**Edited to add that I know nothing about Imperial College and anything mentioned here is simply a plot device for Wheezer. I'm sure the reality is that it is a fantastic organisation …)
The reality was dawning on me, even by lunchtime of that first day. I'd sought relief in solitude, intent on relishing the silence and collecting my thoughts but, instead, I'd found myself staring down at the sepia-toned gloom of the street below. A thin haze of condensation crept outward from the corner of each rippled pane of hand-blown glass, diffusing the light, and somehow making the air around me seem even colder. On the wall beneath the window, ornate radiators that seemed to have seen neither duster nor paintbrush in their considerable lifetime creaked and groaned into life, grandiose in appearance yet apparently utterly ineffectual. As indifferent as I usually was to temperature, I'd shivered; the world around me sepulchral and unclear.
The room itself smelt vaguely of paint, and of floor polish, and age; evocative odours that hardly raised my mood. Dark corners and dank cupboards had so often been places I sought as refuge; a slight, terrified, little boy can curl himself up in the most incommodious of spaces to avoid detection, and the caretaker's sheds were often an opportune place to hide. I could hear my pursuers laughing, jeering in whispers, crashing so clumsily about in their efforts to locate me until, mercifully, I'd heard the furious voice of undeniable authority; saviour in the form of an elderly, rheumaticky curmudgeon, waving a broom and cursing in broad cockney.
"Whaddya fink yer doin'? Clear orfff!" The voice had roared, and I'd folded myself up even tighter and held my breath for what seemed like ages, firmly wedged amongst old buckets, paint tins and bottles of kersosene
The connection between olfactory senses and memory is well documented but it is somewhat off-putting that these recollections come back to me at such inconvenient times. It was the same time of year, the sun had come out and I had wanted to walk, to clear my head after lessons, and to breathe some fresh air into my lungs. Even though I was aware of the risk, I was resolved enough to venture out into the school grounds alone, but behaviour I had considered brave turned out merely to be foolish, cocky in fact, a presumptuous folly based on stubborn arrogance that saw me running away as fast as I could. Now, I can't help but think that, apparently, I learned nothing at all and it is once again overconfidence that has brought me to this point. As I acknowledge this, the most fatal of flaws in a highly-flawed man, an unpleasant sort of regret begins to creep in, as grim and insidious as the most bitter London fog, the voices as jeering as those that pursued me all those years ago
It seems I have both misjudged the situation and got very much ahead of myself, abandoning the caution and circumspection that has seen me tread a sensible, logical path in life. I wrack my brain, examining the timeline, reliving each conversation as if by some miracle I might determine the point at which I might have been alerted, when I should have realised that things were not what they seemed. I can only conclude the situation I now find myself in is simply the consequence of my own arrogance; I heard what I wanted to hear, I saw only that which fitted into my desires.
The contrast between what I have and what I thought I had is almost too upsetting to contemplate. God knows, I will forever recall the past summer as the most sybaritic of seasons, one where I had felt elevated in a way I had not believed I was capable. There had been times when I found myself imbued with a such a sense of vigour, a vitality I'd never felt before, that I'd experienced flashes of what I can only describe as an intense, enveloping sense of contentment. Even if we sat in silence, it was if her joy were contagious and, simply by her proximity, her warmth percolated through even the thickest sections of my rhinoceros-like hide.
"See you tonight." Louisa had called out to me as I had opened the door, her voice breathless and husky, smiling at me with such encouragement that, for a split second I'd felt almost tremulous, and struggling for breath.
I had known then what it really meant to love her, and it hit me with an almost debilitating force. The essence of it was still so fragile though, and so precarious that I knew I must protect it; keeping it close to me, and hidden, as if it dare not risk the light of day. But it was an epiphany that caused my tongue to be fused, dry and wooden, to the roof of my mouth, and my diaphragm to spasm, rendering me helpless and silent. But, where words fail me, intent and purpose seldom do. Fortified somehow by this new, undefinable realisation, I'd simply squared my shoulders and made my way out into the world, supremely confident, and determined to succeed in this next step, now more so for Louisa than even for myself.
Perhaps it was the endearing simplicity of her farewell, or the challenge of a new chapter or even the fumes from the idling engine of the waiting taxi wafting across at me but I'd felt oddly exhilarated. I'd recalled so many previous journeys, made with a more childish anticipation, and I was aware that the manner of my departure this time could not be more dissimilar. On the rare occasions I had been back at home, on the morning I returned to school, my parents were invariably nowhere to be seen. A taxi would be waiting and I'd depart, unceremoniously; my absence unnoticed and undoubtedly unmourned. At the railway station, and even at school itself, I would be forced to sidestep weeping mothers and hovering nannies, glowering at them all with unconcealed irritation, despising their lack of self-control, their ridiculous displays of maudlin sentimentality; disparaging and quietly superior, my cold, unsentimental character was already quite evident.
A noise intrudes into the silence, and I am distracted; a fly in the throes of death spins on the heavy oak sill, its neurotransmitters now fatally disrupted. Devoid of reasoning, it can hardly be described as an error of judgement that the vile thing found its way into this building. Yet now it will die slowly, and in utter futility, from a lethal, nervous-system shut down and, if the housekeeping standards are as dire as I suspect, it will lie in state where it has fallen, until time and light render it dust. Observing it fills me with distaste, though I remind myself scornfully that the insect is simply a specimen of Calliphora vomitoria at the end of its life cycle, not an analogy of my own situation at all. Nevertheless, I reach stealthily for the BMJ, and swat the disgusting disease-vector into instant oblivion with one furious, well directed blow.
Silence reigns again, and I pour myself a glass of water, and sit down at my desk. As I trace the worn gilding around the edge of the leather, everything feels surreal. The situation I now find myself in is disturbing, and it nauseates me to think that my judgement might be so faulty, and my sight so blinkered that I have allowed myself to be apparently so defrauded. Could I really have wanted something so badly that I was able, perhaps even willing, to let myself be so misled? As unpleasant as that idea is, more concerning even than the implications this may now have for my career, what really horrifies me, in fact sickens me to the point of light headedness is, how can I admit to Louisa that I may have made such an appalling error?
It had been only hours since I left her, even fewer since I'd emerged from the taxi, robust and resolved and with the most steely of purpose. The short walk to the imposing front doors had seen me buffeted, and almost pushed backwards by ferocious gusts of wind, my face slapped senseless by the freezing, horizontal squalls. Immediately upon entering the building that first hint of a cavalier attitude had taken the wind from my sails. It seemed that not only was the reception desk unmanned, but not a single member of the interview panel was on hand to greet me. I was aware that it was still relatively early in the morning but this was, allegedly, a hospital for God's sake. Yet I found the entry foyer deserted, my footsteps on the marble tiled floor echoing loudly around the forsaken and funereal space.
The only person who seemed aware of my arrival was Sholto's secretary, a macromastic, middle-aged woman with what appeared to be a post-menopausal cervical kyphosis. I'd glanced up as I'd heard her approaching, her impatient expression somewhat ironic considering that I'd already been kept waiting nearly ten minutes. In a crisp, no-nonsense tone she had offered Sholto's apologies, citing urgent, unexpected business on an apparently unavoidable issue, but it did all seem a bit amateurish and, by my cold, clipped manner, I was more than clear that, though Imperial was not an unfamiliar place to me, I had expected a more professional and well organised reception.
Sadly, to say that the entire induction process had been similarly shoddy was rather an understatement. That I hadn't erupted in cold fury several times on that first dismal morning was only due to a realisation that fortified me, a secret knowledge that I did have a champion, I did have someone I was intent on not letting down. Consequently, in the course of my introductions, I took more deep breaths than a Japanese pearl diver, vaguely conscious of a phantom pressure, an elegant hand resting lightly on my chest, a peculiar sensation but nevertheless a calming and encouraging one. I could almost hear her, admonishing me, saying my name as her voice caught with light, incredulous laughter. I imagined her change of expression when, later, I admit the extent of my frustration, and I could already picture her response to what she would see, inevitably, as my overreaction. That Louisa might be disappointed in me, that I might provoke reproof in her penetrating gaze, fills me with discomfort and now, alone with with my thoughts, I point out to her the lengths I have been prepared to go to be deserving of her faith in me.
In my own defence, as the day went on, the situation had just seemed more and more farcical and now, in retrospect, I believe my frustration and ill humour to have been quite justified. I am well aware that punctuality is a virtue seldom as prized by others as it is by me; it is an issue that has long been a source of exasperation to me. Inexplicably, and rather infuriatingly, Imperial College seems to keep to a chronology all of its own; its schedule mired in a torpid, hebetudinous inertia that only added to my growing aggravation. I'd been kept waiting wherever I went; even those colleagues who appeared cognisant of the importance of adhering to the formal programme seemed suddenly and inexplicably nervous and unforthcoming when I had charged them with an explanation of their role. Endless unfamiliar faces with eminently forgettable names, most of whom seemed intent on flattening themselves to the wall as they were introduced to me, dropping their folders clumsily, or returning my handshake with a flaccid, perspiring grip of their own.
I'd been at St. Mary's so long I'd forgotten what it was like for everyone to know exactly who I was and yet to recognise almost no one in return. But, if I learned anything from this section of the induction, it was that that endless, warren-like corridors leading to fusty, ill-lit offices had fostered a timorous, leporine culture within the organisation. Easily-startled little men in lab coats or ill-fitting tweed were legion, their offices overflowing and untidy, their desks piled high with stacks of folders, their waste paper bins overflowing, and their books bent double at their spines. Odd too, as I strode into their tiny domains, how they would leap to their feet and stare at me, as if they were transfixed by headlights, reeling in a darkened country lane, as I bore down on them at seventy miles per hour.
And it had been the seed of a rather perturbing realisation too, one that come to me progressively during the course of my introductions: that this was a faculty of educators, not a staff of frontline medical professionals and, as a result, everything that I was familiar with had altered. I was now to be encased with a cloistered collection of academics, people sheltered from the everyday reality of hospitals, oblivious to urgency, and of split-second decision-making, and of blood, and pain, and death. These men were theorists and, as such, they assumed they had all the time in the world. As I winced at the cloying acridity of the pipe smoke that clung to some of them, at the fraying collars, the bitten nails and the widespread dermatological neglect, it was obvious that, even though it had been nearly two years since the merger, for the sequestered intellectuals of Imperial College, it may as well have been only two days.
With the morning thus completed, and with Sholto still nowhere to be seen, I was promptly abandoned by his secretary. Apparently, her lunchtime was set in stone, and so I was now to be chaperoned by a different member of staff, a man of about my own age from within the faculty, who could conduct me around the bowels of the building, where the famished and faint-hearted fear apparently to tread. Standing ramrod straight and glowering at everyone passed, I had observed him closely as he had ambled across the foyer toward me, his gait clinically myopathic, cloaked in a brazen self-confidence that would put a cardiac surgeon to shame. Introducing himself as Steve, he had shaken my hand vigorously until I'd snatched it away, impatient and incredulous. I'd followed him then, simply out of necessity, descending down a frigid staircase, as rivulets of moisture gleamed on the shabby paintwork of the pitted plaster walls around us.
It did not take me long to categorise Steve. Apparently devoid of original thought, he became just another irritating non-entity, blithering on in a one-sided conversation of such banality that I wondered if he had taken a blow to the head as a child. After traipsing behind him in a grimly disapproving silence, he had finally paused, standing on the tips of his toes to peer through the round windows of a set of double doors at the end of the hall. My spirits soared immediately; we had finally arrived at a location of interest, the Anatomy Lab, where the familiar smell of embalming fluid and death hung listlessly in the cold and heavy air. Along each wall, neatly spaced, stainless steel gurneys were draped in white sheets, and beneath those covers lay cadavers; the earthly remains of men and women who had donated their bodies to science.
The brown linoleum floors, buzzing fluorescent lights and the flickering tv screens were instantly recognisable and I was transported to my own first year of med school, and the heady hours I'd spent absorbed in Gross Anatomy. I recall so clearly listening to Prof. McLaren deliver his instructions, soaking up every word like a sponge. A stillness had come over me, I was focused and resolute of course but there was something more; a new and almost thrilling sense of self-awareness, as if everything I'd done, everything I'd accomplished in my life thus far had lead me to this juncture. As I stood there, it had been like a revelation, it was so crystal clear to me that a surgeon was not what I wanted to be, it was who I was meant to be. And, while some of those around me had faltered, their faces as white and bloodless as the corpses they'd been presented with, I had simply picked up the blade and made my first incision, cutting calmly outward from the jugular at the suprasternal notch, then down along the sternum and outward along the lowest of the ribs.
I suppose I was aware of the hesitancy of my fellow students, their discomfort as they tugged clumsily at the cold skin, or hovered awkwardly around the corners of tables, watching on transfixed, and clutching at their own chests as if they themselves were next in line for dissection. In contrast, I'd been so energised by the process, so fascinated, and so unemotional in a way that I realise now must have contributed to my reputation as cold and unfeeling. But I had no interest at all in what people thought of me, all I was aware of was the absolute beauty and the true logic of medical science. The scalpel was merely an extension of my hand and, almost overwhelmingly, I understood that my life, my very existence, had finally begun to make sense.
Behind me, there was a crash and I was startled from my recollections. I turned to see my chaperone amusing himself by sodding about with one of the suspended skeletons, propelling it sideways with a slap of his hand, as if it were simply a wind chime. The long bones clattered together resoundingly, echoing around the starkly, unadorned walls of this vast empty gallery. I'd glared at him, aggravated by his lack of proprietary, fighting the urge to reprimand him for such puerile behaviour, but before I could even open my mouth to speak, he'd started to sing, loudly and bawdily, and horribly out-of-tune.
"Knees up, Mother Brown! Knees up, Mother Brown…" He'd crowed, grinning at me expectantly, as if I might in any possible way find him entertaining.
"Don't be ridiculous." I'd replied sharply, my contemptuous obvious, turning my back on him and striding away.
If I hadn't needed his assistance to find my way around, I would have abandoned him then and there, but the damn place was like a maze, a succession of blind corridors and dead ends, and the last thing I wanted was to dismiss him only to find myself hopelessly lost. The idea was humiliating. So it seemed I was reliant on him, a coarse and disrespectful oaf that represented so much of what I utterly despised. It might possibly have been the effects of the formaldehyde but as I was forced to clear my throat, at that precise moment I felt it so forcefully, as if her fingers gripped my own. Louisa casting her eyes to the heavens, her hands on her hips in disbelief. Why don't you just try being nice to people, she'd ask helplessly. Be patient, see where it gets you? And then she'd direct that encouraging, almost imperceptible nod of her head at me, that tiny smile, the one that even when imagined seems to turn my intestines into jelly.
And so I had slowed my pace and, as he caught up to me, I'd squeezed my eyes shut for just a moment, as if I could will myself to be suddenly more tolerant and to somehow find his insolence less detestable. Louisa, if you only knew the lengths I go to, I'd muttered silently, holding my breath as hints of cheap aftershave volatilised from his pock-marked neck, wafting upwards with each choppy little stride he took. I respect that about her, her definite code, her unshakeable belief if you will, her own personal charter that makes her determined not to detest people on sight. To Louisa it all makes perfect sense, just as the way she breathlessly offers me vague and mysterious instructions: That I shouldn't judge people or, even more esoterically, that everyone is just human, whatever difference that could possibly make.
I'm well aware of what makes people human, I've already seen the insides of more than my fair share. I've resected their organs and reset their bones and I've spent nearly a third of my life studying the care and repair of their vascular structures. Conversely, I understand what differentiates a man from a frog, or a rat, just as I'm familiar with that which makes us so similar to pigs and, in my present company especially, to apes. And I'm painfully aware that, universally, mankind shares a common tendency to eat appalling diets and disregard the advice of their physicians. However, I will never understand how knowing all of this might make me suffer most of my fellow humans with anything other than disapproval or indifference.
Regardless of my scepticism though, when I think about how much self-control I'd exercised, I could hold my head up and know that I been genuinely intent on self-improvement. When Louisa leans back and looks up at me, her hopefulness and enthusiasm bubbling to the surface as she gently runs her fingers through my hair, I want to be able to look her, confidently, in the eye. And though it does seem somewhat childish, I need her to know how much of an effort I'd made, I want to feel the warmth of her approval, the soothing way she wraps her arms around my waist amongst other things but, of course, Steve seemed intent on making it as difficult as he possibly could for me.
As we approached the lifts, he had begun to chatter aimlessly, vocalising his tedious, random thoughts as if he were an overexcited toddler. I'd turned to glare at him before coming to the rapid conclusion that he was a bore of the most aggravating kind, a short-sighted dullard totally devoid of wit or self awareness. For Louisa's sake, I wanted not to despise him but people of his ilk seem so naturally aggravating, so blind to the virtues of silence, totally ignorant of the merits of contemplation, and oblivious to the restorative qualities of calm and quiet thought
"Davis, eh? What a left foot, two goals in five minutes…." He'd ventured, his voice shrill and almost giddy, as the steel doors before us creaked painfully apart.
My heart had sunk then, like the heaviest of stones. It appeared now as if he were that most bromidic embodiment of tiresomeness; a man with a persistent and moronic predilection to discuss pointless games with patently disinterested strangers. Sucking in a deep, disgusted lungful of air, I'd ignored him, as deliberate in my snub as I could possibly be. With sport being of absolutely no interest to me, and football especially so, I'd categorised him instantly as an imbecile, one of that collection of testosterone-soaked Neanderthals intent on mindless thuggery, fighting in the streets in front of terrified children, stabbing each other with broken bottles or bashing each other half to death with looted tree stakes. I'd lost count of the flabby, shirtless inebriates I'd been required to stitch back together during the course of my time in A & E. Moronic thugs, each and every one of them; perpetrating acts of violence on total strangers, on the pretext of a meaningless game, the only distraction from their pointless, empty lives.
"Who do you follow then?" He'd asked cheerfully as the doors closed behind us, clearly oblivious to my utter disdain. "You'll find we're all Gunner supporters here, mate, well, most anyway…"
I'd turned slowly and ominously to scowl at him, my upper lip twitching and spasming into a ferocious uncontrollable sneer. But still I fought the desire to tell him in no uncertain terms what I really thought of his ridiculous obsession. He barely came up to my shoulder; a slim, pale ectomorph with an earring and brutally acne-scarred skin but, in my experience, the smaller the man, the bigger the actual complex. I have no doubt that Louisa would by now be exhorting me to look for similarities but I suspected the only thing he and I had in common was merely a mutual preference for brutally short haircuts, hardly a topic for riveting discourse. I must face it, I have not Louisa's faith in my fellow man, and the harsh truth was that I simply had no desire to converse with Steve, nor any interest in him. Unless he turned up across the desk from me in a consultation, or appeared prepped and laid out in theatre before me, I really could not care less about him or his dreary, uninspiring existence.
"It's not too late to enter the pools…" He'd added, hopefully, and it had stopped me in my tracks.
"If there's one thing I detest more than sport, it's gambling." I'd interrupted, enunciating my words slowly and carefully so he could not mistake my meaning, my voice a low, vehement growl of disgust.
"It's not really gambling though, is it? I mean, it's only five quid to enter, and then it's all down to skill and knowledge, innit?"
"Skill?" I'd hissed scornfully and, for a split second I'd been speechless with incredulity.
"Winner takes home a monkey…that's worth having, that is…."
And then I'd erupted, choking with fury and disbelief, totally disregarding how many bridges I was burning, how lost I might find myself in this labyrinthine monument to absurdity, and even how disappointed Louisa would be with me when she knew that I'd utterly lost my rag.
"Oh for God's sake! Stop…saying…the..the…the first…mindless thing…that comes into your head and…just shut up, will you?!" I'd spluttered, my fists clenched like a prize fighter at my sides, as my ribcage heaved, incredulous and enraged.
"Suit yourself." He'd replied evenly, after the merest of pauses, retrieving a pencil from his top pocket and reaching up to poke the rubberised end of it into his auditory canal, wiggling it furiously as I gazed on in abject, nauseated horror. "Not another dickie-bird from me, Chief, but if you do change your mind, you know where to find me…"
"Will you stop that!?" I'd gurgled ferociously, by now almost speechless, taking a step forward and looming over him, fixing him with a ferocious stare, as if it might help him see sense. "Have you any idea of the damage you could do? You'll perforate an eardrum!"
"Alright, mate." He'd replied, grinning, and laughing at me, in a way I'd found particularly insulting. "Keep your hair on…"
I'd turned away in utter contempt, my revulsion complete as I'd watched him use the very same pencil to stab at the illuminated buttons on the control panel, an action that saw us lurch so violently I nearly hit my head on the ceiling of the compartment. I knew that he was watching on in apparent amusement, grinning at me like a chimpanzee as he clung with his stubby fingers to the stout supporting rail that ran around the inside of the wall. I chose to simply ignore him, lifting my chin and staring rather pointedly down my nose at the wall opposite, as I endeavoured to compose myself.
As a feat of engineering, that particular lift was well past its prime and, as we graunched and lurched our way sluggishly skyward, I made a mental note to ensure I always carried some form of hand sanitiser as I moved about the building. Depressingly, I was used to ignorance and poor hygiene when it came to the behaviour of patients but it was rather confronting to think that I would face such negligent behaviour from those I worked alongside. The only relief, the only succour I'd felt up to that point was the moment the lift doors rattled open and I was able to escape the cerumen-encrusted confines of that rickety contraption and get my feet back firmly on a stable floor.
He directed me, cheerfully, to a well-patinated, mahogany door, still emblazoned with the name of my predecessor, Geoffrey Rushton. I was pleased to observe that this area of the college had received extensive modernisation bringing it up to standard within all the relevant guidelines. At least that particular assurance had been correct, my new office was clean and brightly lit, and freshly painted in an inoffensive shade of pale magnolia. A surprisingly spacious wet room, and a perfunctory but spotlessly clean kitchenette took up at least a third of the space, and there was a small, well appointed area in the back corner, enclosed by a screen, containing a capacious single bed and a basic but useful enough wardrobe. The rest of the floor area was utilised by bookcases, filing cabinets, the two black leather tub chairs ubiquitous to medical consultant's rooms across the United Kingdom, and an imposing, leather-topped desk, apparently of the same vintage as the building itself.
"Just why don't you make yourself at home while I just pop down the hall? When I get back I'm to help you shift the furniture around to suit, alright?"
I'd glanced at him warily. "Yes, umm….where are you going?"
"Nancy said I'm fetch one of the girls to give you a hand. Sorting out your office and suchlike…"
"Oh, I see…" I'd added, hesitantly. "Right…"
"There's a couple of right tidy boilers on this floor, if you know what I mean." He'd said in a low voice, smirking at me. "I'll see what I can sort out. No need to thank me."
Instantly, I recognised it; the seam of lasciviousness that seemed endemic in so many men, regardless of class or education; the ability to reduce everything down to the most base of levels, to be constantly leering and dissolute, lewd and unseemly. I've been surrounded by that sort of corruption my entire life, that grimy sort of lechery, and, frankly, it sickens me. In fact, seeing Dad look at Louisa in such a way had utterly incensed me, it had triggered something fiercely primal, a feeling of protectiveness I had not known that I possessed. And I realised, too, that I was quite capable of violence, despite my lofty, pacifist ideals, and my oath to do no harm. When he laid a hand on her I was only aware of the fact that I must stop him and, in that moment, I did not care how that might be achieved. The difference is, for that split second it felt like I hated my father but, for the moron in front of me now, I feel only disdain
"Don't be disgusting." I'd barked at him, unwilling to hide my contempt. "Just bring me someone capable of following instructions, if you can find one…"
I'd watched him leave my office, an opprobrious, nasty, little piece of filth. Once I have no further use for him, I am almost sure that I will slice him to ribbons, unbraiding him for his outrageous impertinence and his total lack of respect. I could cut him off at the knees with one viperish denunciation of his weak and contumelious character, or perhaps the threat of emptying bedpans for the rest of his career might hit closer to the bone. It strikes me that I have been more tolerant of his over-familiarity than I would ever have imagined myself capable of and, as I finally have a moment to myself, I cautiously examine the possible reasons for my unbelievable self-restraint.
Putting my briefcase on the desk, I circle the room, opening cupboards and pulling out drawers. Everything is sanitary and reassuringly unscented; to my relief, no cheap and nasty air freshener, possibly the most misleadingly-named substance known to mankind, has sullied the atmosphere. Slightly mollified, I clear my throat and continue my inspection, as a thoroughly logical train of thought churns over in my mind. It does seem obvious that, being my first day in a new role, neither the hierarchy nor the politics of the college are entirely clear to me. Therefore, the practice of castigating those who displease me, regardless of how far they have stepped out of line, may not be the most prudent of ways to proceed. As far as reasoning goes, that makes perfect sense.
As I press up and down on the mattress, though, I know that I am being throughly disingenuous with myself. God knows I keep a tight rein on my thoughts when I am working and I rarely, if ever, allow my mind to wander down that particular path. But Louisa was now almost always home before me and, once or twice, when I'd arrived at the door, overburdened and tense, things had rather escalated and I'd found myself capitulating helplessly, with no pretence of real resistance. Recalling it now, as I pat the pillows awkwardly and self-consciously, noticeably increases my respiration and I'm aware of a heat that sees me reach up to pull at my collar and tug at my tie. And, God help me, I can't deny that it had felt liberating, gloriously so; the sort of spontaneity that even someone as structured as I am could only secretly hope might turn into a habit.
But, thanks to the resident imbecile, Steve, I'd be forced to admit to Louisa that I'd lost my temper, because I'm incapable of lying to her and, as predictably as she leaves wet towels on the bed, she will ask me how my day has gone. Putting him back in his place loses most of its appeal when it might jeopardise the most effective stress-reducing activity I've ever known, and it suddenly becomes a significant conundrum. What little personal life I've known, I've always been determined to keep separate from my work but, for just a moment, I allow her to intrude and it's strangely and pleasantly reassuring. Having another person to consider can certainly bolster ones forbearance, as well as ones determination to succeed. It reinforces the conviction, too, I have inside me, that I don't ever want to be without Louisa in my life. And, as I open the refrigerator absently, I cant help but think that, if Imperial turns into the debacle I am starting to fear it might be, while I extract myself, relying on her will be all I have.