Sitting in my car, I'd almost faltered in my resolve. Once I'd been able to draw some relatively fresh air deeply into my lungs, I'd felt somewhat calmed; the feeling of discomfort had passed, and for a moment I'd considered returning to her but, in the end, I decided reluctantly against it, despite the intensity of longing that overtakes me as soon as I pull out onto the street and accelerate away. I am too stirred, too fomented, to think rationally, and too impelled not to act. If I'm honest too, having spent my whole life regimenting my thoughts and organising my mind, suppressing my emotions and sublimating nearly every feeling, I really am not used to managing the random and diverting thoughts that assail me so intently in the present moment.
Firstly, I am aware of how ridiculous it is that just walking through her malodorous living room can engulf me with such horror but, regrettably, it rather seems to get worse every time I visit. I can stomach her bedroom, filled as it is by the distinctive and comforting fragrance of her perfume, and the occasional vague waft of coconut oil and joss sticks and fruit-scented shampoo, but the fact remains that I can barely stand up in that particular space, never mind lie down. I have read various studies postulating that memories triggered by odour are more emotional than those triggered by visual or verbal cues and, though it is tempting to dismiss them, based on my reaction to the smell of Louisa's flat, I fear there may be some substance to the hypothesis. As I glance at my watch, the knowledge only galvanises me further.
I am also only too aware that, as well as my usual stack of patient notes for review before theatre tomorrow, my briefcase bulges with clinical trial results that I must read, conference notifications that I must respond to, and Adverse Events Reports I must scrutinise. Meanwhile, last evening's conversation with Sholto plays over and over in my mind, presenting as it does the potential of a significant step in my career, and therefore requiring some rather careful thought. For a moment I reflect on all of these obligations, before consciously choosing to abdicate entirely, temporarily eschewing all of my professional responsibilities, and instead wracking my brain to think where I could acquire a recent London Transport timetable so late on a Sunday afternoon.
For the rest of the day, I grapple to gain control of my thoughts, of which there are far too many to make any sense. Cautiously, I allow my mind to drift back to last night, and the debacle that was my father's vainglorious orgy of self-aggrandisement. Just prising the door to that particularly onerous mental catacomb open, even the merest fraction, fills me with dread. Bitter experience tells me that any emotion that arises from interaction with my parents must be avoided, ignored and hastily buried for no good has ever, or will ever, come of trying to rationalise their conduct, especially toward me. My mother has always had an unerring knack of honing in on my frailties; focusing on my weaknesses with her own particular form of icy disparagement, wielding her cold, harsh, unflattering spotlight with such ruthless efficiency. The underlying realisation of how close I came to being her victim once more is in fact rather terrifying; worse than that, it sickens me, she sickens me to my very core. Even at a distance of a thousand miles, Portugal is not nearly far enough away.
For all the considerable time and expense she invests in her appearance, I've never before been more struck by how cold and two-dimensional she really is. Adorned with expensive jewellery, she exudes no sparkle, no colour, no warmth; dressed in her ubiquitous, charnel house black, she seems actually to absorb the light, radiating nothing. Her skin seems sallow, and her hair dull and utterly without sheen; her smile cruel and mirthless, and as always, her expression cold and critical. For all her airs and graces, her Ladies' Lunches and her Women's Organisations, it is suddenly obvious to me that my mother exhibits barely a shred of femininity; and certainly no ability to provide comfort or nurture, no expression of kindness or warmth.
Of course, I can't help now but to notice how diametrically opposed they are; the woman that gave birth to me, and the woman I love. Louisa, dancing in and out of my thoughts, sometimes as dramatically as the recollection of a deeply intimate moment, but usually only as fleeting as a sensation; the memory of a look, or a word, or just how utterly miraculous it was that there was finally an us. A blissful, uninterrupted few hours where as marvellous and incredible it had all been, as disbelieving and hesitant as I had felt, the most amazing thing was how delightfully normal it had seemed. Even the peaceful simplicity of breakfasting together had been like a quantum leap for me. I'd wanted so much to be more than I was in that moment; privately lamenting my lack of wit and humour, frustrated with my own dour rigidity, and my inability to improvise conversation or act on whim. Because, if I needed a lesson in the appeal of spontaneity, Louisa had given me a rather thorough one and, amongst other things, it had revealed to me that, inside this obdurate and inflexible countenance, there are the makings of a willing pupil.
I'd listened to the answerphone message; Chris Parsons in full flow, cheerfully hungover, entertained by everything he'd seen, and diverted by everything he'd heard, his enthusiasm palpable, but his need to regale me with every detail unfortunately rather wearisome. I'd groaned at his insistence that we meet before he went home on Wednesday; my days are hectic enough as it is, virtually every minute is prescribed and I don't feel the need to add to the seemingly incessant demands on my time by committing to the sorry inconvenience of an interaction that is purely and irrefutably frivolous. Chris will want to either gossip or, worse still, to interrogate me and I'm not sure I can stomach his smirking, or tolerate with equanimity his innuendo and his ribald commentary. If I am truthful, I must admit that my relationship with Louisa seems so miraculous, and so precious and fragile, that I feel as if I have been gifted a delicate Ming porcelain when my hands are smeared with butter. And if I do let this particular treasure slip from my fingers, I don't want Chris to be at my shoulder, pointing out the value of what I've lost.
On the other hand, he is an unparalleled networker with a list of associates that contains many of the pre-eminent figures in British medicine. His web of contacts is unmatched and his finger is most definitely on the NHS pulse. I must acknowledge that Zalman Goldsmith is virtually unknown to me but this will, undoubtedly, not be the case for my gregarious and convivial friend. If Chris is not already aware of the particulars of the new role, it will only take one or two well-directed phone calls and he will be fully conversant so perhaps an informal conversation with him, prior to speaking with Sholto, might be expedient. Even prior to last night, I'd had my interest rather piqued by the potential of the position, accompanied as it seemed to be by the chance to undertake more research, and be more involved in developing technological advancements in vascular endoscopy. While immersion in the cutting edge of my field was still hugely appealing, more responsibility suddenly equated in my mind with even more time spent working and therefore, inevitably, less time available for Louisa; frankly that is now a situation that calls for a extensive and careful consideration.
I'd phoned Chris back at his digs, or whatever he calls the budget accomodation he makes use of when he is in town, and I agreed unceremoniously to meet with him on Tuesday afternoon, mentioning the Imperial role in a general enough way that would not only prompt his curiosity but hopefully, distract him from a detailed cross examination of the hours subsequent to my departure from Hintze Hall and the Natural History Museum. I'd told him in no uncertain terms that I could spare no more than half an hour and he'd agreed in his usual jovial fashion, apparently delighted at the invitation to meet in my office and thrilled with the idea of hospital coffee and whatever dismal, crumbling offerings remained in the corners of the cafeteria display shelves. As I'd hung up the receiver, I'd hesitated by my desk, experiencing a rather mad impulse to call Louisa just so that I could hear her voice but I'd chastised myself severely and, after a moment, I'd walked away. I only need to recall the sting really, the humiliation of it all, and I'm once again resolved never ever to be seen again as needy, and all the negative implications that accompany that particular accusation. Wednesday, though, suddenly seemed even further away.
After a simple supper, I had wandered around the house, looking at the available space. I measured the cabinetry alongside the fireplace and wrote the dimensions down in my pocket notebook, grimacing as I did so, but remaining single-minded in my resolve. The spare room, spacious and relatively empty, was the least problematical item on my mental list of issues to resolve. It occurred to me that I should speak to one of the Interventional radiologists, whom I knew to be obsessed with technology and electronics, and seek his opinion, one that might direct me how best to act, based on the thoughts I'd begun to assemble. By the time I had showered and slipped into bed, pleasantly aware of the delicate fragrance of Louisa that lingered in the linen, I was ready to succumb to the unusual, but not altogether unpleasant physical tiredness that assailed me and embrace the opportunity to rest my febrile and rather overactive mind.
In the cool morning, the alarm summons me from my sleep and I lie in bed, drowsy and still, my thoughts ponderous and vague. Unconsciously I seem to finally allow my mind a free rein and, for a few glorious moments, I permit Louisa to manifest herself, experiencing a flash of exuberance so intense, so exquisite, it almost causes me to gasp. My condition is such that I am suddenly ridiculously buoyant, brimming with unmitigated elation, a sensation akin to tiptoeing barefoot across the burning desert sands, only to discover that that which one feared might be a mirage is actually a cool, shaded oasis, with refreshment enough to quench even the most dehydrated of souls. Just for a minute, I close my eyes again and I allow myself to revel in this instance, marveling at this unprecedented lightness of spirit, soaking myself in it, floating along on an analgesia that perfectly targets every nociceptor, eliminating any sense of the pain and damage inflicted by my own tight bonds of self constraint.
After a moment I emerge from this embarrassingly self-indulgent reverie, and regroup, collecting my thoughts and neatly filing away all those that are currently unnecessary, or distracting. Whether by necessity or whether by natural inclination, I have never found it difficult to compartmentalise my life but now, as I stand under the shower, it becomes obvious to me that everything outside of my education, and the subsequent practice of medicine, has always been rather too easy to set aside; undemanding and easily abandoned for long periods of time with little or no repercussions. Perhaps, in truth I am actually no better at single-minded focus than the next man, no more capable of ignoring interruption and distraction, rather it is that my vocation has always been enough for me; unrivalled, and dominating all else. I roll my shoulders over a few times as the hot water thunders against them, stretching them in an attempt to alleviate the vague ache that has begun to reveal itself. Undoubtedly microscopic damage to muscle cell ultrastructure due to sudden and unusual over-exertion of muscle and connective tissues, but worth every minute of the slight discomfort I will no doubt experience in theatre this morning. As I shave I notice that, overnight, I have inadvertently assumed an expression of smug self-satisfaction that I seem unable to shift, even with my habitual frown. Somehow I seem not care and, thus shamelessly satiated and assuaged, I bound down the stairs and into the backseat of the waiting taxi.