! Ridiculous accusations, too, as it happens!"
A group of tourists approach noisily from the east and he pulls me gently to one side, out of their way, and together we stand in miserable silence as they pass. They are excited and conversing loudly in a language I don't recognise, their faces all smiles and, suddenly, I do feel ridiculous, Martin is right about that, I am being ridiculous. I also realise that I have no idea how to extricate myself without apologising and admitting a few fragilities of my own, and that's not something I've ever found easy to do, ever, so I look at my feet and curse my own insecurity as he lets go of my hand and it falls lethargically to my side.
"If you could just...stop being angry at me for a minute, umm, I will try to explain." He says in a quiet, sad voice. "But can we keep walking please? Find somewhere a little less, ahh, crowded?"
I nod at him and he turns toward the path that will take us to the Round Pond. His swagger is gone and neither of us attempt to take hold of the other's hand, we just march along as a sort of grim, discordant regiment of two, each as disappointed as the other, as head shy and cautious as newly captured wild horses; fearful, unhappy and uncomfortable. After a while, Martin spots an empty park bench and, wordlessly he stops and indicates that we should sit down, raising his eyebrows at me, and clearing his throat uncomfortably.
I slump onto the seat, feeling like confused teenager again, as if everything has escalated to a point where I can't even remember how it all started. But the disappointment is still there, the vague shame, that niggly sensation of inferiority that still seems to appear out of nowhere, hijacking me when I least expect it, turning a spotlight onto all my weaknesses so it feels to me like they glow in the dark. He snatches at his trousers and I glance across at him as he lowers himself down beside me. He honestly looks like he has seen a ghost and I start to feel even sicker than before. I recall his utter despondency last night at his father's function, and my own declarations, of my love and my undying support, and they ring in my ears but I can't think of anything to say that might fix this dismal mess. I need him desperately to reassure me that he's not ashamed of me, that it's all been some terrible misunderstanding, but he just can't seem to do that, instead he sits apart from me, stiffly upright, hands folded in his lap, like some disapproving old aunt, staring into the distance, glassy eyed and dissociative.
I hear him take a deep breath but, still, he is silent and I feel a sudden overpowering sensation like I want to run away. I feel a stab of fear. Pure, cold fear and, without thinking, I blurt it out to him, I tell him, sounding almost manic, that I want to go home.
"Now, please Martin." I add tersely and I'm suddenly both furious and terrified that he is seemingly ignoring me and I feel myself shiver, as a wave of anxiety washes over me.
I attempt to stand up but, surprisingly, he reaches over and clasps my arm, taking my hand in his. I'm suddenly rooted to the spot, snapped back from my emotional stampede by his grasp, as his perfectly manicured surgeon's fingers, wrap themselves around mine, delicately and effortlessly gentle, despite the difference in size and strength, even though his frustration and disappointment is clearly written on his face. He breathes in again deeply, and then he starts to speak, in an weirdly disconnected tone that I haven't heard before, grim and determined yet oddly removed.
"Louisa, you asked me a question and I intend to answer it, ummm, for better or for worse. For me not to...ahh..acknowledge that my umm, behaviour is a major disappointment to you, well, that would just be delusional. I understand that. But you've criticised me, possibly quite justifiably I will admit but, umm, now I believe you must honour your part in this by, umm, by at least listening to my attempt at an explanation."
Physically, though he has hold of my hand, emotionally I realise that I'd already left; my mind and all it's associated terrors are already on the bus as it wends it's way along the King's Road. But, reluctantly, I realise that he is right, and I lower myself back into the seat beside him. Without even looking at me he begins again, his voice low and hesitant.
"Louisa, I need you to understand..." He pauses and exhales heavily and I notice his shoulders slump forward. "That, umm, everything I have ever done in my life, ever even attempted really, has been scrutinised relentlessly. Umm, picked apart and scorned, if you will. By my parents especially but umm, also...at school...my private life...all of it, almost everything I've ever done, someone has made me the object of ridicule."
He moistens his lips and I realise how much discomfort he is in, how much it is actually paining him to tell me this. I turn a little in my seat, so I'm facing him, but he doesn't look at me, he just continues to stare at the horizon and speak to me in a strange, lethargic voice.
"So...I..umm...I learned the hard way, I suppose, to keep everything to myself. To be intensely private and to...well, to really hide the things...the things that were, umm, especially precious to me."
He clears his throat awkwardly and I watch as he retrieves his handkerchief from his pocket and wipes it across his mouth, almost despairingly.
"What I'm trying to say is, umm...that the notion that I might be ashamed of you is, well, frankly, it's preposterous, Louisa. Absolutely unthinkable. But I am...wary I suppose...frightened really that there are people...like my parents for instance, and even some colleagues...that, umm, that might not be happy for me and, perhaps, well perhaps they'd want to try and ruin it for me...for us. So my instincts are...well, I just have this overwhelming need to keep everything private. To never expose myself as vulnerable, I suppose."
I listen to him and, at that moment, I feel sorrier, more regretful than I ever have about anything I'd ever said or done in my life previously. For god's sake, it was only yesterday evening that I'd been on the receiving end of his mother's vitriol, seeing for myself how nasty she was, and deciding almost instantly that I seriously didn't like her, a feeling that only intensified when I saw the state Martin was in after she'd cornered him. We hadn't even had a chance to talk about any of that yet, about what she'd said, what spitefulness had provoked him to the point where he'd thought he was doing the right thing by removing himself from my life. I realise that I can't even imagine the damage she must have inflicted on him over the years, if he feels he has to keep his entire life, all his feelings and emotions completely under wraps, completely hidden away. I am flooded with remorse, and a desperate need to, again, reassure him.
"Okay." I reply after a moment, unsure whether to remain where I am, separated from him by what feels like a yawning gulf, or to shuffle along the seat next to him and wrap my arms around him. Everything about his posture, his expression even, seems designed to exclude me though, to shut everything and everyone out, and it's clear he has had a lot of practice, so much so that it makes me almost hesitant to speak.
"Can you just tell me who might be looking on now though? Who might see us wandering through the park on a Sunday morning, Martin? Who are these people? Other than your parents, who are they to us?"
He turns and regards me, frowning at me thoughtfully. His eyes now seem grey and intense, and his mouth is tight, his lips pursed and his expression dogged and unhappy.
"That's not really the point, though, is it? It's a compunction, a reflex I suppose, and, ummm, well, unfortunately, logic doesn't really come in to it any more."
He lifts his chin and stares at me, his eyes narrow, and suddenly his gaze is piercing and intense.
"And what of your inclination to run, just now, when you need suddenly to go home...when you apparently feel uncomfortable, I'd go so far as to say when you feel that you're no longer in control of the situation, why were you so determined to leave? Why is that exactly?"
I feel a slow burn as my face turns red, and I bite my lip and look away. As much as I feel resentful that the spotlight now seems to be rather unfairly focused on me, and as defensive as I am of my reactions, I can't answer him. And what makes everything so much worse is that there's a tiny little voice in my head that acknowledges that he makes a fair point. I reach up and pull my pony tail around the side of my neck and I tug on it thoughtfully as his words run sonorously and almost hypnotically around in my head. It dawns on me that whatever his reason is, and whatever my reason is, they both probably stem from the same place.
"So, what are you saying then?" I say, unable to squeeze the last shred of defiance from my voice, despite my frustration with him wilting away to almost nothing, and my righteous indignation disappearing at almost the same rate, along with it.
"Well I'm admitting to you that I am terrible at all of this..." he says quietly, squeezing my hand and pulling it on his lap. "I'm trying to explain to you why that might be...and...ummm...I suppose I am asking for your help."
If I hadn't been paying close attention, I almost might have missed another important Martin proclamation, slipping them as he does so lightly into the conversation. But I don't miss this one as it burns into me and I'm moved by his intensity, as both his sincerity and touching humility take me by surprise. I don't know what to say to acknowledge his statement but I realise I need, desperately, to say something.
"Well, I don't think I would be quite so understanding if I hadn't met your parents, so I suppose that's another good thing to come out of his farewell do." I reply, and I manage to flash him a quick encouraging smile. For Martin to acknowledge that he needs my help is a huge admission for him and I feel an immediate sense of guardianship, a desire to fix everything for him, especially as I realise the sense of relief that's currently overwhelming me at his admission.
"Another good thing?" He says incredulously.
I fix him with my most penetrating stare.
"Yes Martin, or can't you think of anything else that might have happened last night, you know, that you might have seen as a positive, Hmm?"
"Oh, right." He says suddenly. "Though, strictly speaking, that wasn't at the actual event..."
"Think again!"
He stares at me, perplexed.
"If you meant Sholto, nothing concrete came of our discussions, but I do plan on meeting with him as soon as is mutually convenient..."
"Not Sholto either, Martin, but I agree that we can add him to the list of good things." I interrupt quickly, and now it's my turn to feel incredulous. "Umm, I just want to clarify that you can't think of anything I might have said, perhaps to you for instance.. that, you know, you could have thought was important."
He frowns at me and, as I watch him, I can see how intensely he is examining the events of the evening in his mind. Occasionally, he twitches, and his lips part as if he is going to say something before he thinks better of it, blinks and glances nervously across at me. I'm about to despair when suddenly he looks like he's been slapped hard in the back of the skull, his head flies up and his eyes are wide open as he stares at me almost in terror.
"Oh. So you do remember then?" I hear myself say.
"Umm, yes, of course I do. Louisa, I'm sorry." He glances around us desperately. "It's just that I...umm...can we just agree that I'm appalling at this sort of thing, and discuss it later? Please?"
I suppose I do really understand that about him; his reticence, his discomfort, the way any discussion of feelings or emotions renders him mute. And, if I am honest, the reason I don't really like it is because, having felt a bit deprived of love growing up, it seems really important to me now that I have clearly identified my own feelings, that he is open about his. But, because I do love him, I feel like I could actually let him off the hook right now, perhaps continue our walk, maybe make him buy me an ice cream, just to punish him, and then just try and enjoy our time together. But, there's also a childish little voice inside me, demanding and obstreperous, that wants to hear Martin tell me how he feels about me. Not in some cryptic, convoluted way but simply, and from the heart. And, stubbornly, I want that to happen now.
"It's three words Martin."
He swivels in his seat and looks around him helplessly. It's a pleasantly warm day, approaching lunchtime now and the crowds are beginning to thicken. I know he is uncomfortable, I know that he is extremely reticent but it just seems to make it even more crucial for me that he makes some sort of declaration.
He swallows hard, and looks down at our intertwined fingers and then back at me.
"Louisa, please..."
"Martin Ellingham, there is no one within earshot of us, not one person we know in the vicinity. Think of it as therapy, if that helps..."
"No, it doesn't." He replies hastily and he slides across the bench to close up the distance between us. "For some reason you have decided that it is imperative for me to tell you this right now and I fear I shall have no peace until I do as I am requested."
I smile at him, ignoring the implication that I am bullying him, and reaching up with my free hand to ruffle his hair. The leaves of the trees are barely moving and picnic makers are starting to dot themselves about in the lawns, encroaching closer to us with each minute that passes.
"That's right." I say sweetly, squeezing his hand and moving in even closer, so our faces are only inches apart, gazing at him, his worried wrinkly eyes and his clenched and determined jaw causing me to smirk at him rather provocatively.
Eventually he sighs and, quietly, he lets the words slip out.
"I do really love you, you know."
And, of course, because its what I've been so desperate to hear, they fill the space between us, hanging lightly in the air, as warm and as remarkable as I knew they would be. And because I know how hard it was for him, how he bravely ignored all his instincts and declared himself, it feels even better somehow, so much so that I can't help myself and I lean in to kiss him, relatively chastely though by comparison with the intensity of the previous twelve hours. I'm even more delighted when he doesn't pull away, and thrilled beyond measure when I feel his hand come up and cup my jaw. And just for a moment, I lose myself in the softness of it all, the enormity of us, the intensity of the emotion and the delicacy of everything really. Reluctantly, we separate and I tell him again, I reassure him firmly that I love him too. He presses his lips against my forehead and pulls me into his chest, and for just a split second, I experience the delicious sensation of being enveloped safely in the arms of someone who loves you.
So it's rather a rude shock when, suddenly, he pulls away from me and leaps to his feet and I'm startled to hear rather a cold, plummy voice, close behind me, cry out in obvious surprise.
"Martin? Is that you?" She says, almost in horror
I glance up at him and his face is a picture of abject despair, causing me to spin around on the bench to look at whoever has caused him this degree of shock and consternation. A thin woman stares back at me, and then at Martin, her eyes darting between us as if she cannot quite believe what she is seeing. She is thin and elegant, well dressed and exhibiting a fairly terrifying haughtiness all of her own, and I find myself leaping to my feet as well, clasping my hands behind my back like a contrite schoolgirl, and staring back at her from beneath my fringe.
"Well, aren't you going to introduce us Martin? I'm sure you must remember how."
He clears his throat and casts me a look that is both mortified and deeply apologetic.
"Umm, Louisa, this is my aunt. Dr. Ruth Ellingham...Ruth this is Louisa Glasson...Louisa is umm, she's my..."
"Oh there's no need to explain it to me." She says, holding her hand up dismissively. "It's fairly obvious, don't you think?"
"Hello." I say, smiling at her nervously, holding my hand out and having her take it in her thin bony fingers, shaking it once while she gives me a look that seems both appraising and knowing, all at the same time. "Lovely to meet you."
"Yes." She says, in a long nasal-sounding drawl that seems to make Martin hang his head in ignominy, as if he had just been convicted of the most heinous of crimes.
His aunt lifts her chin and gazes at him thoughtfully.
"Do your parents know?"
"Umm, yes."
"Took it poorly, did they?"
"Yes, very."
"Oh goody!" She says in apparent delight. "And Joan?"
"No, Joan doesn't know yet."
She clasps her hands together. "Even better! And may I ask why not?"
"We haven't discussed it. But we will." He says shortly, setting his jaw rather grimly.
I reach across and touch him on his arm gently.
"Umm, I know Mrs Norton well." I explain, smiling as sweetly as I can at his aunt, even though I find her a little intimidating. "She actually introduced us, so to speak, so I thought, that it was possibly something done better in person, you know, face to face."
She nods at me sagely.
"And you are obviously from Cornwall, I take it? Portwenn?"
"Yes!" I reply breathlessly, my smile broadening at the suggestion of the connection.
"Louisa is at University. U.C.L." Martin informs her quickly, probably in case she imagines I work at the fish markets or behind a bar.
She raises her eyebrows at me.
"Right." She says slowly. "How very interesting. Second year? Third year? How old are you dear?
"Twenty one, actually, yeah. And, umm, second year of arts and education." I reply and suddenly I sound nervous, gauche and even younger than my limited years. She is so elegant in an understated way that I'm suddenly conscious that my skirt is too short and my singlet too revealing, that my hair is a mess and I'm not wearing any makeup. And, as venerable and severe as this aunt is, I feel even more awkward because she just caught me snogging her nephew in the middle of Kensington Gardens.
"Oh right, I see." Ruth says, casting a knowing glance at Martin, and I notice his shoulders slump again. "Well, I must carry on. I'm having lunch in the Orangery with an old colleague. Give Joan my love, when you see her."
"Bye then." I call after her as she carries on past us, without a backwards glance, gliding along on pencil thin legs, Aquascutum flats and a hefty dose of Ellingham hauteur.
Martin looks dazed and I'm momentarily concerned.
"Hard to tell, is she a friend or a foe?" I ask him and he turns to look at me, surprised.
"Aunt Ruth? No, she's fine. She can't stand my parents, absolutely detests my mother, they went to school together. She and Joan are close, well, as close as anyone is in our family, I suppose..."
"A friend then." I tell him, reaching for his hand, and I feel suddenly relieved because, somehow, despite her obviously ferocious intellect and her intimidating and invasive appraisal, Martin's Aunt Ruth feels like a good sort of Aunt to have on your side.