Almost seven days fighting to pull myself together and this is where I end up: staring at a bloody telephone, my determination in tatters, dozens of dismal childhood memories emerging from the fathoms, like Morgawr, intent on dragging me back down into the deep. Not only have the scars not healed, but they're not even that well concealed and it's got to me, shaken me out of my little, self-satisfied tree I suppose. Isn't that just so like my dad, really, to have such rubbish timing, to re-emerge like a sodding spectre, just when I believed everything had fallen so brilliantly into place? Now, as awful as it sounds, I don't even think I want him around at all. Mainly because I've survived just fine without him but the truth is I'm a bit scared too, knowing the sort of chaos and unreliability that always surrounds him, and terrified that it might intrude into the secure little world that Martin and I are creating for ourselves.
As far as dealing with it all goes, probably just ignoring his return is honestly the best idea but my problem is I'm also tormented by a desperate need to know. Just imagining where he might be and how he might be living sees my hand again atop the hand piece, hovering like a kestrel over the sea, hopelessly indecisive because, well, after all, he is still my dad. And that throb in my temples, that dull, miserable ache; it can only be caused by my tightly clenched jaw, grinding my teeth as I recall all those times, those somber, shadowy moments when, again, he let me down. But, even as I stand here, I can't make up my mind; as every new thought contradicts the one before it, I'm wavering and dithering, as I blow hot and cold.
Dad always did have a knack of spoiling the special occasions, missing birthdays or promising the earth at Christmas, and then delivering nothing. How absolutely typical too that he pops up again just as Martin starts his new job, bloody well tainting what should be a really exciting time for us. In the rare moments the move to Imperial was mentioned, I would see a distinctive gleam in his eye, a sharpening of his expression making it clear how much he coveted the role. Since he accepted their offer, I've noticed a spring in his step, an obvious elevation of his mood, and it's made me understand just how intrinsic it is to him, to push himself professionally, to test the limits of what he can achieve. And, if the recent glimpses of light-heartedness, the little incidences where his rigid self-control seemed to loosen off just a tiny bit are now it manifests itself, then I could honestly not be more thrilled.
As a result, all weekend, I was intent on appearing untroubled. I wanted so badly to be the sort of unselfish and supportive girlfriend that Libby had pointed out to me I'd need to be. I'd been so starry-eyed, so oblivious, where she always seemed to understand the nuts and bolts of things, the pragmatic approach but, with her advice ringing in my ears, I was determined to conquer all my misgivings about my dad and be as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar, be the strong woman that they say is always behind every successful man. As self-contained as Martin is, I couldn't think of too many things I could do to assist him, but I could certainly avoid burdening him with my issues, and that's what I had totally resolved not to do.
But, after walking away from St. Mary's without a backward glance, he had been just a little preoccupied. I was surprised but I supposed it was understandable, anyone can be subject to nerves, can't they, and the prospect of starting again might be as daunting for him as it is for most people. I mean, as much as he might scoff at the suggestion, he is leaving an institution where he had significant ties, he had a history and he must have had professional relationships, so it makes sense that, even for the usually phlegmatic Martin, leaving and starting elsewhere afresh will be quite an adjustment. So the weekend had drifted along uneventfully; I'd buried myself in a book, stretched out in the sofa while he shut himself away in his study, emerging only for meals, distracted, and thoughtful and mute.
When Monday morning arrived though, it was like he was barefoot on burning coals, bright-eyed and on edge. Funnily enough, I think I loved him even more because of it. That someone as capable as Martin could still be as nervous and eager as a kid on his first day at school was just really endearing somehow, and reassuring too for mere mortals like me, observing that even the most gifted and capable can occasionally reveal themselves as just a bit anxious and unsure. When the alarm had gone off, it felt at least an hour earlier than usual, and I'd reached for him instinctively as I was rudely awakened from my sleep. Instead of his robust and solid frame though, my hand had found a disappointingly empty space, the only evidence that he'd even been there the heat that still emanated from the sheets where he'd lain.
I'd stayed where I was, blinking in the gloom, dazed and even a little disoriented but, when he'd emerged from the bedroom, groomed even more immaculately than usual, I'd felt a swell of pride, and this strange sense of possessiveness and need. Sometimes, a moment freezes for just long enough that the reality hits me, like a mad explosion of desire and disbelief, and I can't quite believe that I'm here. With his shoulders back and his chin raised defiantly, he was so utterly irresistible to me, and yet so serious, so resolute and composed, having obviously prepared himself completely for whatever lay ahead.
"Well, good luck then." I'd said breathlessly, smiling at him hopefully as he bent down to receive my kiss.
"Mm." He'd murmured through firmly closed lips; steely, focused and remote, absently pulling the covers up over my bare shoulders before striding purposefully away.
If I'm honest, I had been a bit taken aback; I suppose I had a script in my head of how I hoped it might be, an emotional goodbye, all meaningful looks and passionate embraces, a reluctant uncoupling extended by fortifying squeezes as I'd clung to his hand. But we all have different ways of coping, don't we, and so I was determined not to react, even if the wordless brevity of his departure did feel like a bit of a snub. As he'd walked away, filling out his well cut suit so perfectly, I'd simply gazed after him, reaching for my dressing gown, and sighing, still convinced that there was something just a bit special about this moment and that, regardless, I was lucky to be the one to share it.
"See you tonight." I'd called out encouragingly. "Love you!"
He'd paused at the door, and turned briefly back toward me, and just for a fleeting second his expression was that of childlike innocence, his eyes disarmingly soft and bright. And it had struck me, really ferociously actually; a gasping, suffocating feeling that can't be mistaken for anything else; a fierce protective love for him welling up in my chest, equal parts terrifying and exhilarating, and I was swamped, and left speechless by the intensity of it all. Even after the moment passed, and I could breathe again, I still wallowed in the residue of it all as I lay there, overawed by the feeling, the aching intensity I had, the desperate fervent hope that everything would go well for him today.
But, as the imperious expression returned to his face and he'd turned away, I'd realised with a sad resignation that Martin didn't need either my naive hopes or my cliched well wishes, he was quite capable of executing this move alone, as simply another brilliantly successful step in his already dazzling career. As the door closed firmly shut behind him, and I had a final glimpse of his pristine white cuff with its gleaming silver links, something else was patently obvious too; not only how hugely important his job is to him, but how crucial it is, full stop. Every decision that he makes has such an impact, each day somebody's life is in his hands.
Wistfully, I make a promise to myself that last thing I'm going to do is to burden him needlessly, to add to the already enormous load he carries by imposing upon him any further. I will do everything I can to avoid inflicting my problems on him, I will not allow the the damage, the debris that float to the surface in the wake of my irresponsible parents to affect what he and I have, and if that means I have to deal with this totally by myself, then that's what I will do. I was vulnerable once, but I'm not that way now; I have security, I have independence and I have love. In fact, I am stronger now than I've ever been, and I finally know how it feels, the strength you can take from trusting someone utterly, and being trusted in return.
It wasn't going to be easy but I'd meant it, I really had. I told myself that, if I'm going to cry, I will cry alone, making sure it's only the once, or twice more at the most. For the next few days I'd maintained that facade of brightness, embracing him fervently when he eventually arrived home, grim, exhausted and monosyllabic. I'd felt my enthusiasm wain immediately when he'd dully rejected my offer to heat up a tin of soup, and instead he'd staggered off to bed. After fourteen hours alone, it felt like an affront but, resolutely, I'd bitten my lip and said nothing, finishing yet another cup of tea alone before switching off all the lights and sloping off to join him. I'd wanted so desperately to hear how everything had gone, I'd been so eager that he share the experiences of his day but, as I curled into the warmth of his tee-shirt clad back I realised, with considerable sadness, that he was already asleep.
I slept fitfully and, in the morning, I woke him, in need of reassurance, slipping my hand beneath his waistband and suggesting to him, unambiguously, what I thought it was we needed. I'd been ridiculously happy when he'd responded, relieved to find myself drawn insistently against him; he was, as usual, so smoothly adept, purposeful and vehement yet surprisingly silent. I'd lain there in the darkness, gazing up at the shadowy figure above me, my breathing shallow as he'd threaded his fingers through mine. My gentle unhurried Martin was transformed, suddenly assertive, intense and wordless until, almost inaudibly, he'd whispered my name and I'd shuddered uncontrollably, clinging to him desperately, as if we had been indelibly fused together.
Eventually, we'd separated and, while I was still basking in that familiar floating sensation, tremulous and dazed, he'd cleared his throat and muttered awkwardly at me; a short and self conscious expression of gratitude that had confused me no end. Before I'd had a chance to laugh at him in disbelief, and ask him what he meant, he'd scrambled to his feet and was gone, the abstract noises of his usual routine drifting to me from behind the firmly closed en suite door. Suddenly too bewildered to care, I'd rolled onto my side and pulled the blankets over my head, and sleep had quickly claimed me.
And, when it is light again, I am once more alone. Another day held hostage by silence, negotiating hopelessly with my thoughts. Things seem distorted, the flat seems twice the size, and the atmosphere is somehow reproachful, almost judgemental, as if it wants me know that I don't quite belong. I'm saddened too, and disappointed in myself because, despite my initial bravado, as the week wears on, I've felt myself becoming brittle, and touchy, frustrated yet apparently incapable of self control, unreasonable and over-reactive despite trying so bloody hard to keep a lid on things. My thoughts are often illogical, my reasoning is definitely askew, everything just feels off-kilter and awkward, and I just can't seem to sort myself out.
I know it's been difficult for him too, horrible probably, uncomfortable for sure. I can tell by the way he inches his way along the walls that surround me, his eyes as big as saucers, his fists clenched, and his arms pressed to his sides. I can't seem to help myself though, the days I spend here alone seem silent and interminable; hour upon endless hour of empty space and all-consuming feelings, complex, indecipherable emotions that won't be suppressed. Bored, and sick of myself after too long in my own company, when I hear his key in the lock, I rush to the door like a fifties housewife, desperate to be back in our safe, secure little cocoon, where it is just Martin and me, and everything is back to normal.
As soon as he is here though, I find something to upset me. His weary tone, his reluctance to share the details of his day, even what he suggests for dinner, it all seems to jar me or put my nose just a little bit out of joint. As hard as I try to ignore it, Martin also just seems to exude a vague irritation with me, a slight testiness that I hadn't really experienced before. Whatever I'd done to provoke it seemed to be a tightly guarded secret though and, in a mutual effort to avoid a serious row, we simply skirt around each other, polite and measured and circumspect, like exhausted fencers reluctant to engage
In the dark though, things are always better, always clearer; Martin isn't one for earnest reassurances or consoling speeches, I know that, but just his presence is enough to reassure me. Tentatively, he slides his arms around me, his calm, steady breathing warm against my shoulder. When I hear myself sigh in that heavy, dejected way, he tightens his grip, as if he knows how I feel, as if he understands that being rejected by your parents is a pain that never entirely goes away. I want to tell him that I'm sorry but I'm terrified that I will cry. Knowing how he deplores overt displays of emotions, I choose to eat my words, pulling his hand to my face instead and pressing my lips to his fingers, with a fervency in my action I hope he'll understand
We lie there together and I wait for a sign, a suggestion, a shift of his hips, his mouth brushing lightly across the skin of my neck. But, instead of the the inflaming sensation as his hand cups my breast, it seems that he has succumbed quickly to fatigue. Honestly though, I don't really mind, I'm happy at the way he leaves my hair smooth, laid flat by the quiet solace of his light, soothing hand. I'm comforted and, what's more, I'm safe, reminding myself that I've got this far in life without my dad or, as Martin has pointed out, despite him. But, as easily as I will now sleep, secure in the arms of someone that does actually love me, the next morning, when dawn breaks, it all starts again. Trudging out to the kitchen alone, it's as if a bucket of ice water has been upended over me. I'm furious at how consumed I am by this angry uprising of hurt and indignation, all provoked by Terry's reappearance, and I am even more frustrated that I just can't seem to beat it back into submission.
So, it's just before half past eight when I pick up the receiver. A feeble stream of cold, morning light dribbles in to the flat, enough to make the monochromatic interior somehow drab and dispiriting. Not that I need it to be bright anyway, I know the number off by heart, there's no need to look it up. And so I punch out the sequence, and take a deep breath; waiting without eagerness or impatience, just a dull sort of resignation really, that this is just another unpleasantness that must be attended to. The adjacent clock and the ring tone compete to be heard; the old and the new juxtaposed, dulcet tones versus shrill electronica, the perfect analogy for my state of mind really. I've capitulated and committed to this course of action but, still vacillating wildly, I bite my lip and dread an answer.
I don't know why I'm surprised that it's now so different, but the answer phone message has been updated and I'm momentarily taken aback. My mind stumbles as I listen, attempting to make sense of a mostly unfamiliar string of names. One thing is totally familiar though, unmistakeable even: Holly's self-preening tones, purring and fraudulent, even more aggravatingly so. No mention of Toni now either, it seems as if we've all been erased and, as emotional as I am, I feel somehow hurt, suddenly really isolated and summarily dismissed. Odd that, when you leave things behind, your mind expects them to be frozen forever in time; unchanging and enduring, as if you could step back into that moment whenever you wanted to return. I don't have time to contemplate my theory though because, after what seemed like an eternity, the long, sickly, tired, old beep has come to an end and I'm greeted with an insistent crackling silence that I know I must now fill.
I hesitate and then I speak, as crisp and bright as a September apple, feigning a cheerfulness I don't feel, toward a person I don't like, on a device I can't stand. I direct my message at a spiteful young woman I'd once considered a friend, but who I now recall with the same disappointed sadness you feel when you realise you've lost a good earring or you find the perfect shoes on sale but they don't have your size. And, no doubt, the gaggle of girls with the middle-class names; Sarah and Sophie, and JoJo and Clare, will gather around and prick up their ears, all of them now witnesses to my demeaning request, my cap in hand return to the bridges I burned.
How many times will they hit play I wonder, congregating in the kitchen, clutching tumblers full of cold Chablis while Holly regales them with exaggerated tales of how I'd let her down. There'd be nothing complimentary, I'm sure of that; I'd cost her a fortune, I'd got ideas above my station, I'd let an unwise romance completely turn my head. No doubt they'll laugh in unison, and uproariously too, as she tells them about Martin, how rude he was, how arrogant, depicting me as a total yokel, in out of my depth. It hurt in a way that was hard to acknowledge. Those early days at Graham Terrace had been such an adventure. It had been like suddenly having sisters; we were as tight as a lifeboat team, and as close as quadruplets that is until I'd found Martin, and Holly's true colours had inevitably shone through.
But the bright side now, if there is one, is that my request will at least have been witnessed. And surely those who don't know me can have no reason to wilfully withhold my mail. I can only hope that Holly still has some sort of conscience or, even better, a boyfriend of her own now that might stop her being so coveting of mine. Funny how I replace the receiver quite carefully, as if the telephone itself is fragile and precious. But, if I'm expecting some sort of deliverance, hoping for a profound sort of change, it's not forthcoming. I'm not sure if I wished for relief, or for satisfaction, but whatever it was, I'm disappointed on both counts. I'm just left with a grim sort of resignation, and an overriding unhappiness; conflicted and full of contradictions.
So it's done now and it's time to put it from my mind and move on. I have lectures today and I can't miss the bus. The note I wrote last night for Martin has gone and he has left nothing for me in return. I'd been so looking forward to tonight but now it feels quite onerous. Worse still, it's another inconvenience for him, another imposition on his precious free time but, he had seemed happy enough to agree. It seemed aeons ago but it can only have been weeks; a glance back at happier, more carefree times.
"That's bribery!" He'd gasped, sprawled across the bed, his hands in his hair.
"Yes." I'd agreed later, grinning down at him as I sauntered away. "Shameless, aren't I?But, Martin, you did just give me your word…"
"Yes." He'd interrupted hoarsely, with the hint of a smirk brightening his slightly dazed expression. "I did."
And then he'd come to find me, and, before I was even aware he was there, I'd felt his hands on my hips, as he pressed his mouth almost reverentially to that place he favoured, that sensitive spot that sits just below my ear.
"I should tell you, Louisa," He'd said ominously, his voice a low, velvety rumble that sent goosebumps rippling across my skin. "As delightful as that was, you must know by now that I am incorruptible…"
"Oh?" I'd replied, swivelling around to face him, gazing at him appraisingly, noting with satisfaction that his expression was now brash and spirited, and that his eyes sparkled with the merest hint of mischief.
"Mm." He'd said, raising his eyebrows and staring down his nose at me, with a sort of jaunty insolence that made my heart bounce around in my chest like an out-of-control dodgem. "Fortunately, I had already made up my mind to join you….weeks ago in fact."
I'd shrieked at him, and dissolved into helpless laughter, raining down childlike blows upon his impervious chest. As he'd gently held my wrists, in an attempt to control my flailing arms, I swear he was almost laughing too, protesting in mock horror and gasping my name as some sort of indignant reprimand. But I think back now, and it was definitely a moment of truth somehow; his eyes were bright as I fixed him with my own stare of mock fury, his gaze was intense but yet his scowl was gone. He might have agreed, ostensibly, to join me at a book launch but in reality I just knew it was so much more than that. The face that softened to reveal a hint of dimples, the flash of white teeth that could have been a grin, he only revealed himself for a second but it was enough to give me hope; that the unfettered Martin of the darkness might be finally emerging out into the day.