Why do people, inevitably clad in dark clothing, risk life and limb dodging between lines of stationary vehicles, simply to avoid a few minute's wait at a zebra crossing? Alarmed by the forceful slap of a hand against the front wing of my car, I growl derisively at the perpetrator; a fleeting spectre who darts across the oncoming traffic, a skateboard wedged casually beneath his arm. Perhaps my tirade is an overreaction for I feel the weight of Louisa's stare, her tacit disapproval at my vehemence of my response only too obvious, but she says nothing, apparently still gripped by the muteness that has claimed her for the last half hour. With one languid movement, she sweeps her hair from her left shoulder across to her right, flattening the collar of her cardigan as she adjusts the seat belt, appearing so unselfconsciously beautiful that, internally, I flinch.
As we manoeuvre around the bend, the traffic light ahead turns orange, and the driver of the car in front of me stands heavily upon his brakes. Another growl of frustration, another five minutes sitting at this confounding intersection, another irritating waste of my time; tapping my fingers against the steering wheel, the growl of my empty stomach only adds to my agitation. I can't even find the words to apologise for my resounding borborygmi and, somehow, the silence between us grows; like a rolling snowball and, apparently, as cool. For someone like me, so naturally taciturn and with a preference for soundlessness, I'm suddenly desperate for her to speak to me, to say anything really, any sort of white noise that might distract me from the persistent horror story that loops endlessly in my head.
Wordlessly, she bends down into the footwell and fumbles in her rucksack. I know what is coming: her current favourite, a new and painful marker in her boundless enthusiasm for dissonance. I have no doubt that it will grate on me every inch of our journey but Louisa's rules are clear, I am forbidden from raising an objection. With the volume control usually a significant point of contention, I glance at her as she slips the disc into the player, preparing myself for yet another excruciating assault on my senses. Usually we will debate the level of amplification, with Louisa light-hearted and smirking, secure in the knowledge that I will eventually forfeit. Tonight though, I feel disinclined to even raise an objection and, as she concentrates on her task, I find myself consumed by self-doubt.
Heaven help me, I could never imagine tiring of looking at her. Displaying as she does the most beautiful profile of any woman I've ever seen, her features are that of a classical sculpture; harmonious and perfectly hewn. Usually, simply watching her engaged in just being Louisa, her eyes shining, a genuinely warm smile never far from her lips, fills me with a precious and rare sense of well-being. But now, as she leans back in her seat, glancing at me so that our eyes meet with the barest of connections, all I see is a pale, discomfited expression of misgiving.
Somewhere nearby, a siren is howling, shattering what is left of my equanimity. A bus pulls to a screeching halt beside us, its red paint dulled and its advertising panels almost obliterated by a layer of fine black soot. Despite the car's windows being firmly closed, we are nevertheless assailed by fumes; the vile, choking stench of burning diesel that sees me moving quickly to close the vents. Having quoted the Environmental Protection Act at Holly, the irony of being now almost overcome by carcinogenic emissions in my own car is not lost on me. Louisa coughs, and pulls the top of her singlet up over her mouth and nose, exposing the perfect unblemished skin of her lower quadrants. Momentarily, I am transfixed, so aware of how particularly smooth and silky her skin is just there, how it feels beneath my fingers, and how her breathing changes, her fingers in my hair, as my mouth slowly drifts downward across it. Though it feels like the self infliction of a mortal wound, and though I despise myself instantly at the thought, I can't help but wonder who else's name she has gasped out with such feverish intensity. Another surge of dismay, another vicious burr beneath the saddle. I tighten my grip on the steering wheel and stare miserably out into the darkness.
An ambulance forces it's way through the intersection, manoeuvring with some difficulty around the moronic individuals who are oblivious to the fact they are required by law to get out of its way. I feel my heart rate increase, possibly at the dimwittedness of the average London motorist but, more likely, it is simply the visceral reaction of any doctor to an impending emergency. Unconsciously, I check my pocket, feeling for my pager as the flashing lights illuminate the car's interior. Of course, it would be too much to hope for that I might get called in, and it is quite shameful to admit, but I would infinitely prefer to face a long night in theatre, and the challenge of repairing a branched aortic arch aneurysm, than face my own hopeless inadequacies. In the wing mirror, I watch the ambulance disappear, sighing with indignation at those who would impede the progress of an emergency vehicle, only too aware of how every single second counts.
I'm surprised by a hand on my arm and, again rather shamefully, I flinch, whipping my head around to stare at her, unsure of which of us is more surprised by my reaction.
"Sorry… umm…it's just that I think you've got something on your sleeve." She says warily, peering at my bicep and brushing lightly at it, as hesitant and awkward as if we were strangers.
I raise my shoulder involuntarily, reefing my arm away from her reach and twisting my head down in an effort to locate and identify the offending substance. Of course, Sod's Law directs that it must this suit that sustains damage, being as it is almost new and a particular favourite, the mohair and silk blend of the fabric having been recommended by my tailor. Cost wise, it was a considerable step up from my usual British wool blends but, of late, it has felt even more imperative that I should be smartly attired. I'd even been the model of patience as I'd endured a complete re-measure, gritting my teeth as the elderly gentleman checked the inside leg rather thoroughly. I'd felt a sense of satisfaction, too, when he'd informed me that there was now an extra inch on both my thigh and the chest circumferences. Considering the number of stairs I force myself to run up and down on a daily basis, it came as no shock to me at the time, though I will admit to a certain satisfaction with the level of fitness I'm able to maintain. Now though, I feel stung by the realisation of my own foolishness. Whatever my effort, it now seems merely a futile and embarrassingly callow attempt to compete with a plethora of Adonis-like fellows, looming at me from the shadows of Louisa's past.
"What?" I ask her, my tone sharpened by the residue of my disappointment and humiliation.
In my defence, my aggravation is exacerbated by yet another imperative alteration to my dry cleaning schedule and, partially, by the realisation that I might also be up for a new suit. But even the briefest glance at her face is enough for me to realise that she has found my response disturbing, her expression confused as she withdraws her hand and places it down, slowly and resignedly, into her lap. To my chagrin, I'm aware that I am upsetting her but it's a realisation that seems to make my feverish mind descend even further into panic. My mouth is impossibly dry and I can't seem to clarify my thoughts in any way that might help me control them. Instead I feel myself sliding helplessly toward a state of sickening and overwhelming fear.
"I just noticed there was a mark and I thought you'd want to know." She says, and I wince, knowing that I deserve the slightly sulky tone she has now assumed.
I wrack my brain, desperate for a response that might placate her but the disturbing sense of inevitability I feel, the bitter reality of my own failings, just seem to suffocate my meagre vocabulary. Any words that do escape simply curdle in the bile-filled recesses of my throat. And, like my throat, the intersection, too, is choked. Despite our green light, it is a crossroads rendered impassable by boxed-in, turning traffic, and horns begin to sound from every direction. The lorry behind us has edged up so closely behind that our bumpers must surely be touching, a gesture clearly meant to be intimidating, his headlights flicking in and out of full beam stroboscopically. I squeeze my eyes closed as my jaw clenches involuntarily. Surely it's obvious to the foetid oaf that I can't move either, that I have nowhere to go and that my own situation, like his, is hopeless.
"For god's sake…." I growl, now feeling fractious beyond measure, as my knee begins, involuntarily, to bounce.
"All I'm saying, Martin, is that you have a green smear on your jacket. I'm sorry about that but, you know, no need to bite my head off." I hear Louisa say testily, as she reaches for the stereo controls, increasing the volume like some sort of emphatic end to the discussion.
Computerised, anodic sounds fill the car and I wince. The throbbing bass seems to be at a frequency which causes my temples to pulsate and, wordlessly, I snatch at the volume button, twisting it downwards until I feel a modicum of relief. The single vehicle in front of us accelerates forward suddenly, slipping through the lights just before they turn, rather vehemently, to red. My shoulders slump with frustration.
"Please Louisa." I mutter, miserably, my voice trailing off helplessly. "I just need…"
"S'okay." She replies flatly, punching the power button to off with a stab of her index finger, and turning her head away.
It's as pointed a gesture as she could make, and it's not lost on me. Despite how desperate I am for reassurance, as usual, I seem capable only of driving her away
"Thank you." I manage to utter, as helplessly tongue-tied as I am. "It's…"
"Really, Martin, I don't care." She interrupts, her tone firm and disappointingly cold. "So, just stop going on about it, alright?"
Instantly I am back driving the winding roads of Portwenn, an insolent and capricious teenage girl at my side, one who has been shattered by the actions of her hopeless parents yet who is resolved to suppress any hint of weakness or vulnerability. I suppose I'd recognised something of myself in her then, I'd understood her need for self-determination, having met so few people in her young life deserving of her trust. My god, when I think back to how feisty she was, how mercurial and how opinionated she seemed, it did feel a lot like attempting to splint the wing of a wounded raptor. Rather surprisingly, since I seldom find much to regard positively in most people I encounter, I had come to respect her spirit, even if she were so foreign and unfathomable to me.
From that initial reluctant appreciation of her courage and independence, years later, I now find myself helplessly in love with her, fluctuating wildly between the soaring highs that abandoning myself to emotion has brought me, and the sickening low point I now find myself at. The truth is, after I had deposited her at the schoolteacher's house, I barely recall giving her a second thought until she reappeared, so spectacularly, at Aunt Joan's birthday lunch. So, why is it that I am now experiencing such torturous insecurity at Louisa's previous encounters, the men she fell for in the interim?
"Yes." I reply, in a sort of timid agreement, despondent with the inadequacy of my reply and rendered even more miserable by the way my utter ineptitude seems to be amplified in the quiet coolness of the car's interior.
Turning in her seat, her back to me, Louisa stares silently through the tinted glass as the city comes to life before her, the boldly lit signage of the entertainment venues flashing garishly past the window as we begin finally to pick up speed. Whatever day it is, whatever time of year, these streets seem always to attract hordes of young people; raucous and ebullient, and garnered from all walks of life. As she twists the handle of her bag around her hand, it pains me intensely to imagine what her thoughts might be as she watches on, anonymously, from her lonely point of observation. Each embracing couple we pass, every public kiss she sees, every slow dance in a smoky pub that she imagines, must surely be another nail in my coffin. Providing unsolicited advice, legal or otherwise, does not miraculously turn me into the man Louisa needs. There are agencies enough for that.
At university, I recall a young woman from a Welsh mining village, though she is both nameless and faceless to me now. Her tearful, half-inebriated confession to the small gathering at the restaurant had left me completely unmoved but Chris Parsons, whose idea it was, no doubt, that I was even in attendance, had been quite affected by her frank admission; that she knew she wasn't good enough and that she feared she did not deserve her place in the medical school.
"Imposter syndrome." He'd said earnestly to me as we'd walked home, his hands pushed deep inside the pockets of his shapeless jacket. "It's clearly a genuine disorder, Mart."
"It's not actually." I'd informed him, already tired of the subject. "Not a recognised one, anyway."
As someone who never doubted for one moment that my career had been achieved at my own merit, I cannot recall her exact words, but now I am suddenly and intensely cognisant of the sentiments she was expressing. The awareness that I should be prepared to lose Louisa at any moment is my constant companion. The negative thinking, and the self-doubt that the girl had alluded to long ago seems now to fester inside me like a footballer's furuncle, erupting like a veritable Vesuvius of jealousy and fear whenever fate reminds me, so callously and cruelly, that I am undeserving of the woman I love.
From the moment she handed her little broken locket to me, I've been in her thrall. I've prevented myself from pondering the enigma, mystified as to what it is, in turn she sees in me. For some time now, I've allowed myself to exist in unquestioning wonderment, like a surfer on the perfect wave, preferring to relish every moment, yet in denial of the inevitable ending: dumped unceremoniously, and half crushed by the weight of the freezing ocean. Riding the crest is only possible because I suppress any thoughts about the inevitable competition I have; through sheer force of will, compartmentalising my thoughts and doing my absolute best to ensure that Louisa's past never comes up for discussion.
"I didn't mean to…sound…cross" I manage to mutter, aware of how feeble I sound, how poorly I'm attempting to communicate my state of mind.
She turns to face me with a slow, purposeful movement, tense and with a vague air of confrontation. Her eyes flash and she fixes me with her penetrating stare. Even in the semi-darkness, I feel its intensity.
"Well, I'd hate to hear how you'd talk to me if you were cross." She replies with spirit. "So, you know…"
"Yes." I interrupt quickly, hoping she understands that she is the last person in the world I would ever want to speak to harshly. "Please, Louisa…Umm….what does it look like? Does it look like paint?"
She gazes at me for a moment and then I hear her sigh, resignedly.
"It looks like grey mould actually." She says, thoughtfully, her tone now slightly less indignant. "You didn't touch the wall in the hall did you?"
I think back to the moments after Holly lobbed her grenade at me, but I can't recall any specific actions other than my ungainly and slightly panic-stricken attempts to evacuate the building as quickly as we could. I had made several hurried trips to the car, my teeth gritted tightly, fighting the doubt and unease that had beset me. Every time I had returned to Louisa's room to collect more of her things, to retrieve the miserable collection of possessions from where they sat on her bed, seeing the stained and disreputable mattress had been like a vicious punch to my solar plexus.
"I can't be sure what I touched." I reply dejectedly, recalling how cramped a space the whole flat was for someone my height. "I made quite a few trips to the car.."
"Yes, you did, and…I'm sorry about that…" She replies, as her voice becomes softer and mercifully more encouraging. "I'm sure it'll come off. We can have a proper look when we get home."
"Mm." I mutter, glancing across at her again, experiencing a sense of relief simply at her casual use of home to describe my flat. "Yes. Ah..that would be good."
Finally, the traffic opens up, almost like a biblical parting of the waves, and we proceed at reasonable speed down Sloane Street. Louisa sits up with renewed enthusiasm, gazing out at the illuminated shop fronts, twisting her ponytail thoughtfully as we navigate her favourite part of the route. She loves the glamour of the ever-changing window displays, lauding the skills of those who create them, and delighting in what she considers to be their brilliant creativity. Watching her now, the hint of a smile on her face I realise that I must have appeared such a stone-hearted cynic, when I pointed out to her that it was merely part of an endless retailing crusade designed to sell more tat to the masses. She'd laughed at me, and told me simply that she was still determined to enjoy them but now, as I recall her smile, I cringe at yet another one of my curmudgeonly moments, crushing her happiness like the killjoy I am.
"There was always the chance you'd get dirty, you know, that's why I wore old clothes…" She says suddenly, as a hint of teasing superiority returns to her tone.
My breath catches in my throat and I glance across at her, both heartened by her manner and mildly surprised by her declaration. The fact that she apparently has clad herself in less than her best has completely escaped my notice. I am no expert on women's clothing but it has always seems to me that Louisa's sense of style perfectly reflects both her personality and the circumstances. A powerful image fills my mind; the moment I first saw her in the dress she wore to my fathers farewell and, later, how it felt to remove it from her, an exhilarating experience that was nothing short of redemptive. Did I imagine her part in that? Is my recollection faulty, the image I have in my mind that we were both as wide-eyed and incredulous as children at a magic show?
"Mm." I reply, swallowing hard, and shifting my weight in my seat as I picture her as she so often appears to me; her hair wild and loose, grinning up at me wickedly, even laughing sometimes, her eyes flashing as she encourages me into an embrace, enveloping me with her joyful enthusiasm until it consumes me completely.
"I was a bit surprised when you burst through the door and you were still in your good suit though." She says, and I recognise the sparkle in her voice, the particular form of insolence she seems to delight in.
"I came straight from work." I tell her briskly, hoping that my voice gives away no indication of my inner turmoil, the fear of her loss gouging at me, like a glacier moves down a valley, eroding and abrasive.
How could I explain that the thought of her having entwined herself so completely with someone else is not only distressing but that it is accompanied by an actual wave of nausea. Would she understand that it's not even the physical act that bothers me, it's imagining her sharing the intimacy I've cherished, with someone else. The moments of closeness we've shared, that feeling of having bared your soul to another, I've never known anything like it and, as stupid and selfish as it may seem, I'd wanted it to be the same for her. But Holly had used the plural, she definitely said boyfriends so, as unreasonable as my rational mind tells me I'm being, I can't fight my fear. And I almost can't bear the thought that, despite what I'd so tentatively come to hope, what Louisa and I have is perhaps, for her, not particularly unique.
"Yeah, I know that…" She adds dreamily, turning to look at something that catches her interest through the driver's side window. "I suppose I should have grabbed something for you to change into…sorry, I didn't think…but, do you even have any old clothes though?"
"Umm, no…no I don't." I reply, attempting to appear emotionless and calm despite the sense of dread that hangs about me like an insidious fog.
Out of nowhere, she reaches over and clasps her hand gently above my knee. I wonder if she notices how tense I feel, how rigid my muscles have become as I battle to keep my feet, buffeted by the endless surge and retreat of this tide of insecurity. I allow myself a quick glance downwards. Even the sight of her long elegant fingers curling around my tightly clenched adductor is somehow invigorating. Oddly, she seems to like touching my thighs, sometimes suggestively and sometimes, like now, apparently in a gentle attempt at encouragement or even reassurance. Recently, too, I've defied my inner priggishness and begun to enjoy the contact but now, as her fingers linger lightly about the inner seam of my trousers, I can't help myself and, painfully, I wonder where, and upon whom, this suggestive habit started.
"I wondered if you kept some old jeans in the utility room, or somewhere, you know, just in case…" She says, her voice assuming it's usual optimistic tone.
"No." I reply flatly.
"So, just the suits then?" She asks, and I hear the amused disbelief in her voice.
"Yes." I reply, feeling as dispirited and dull as my wardrobe, and never more aware of how old and uninteresting I must seem to her now.
"So, what do you wear when you go on holiday?" She asks me, suddenly as inquisitive as a small child, inclining her head at me and smiling in a way that makes my chest tighten.
"I don't go on holiday." I inform her flatly, achingly aware of my oddness, the strange, unbreakable habits of a lifetime, the harmless peccadilloes that will no doubt cause Louisa to pour scorn on me eventually, just as everyone else has.
"Well what sort of, you know, leisure wear do you actually have Martin? There must be something." She says, as she starts to giggle.
"Leisure wear?" I ask her, the obvious horror in my voice prompting more laughter from her, the throaty, delighted expression of amusement that has always encouraged me from my shell.
As much as I want to, I can't seem to shake off this smog and I find myself wondering who they were, the nameless, faceless men of Louisa's past. Were they arts students, avant garde and imaginative, or the musical types that frequent the record shops she favours, relaxed in their baggy clothes and backward caps. Or perhaps they were more sports fans, muscular and comfortable in denim jeans and ugly trainers. Or, god forbid, they were obnoxious city types, poseurs with floppy hair or nouveau-riche lawyers in shiny suits and button cuffs? When I frustrate her and disappoint her, how unfavourably does she compare me to those who went before? Does she wonder how I came to be so mundane, and does she wish, completely understandably, that I wasn't?
"Don't get all huffy with me." She reprimands me cheerfully, her fingers inching their way towards the half way point of my inner thigh. "You know I love the way you always look so smart. I just thought that there are some times when, you know, there might be more appropriate clothing than a suit…"
Pulling into the left lane, I apply the brakes as we strike yet another red light, taking the opportunity to turn and look at her, hoping that I can discern something comforting in her expression. I'm horrified by the way my intrinsic neediness has reappeared, how desperate I am for some sort of reassurance that might support her declaration that she doesn't mind the way I prefer to dress. Any succour would be welcome, other than the way her hand continues to slide closer to an area I have begged her, publicly at least, to avoid. Tugging on my ear, I clear my throat, appalled at the way my fearless, easily-incited body seems so wholly unconnected to my uncomfortable and troubled mind.
"Louisa, since the eighteenth century, umm, in one form or another, the suit has been the accepted attire of an Englishman." I tell her, my voice as slow and solemn as a funeral procession. "Continents were discovered, mountains conquered, wars won, all whilst wearing what is essentially the same outfit. Trousers, shirt and tie, sturdy shoes and a jacket with a generous quantity of pockets. Just because a few scruffy hippies decided twenty five years ago that they couldn't be bothered, doesn't mean the rest of us must also lower our standards."
Under the lights of the intersection, I can see how her eyes sparkle and the way her face twists into a mischievous grin. If she only knew how much I loved her, how, in my own limited way, I would do anything for her, perhaps that might make up for all the other ways she must know that I am so flawed and incomplete.
"Okay." She says, slowly. "But, what if you take me home to Portwenn for a weekend or something, and I want to go to the beach? You've gotta admit, it would be more practical, let's say, if you know, you wore shorts maybe, and a T-shirt?"
I sigh heavily. I suppose I should have anticipated this conversation, foreseen the day when my sartorial choices would come under scrutiny. In Louisa's defence, neither her words nor her tone appear harsh or overly critical but I feel the sting nevertheless. All I can manage is a series of dissenting grunts, a collection of disjointed muttering that I hope convey that I am who I am.
"I suppose my point is, most of the men who wear shorts really shouldn't, you know, because it would be better for everyone if they kept covered up…whereas there's you, with a particularly great set of legs and you always insist on always keeping them hidden…" She adds, rubbing her hand up and down my thigh as if to demonstrate her point. "I'm just saying it's a shame, that's all."
The movement of her hand, though distracting, is nothing compared to how flustered her statement has made me feel. I live with one certainty only and that is medicine. As an adjunct to that is my self belief; I know that I am a good surgeon and I hope, one day, to be a great one. When people inform me of this, having come to the conclusion independently, I actually feel not much at all; shrugging it off as neither here nor there. My self esteem, as it relates to the world of medicine, will never be altered by the opinions of others, positive or negative. But, the more I think about what Louisa has just said, the more it feels like she was delivering some sort of compliment and, for me, outside the realm of the hospital, such physical endorsements have been very few and far between.
"I don't hide them from you." I point out quietly, suddenly as shy and unsure as my five year old self.
As the lights change, she leans over and kisses me delicately on the cheek. It is an action as unexpected as the warm flood of hope that surges through me as a result. Her hair brushes my neck, and her breath is warm and soft against my ear. My breath catches in my throat and, as she runs her hand lightly across my hair, I feel the pricking of hastily fought back tears. I reach down into my lap and take her hand in mine, driven by an intensity I do not recognise, a ferocious need that sees me pressing the back of her hand to my lips in a desperate bid for communion.
Behind us, a driver sounds his horn and I stab at the accelerator in a fit of annoyance. Of course, Louisa laughs as she clings to the seatbelt and, one-handed, I throw the car around the corner, at speed. In the outside lane, a battered old Ford Capri with a grossly inefficient muffler comes roaring up beside us. A stubble-haired yob with an earring leans through its passenger window, thumping his bicep and mouthing profanities, egged on by his similarly unpleasant companions.
"Oh, for God's sake, grow up." Louisa says, disgustedly, shaking her head and sliding down in her seat, her chin pressed to her chest in apparent annoyance.
"Just ignore them." I tell her, helpfully. "I know the type, Louisa, they just want a reaction."
"Yes, thank you Martin, I know the type too, unfortunately…" She replies tersely, a hint of remonstration creeping into her voice.
I feel like a shipwreck survivor who, having made it almost to shore, having touched the sand beneath his frozen toes, is caught in a sudden rip, a wild maelstrom that threatens to sweep him out to sea once more.
"Yes." I reply hastily, glancing across at her with sort of breathless caution; vigilant, yet oddly bereft that she removed her hand from mine and has now folded her arms quite firmly across her in front of her.
"I can't imagine how your world ever collides with that sort but I'll take your word for it" She adds, her accent becoming more musical as her scepticism reveals itself.
"Umm, A & E mostly, and, ahh, more recently, the occasional stab wound that required specialised surgery. Broken bottles usually, defence injuries, that sort of thing….and absolutely charming individuals as you might imagine…."
She laughs and grimaces at me, still so unbelievably lovely, even though she contorts her features in such a way that is intended to clearly indicate her disgust
"I don't need to imagine." She growls. "All I can say is no wonder most girls I know can't find a decent boyfriend when all that's out there are ravers, football hooligans, and wankers like that basically."
And suddenly, silence descends upon us again. It is as if we have come full circle and a disgusting, horse-hair mattress looms as unavoidably as if I had manhandled it onto the roof of my car.
"Have you got anything you want to talk about?" She says quietly, her discomfort now palpable. "It sort of feels like there's something the matter…"
"No, I'm fine." I assure her, quickly. "Are you?"
"To be honest Martin, no I'm not, not really." She replies, starting to bite her lip but then thinking better of it. "I was fine though, really good actually, until Holly stuck her oar in but, you know, all the way home, you've seemed a bit cool with me and now all I can think about is that you see me as some sort of slapper…"
I swallow and avert my eyes, experiencing a flash of irritation as I notice a black and white cat urinating in the huge urn containing a particularly impressive topiary. While I admit to despising cats, Louisa's assertion that I see her as some sort of floozy could not be further from the truth and requires an instantaneous and vehement denial.
"No…that's not what I think." I reply, more feebly than I intended.
"Then what's the matter? It seems pretty obvious to me that you're upset about something."
As we pull up outside my flat, I turn off the engine, and sigh heavily. It also seems likely to me that if Louisa really had previously shared her bed frequently, and indiscriminately, her extensive experience would surely have been obvious. Well-practiced, more worldly-wise women know exactly what they want. They issue instructions, and are explicit in what they require. Regardless of whether their partner was comfortable or not, their expectations are always patently clear.
"I'm sorry if you feel like I have judged you on the basis of Holly's vindictive little outburst. Please let me reassure to you to the contrary…" I tell her, in an attempt to reassure her but it seems I am unsuccessful and her eyes flash as she interrupts me indignantly.
"Can I just clarify something, umm…are you saying you didn't believe her, or are you saying you did believe her but you just don't care?"
I stare at her helplessly but before I have a chance to formulate my explanation, she pounces upon my hesitation, as if by my momentary silence I accuse her of the most Victorian of maladies, incurable hysterical nymphomania.
"Right well, it seems to me that you either believe Holly or you believe me, Martin, it's quite simple isn't it? It really boils down to who you trust…"
"Of course, I trust you." I tell her, my voice low, and strangled by the vehemence I feel on this particular matter.
In truth, she has never given me a reason not to. Whatever her romantic past has included, and despite how many others it has involved, Louisa has never felt the need to ridicule me until I gave in to her. She has never dragged me to bed only to criticise me, never delivered a stinging rebuke, cruelly proffered under the guise of instruction. There have been no coldly uttered directives that test ones resolve; no taunting, no demanding, no clinical expungement of anything considered bathetic or sentimental. What I have is miraculous, a warm and open-hearted Louisa, who seems to melt helplessly at my touch. With her nothing is never contrived or formulaic,and making love is just that and never one-sided, degrading or grim. I trust her like I've trusted few others in my entire life, perhaps more than anyone I've ever known.
"God, Martin, it's not like I'm even still in contact with any of them, if that's what worries you…" She says, and she gives an almost imperceptible shudder. "I mean, if anything I'd actually cross the street to avoid seeing them again."
I hold up my hand, squeezing my eyes closed as if I can somehow shut out the discomfort of her words.
"Louisa, please. You don't need to say any more." I tell her firmly, and I mean it.
"So you don't believe her then?"
"No. As ridiculous and implausible as it seems, I can only assume that your relationship with me has provoked some sort of envious reaction on her part. Furthermore, her personality appears particularly mean and unpleasant, with self-centred and callous tendencies, possibly even concealing that appalling character trait known colloquially I believe as Gold Digging."
She stares at me, her expression incredulous, her mouth gently widening into an appreciative smile. For the first time in what seems like hours, I exhale deeply, and I immediately feel light headed, and almost giddy.
"That's very perceptive of you Martin, I'm impressed!" She says happily, leaning across to kiss me affectionately on the cheek. "What made you realise?"
I release my seatbelt and open the door, gazing out at the pleasingly symmetrical row of houses on the opposite side of the road, their curtains closed modestly and politely, the windows exuding a soft warm glow.
"I suppose, in my youth, I dissected enough toads to know what lies beneath that cold, brown, warty skin." I tell her and, without waiting for her reply, mollified and enlivened, I alight purposefully from the car.