Henry had died on a Sunday. The first I knew of it was finding myself dragged, unceremoniously, from the back of a long line of unruly boys as we shuffled toward the chapel, and the tedium that was morning vespers. Frogmarched up the stairs in silence, I was surprised to see Aunt Ruth waiting outside the Headmaster's office. I recall her shrewd, steady gaze as I raised my chin and addressed her with the formality I knew was expected of me. If I felt any sense of shock or sadness at her news, I would have kept it inevitably to myself. Concealing my emotions had started as a method of survival but it had long since become a matter of pride. I was determined that, regardless of the turbulence I was experiencing, I would have appeared the same to any observer: aloof, unruffled and imperturbable.
The jolt of excitement I'd felt as as I clambered into the passenger seat of her leaky, little, cream sports car was another matter entirely however. She'd reached under the driver's seat and handed me a crisp, crumpled chamois cloth, instructing me briskly to deal with the significant condensation that clung to the interior surface of all the windows. Revving the engine furiously, the tyres has spun on the fine gravel and we'd roared off down the drive without so much as a backward glance. The solemnity of the occasion must have completely escaped me and I had relished every minute of the journey, peering at the gauges inquisitively and flicking through the owner's manual that I'd located in the glovebox. After firing a salvo of perfunctory questions in my direction, Aunt Ruth had soon fallen into a contemplative silence, and we did not speak again until we made our way along the sodden, rain-lashed street and into the church.
It dawned on me much later that they must have known Henry was dying; they'd had months, possibly, to tell me, but no one had thought to fetch me from school while he was still alive, no one had given me the chance to shake his hand and bid him farewell for the very last time. As usual, in the process of everyday life, as a family dealing with illness and loss and managing grief, I was once again summarily banished: unwanted, ignored and left to fend for myself.
Is that how it was done back then, I wonder? Children excluded from such a human experience, shielded apparently from death and dying, and left simply to ponder the transience of life from an uncomfortable pew in a freezing church, more conscious of how cold their bare legs are than the fact they'd never see their grandfather again. On that bitter winter's afternoon, coolly and hygienically, Henry had been excised from the lives of a dry-eyed congregation; Ruth had seemed unmoved, my father almost jubilant and, though absent from the funeral, I realise now that even Auntie Joan had never mentioned him again. Sleet had kept us from the graveside, he'd been laid to rest alone and that, to all intents and purposes, was that; until his will was read, and my already fractious relationship with my parents took a sudden and dramatic turn for the worse.
Of course I could have no comprehension of what any of it meant. Indeed I took little interest in the fragments that I did hear, confused by vague whispers of a complex system of trusts, and endowments that seemed to hold no significance to me whatsoever. At the time I did wonder if it were wicked of me to covet his camera and his clocks and some of his reference library. Cole & Elman's Textbook of General Surgery, Callander's Surgical Anatomy, volume after volume of the books that had fascinated me since I was tall enough to reach up to their shelves and, in the end, I was allowed to chose one. I'd picked out his hard cover, twenty-first edition of Grey's Anatomy, spiriting it away to my locker, the only place where I knew that it's safety would be assured, reading it by torchlight, under the covers, long after Matron had called: Lights Out!
Eventually, too, my grandmother succumbed to her legion of illnesses, and it was only then that I began to gain a grasp of the situation. At the wake, Aunt Ruth had smiled wryly at me, sipping on a generous glass of sherry, and informing me with some satisfaction that I was the sole beneficiary of Henry's significant estate. Over time, I learned that there were other smaller bequests of course, and I gathered that the proceeds from the sale of his enormous old house were to be divided equally between his children but, when all was said and done, though I was still little more than a child, the bulk of his estate was bequeathed to me. I'd been far too young and naive to understand the greater implications of it all. I'd merely sat to attention, wedged between my parents in the solicitors office, my mother's fingernails digging into my arm, her grip unshakeable and ferocious. Asked if I understood, I'd simply nodded gravely, listening in bemused silence as he outlined the details; two separate trusts, a smaller one for when I turned twenty one, and the balance when I attained the age of thirty.
At barely eleven, the age of thirty seemed almost incomprehensible, but I was aware enough to recognise how fortunate I was. In some of my darkest moments, locked beneath the stairs, I allowed myself some optimism, anticipating the independence such an inheritance might present. However, even with such generosity on the horizon, my gratitude and, especially, my excitement, began steadily to be eroded. With my parents named as sole trustees, the topic of finance seemed never far from their lips; underpinned each time by my father's growing resentment that I had apparently stolen his birthright. My mother lurked in the shadowy corners of the conversation of course, a wolf in sheep's clothing, transparent in her attempts to ingratiate herself and influence her only child. Even as an adolescent, their behaviour had seemed to me to be crass and utterly demeaning, their greed only serving to curdle my opinion of them, to turn what was already a cold, sour relationship into something rather more toxic.
Of course it just confirmed what I already knew I suppose and I was filled with the sad resignation that I could trust neither of them. Their thinly-veiled attempts to manipulate me, their avarice, and their bare-faced lies; it was all so undignified really, so shoddy, and so unbecoming of those who I was expected to look up to. It was fortunate that I had been born with the good sense to know what was best for me but, even so, as my teenage years came and went, I became miserably aware of an indisputable fact: that Henry's will, his benevolence, his philanthropy toward his only grandchild, had become the very definition of a poisoned chalice.
But, at twenty one I was emancipated at last, determined to reject my mother's avarice, set on defying my father's bombast, and intent on proceeding with my life in the way I saw fit. With their dire predictions of my own fiscal incompetence ringing in my ears, I'd chosen to ignore their advice, resolute on achieving my goal of autonomy and self-sufficiency by the careful use of Henry's generous bequest. I am prudent by nature and, unlike my parents, I prefer to live modestly and quietly. I intend that my home is a private, tranquil haven, not some sort of flashy night club, dubious gaming room or gaudy temple for the tawdry to flaunt their wealth. So, with our needs clearly so disparate when it came to bricks and mortar, I'd rejected their litany of unsolicited advice and, after a brief but useful telephone conversation with my Aunt Ruth, I had invested in a small but comfortable flat, a careful first foray into residential real estate.
"London property has peaked, you've missed the bus." My father had told me scornfully, waving a brochure under my nose. "Mining and manufacturing, that's where a fellow should be investing, that's if he had any commercial acumen whatsoever…"
I'd ignored him of course, much to his fury, walking away and rolling my eyes impatiently as I bit hard on my tongue. As the sort of man who revelled in the close contact and so-called camaraderie of life on a frigate, he would never understand that I was motivated by far simpler goals: the abysmal experience of more than ten years at boarding school had galvanised me to seek out a life alone, one where I could immerse myself in study, maintain the strictest privacy, and be answerable to no one else at all. My first step had been a smallish flat in an interesting Art Deco apartment block; clean, quiet and secure, it had been freshly decorated and there was absolutely nothing that needed to be done. I'd furnished it simply, as was my taste, rather enjoying spending a few hours each week perusing the antique shops and auction rooms that proliferated in the area of West London that had become my home.
My car was a luxury of course but otherwise I'd focused on repaying debt, intent on becoming mortgage-free especially after having upgraded to a larger, more conveniently located flat. My father's insults and condescension aside, I felt as if I did have a modicum of financial nous even if we differed greatly on our motivations, and our respective opinions on risk and reward. Recalling how he mocked me savagely for my decision not to go into private practice still stung, despite the fact that working solely within the NHS hospital system, on a consultant's income, had enabled me to live very comfortably indeed.
But now I wonder if his accusations of financial incompetence might have been more accurate than I realised. In one respect particularly, I have behaved with a gullibility that borders on the feeble-minded. As perspiration began to bead on my forehead, and my heart began to race, I'd had the sickening realisation that I had been something worse than thoughtless, more dangerous than ignorant and that, in fact, I was bordering on being an imbecile. As ran my tongue over my dry, chafing lips I berated myself for being so hopelessly naive. All these years, all the upheaval, all the changes and yet there I was, assuming that my inheritance was still sitting, safe and secure, in the trust account of my grandfather's solicitors.
Sholto had slid the plain manila folder across the table to me. We were sitting in the boardroom, he and Zalman on one side of the imposing oval table, and me on the other, my hands folded in front of me, symmetrically placed within the triangles of the marquetry. All my chief's former congeniality had vanished and I felt insinuation hanging heavily within the room; their faces were grim and their tone foreboding, every nuance of expression an apparent assumption of my guilt. I'd been confused at first, and then shocked. Seeing my name at the top of the sheet, in black and white, had caused a bolt of fear to rip through my chest and had shaken me to my very core. I'd been frozen to the spot, consumed by a nascent gut wrenching horror that caused my mouth to become tacky and my tongue to feel as if it were carved from wood. Swallowing seemed pointless but the reflex was uncontrollable, and I knew I must find a way to speak. Lifting my chin, I looked Sholto directly in the eye.
"I have no knowledge of this." I told him firmly, holding his gaze, challenging him to refute me.
"Yet this is the information that the Portuguese authorities have supplied us." Sholto answered quickly, anger now apparent in his voice. "Are you denying that it's you?"
"Well, obviously, I am Martin Christopher Ellingham," I'd replied crossly. "And the fact that this investment bears my name is obviously enormously concerning. But I repeat, I have no personal link to this company, no knowledge of it, and to suggest otherwise is a frankly outrageous accusation."
We'd stared at each for a moment then, neither of us prepared to back down. I'd welcomed the adrenalin rush, my muscles twitching, my mind clear and sharp and ready to engage. I leaned forward, insulted and appalled, narrowing my eyes as I prepared to defend myself at any cost, but it had been suddenly obvious that, behind his scowl of disgust, Sholto looked shrunken and grey and impossibly tired. His hand went to his temple, hovering for a moment before he slid his fingers across to shield his eyes with his hand.
"It might help, Martin," Zalman interrupted calmly. "If you remember that we will get the bottom of this a lot quicker if everyone keeps a cool head. Whether you knew about this investment or not, there's a very shifty and devious trail that has lead us indubitably to a trust in your name. You can see the Martin Christopher Ellingham Trust Number Two is specified here, as plain as day, as the principal investor in a dubious company that has supplied substandard and misrepresented medical supplies for trial at this university. Clearly, there's an element of fraud as well as a massive breach of medical ethics, and we have proof that your company seems to have been at the heart of it. So, trust me, if you have a reasonable explanation, Sholto and I would very much like to hear it."
Stating it like that, so factual, so indisputable, had made me suddenly nauseous again. I reached up to pinch the bridge of my nose, as the room swam in and out of focus and everything began to fall depressingly in to place. There was an explanation, as much as it pained me to admit it, because I knew my parents to be capable of anything. Bile rose in my throat and I fought my need to retch with everything I had. My mouth filled with saliva and, instinctively, I reached for my handkerchief, dabbing at my lips with trembling fingers. The ties to Portugal, the letter signed by my mother, the inside knowledge of the trialing process, the entire sordid trail of deception; it had their sticky, grasping, unprincipled fingerprints all over it.
Zalman coughed and I glanced up at him, engaged in a futile fight to compose my features into their usual mask of inscrutability. The Ellingham name now lies in tatters, my promise to Henry dismembered, and I can plead my innocence all day long, yet I am still irrevocably bound up in my parent's dishonour. For a moment I felt utterly paralysed, powerless to avoid partaking of their shame. I swallowed hard, over and over again, almost gagging on my own humiliation. The opprobrium of it all seemed to crush me, and years of disappointment and rejection clawed at me, ripping the breath from my lungs. I was so demeaned that it was as if I had nothing left to lose. Clasping my hands into fists beneath the table, I opened my mouth and, forcing the words from my throat, I began, hesitantly, to explain.
Though they'd listened in silence, Sholto's hostility still seemed apparent, as he folded his arms and glared at me, his expression hovering somewhere between icy judgement and angry disbelief. Eventually, we'd moved to my office where I'd shown them what I'd discovered, pile after pile of papers, freshly catalogued into pale beige manila folders, almost every stack a monument to my family's ignominy and disgrace.
"The yellow sticky notes indicate a clear conflict of interest…umm where the methodology used has…ahh….detracted….from the researcher's duty toward Imperial, umm…in a manner that suggests private gain." I'd told them quietly, clearing my throat, watching uncomfortably as they found the extent of the deception so obviously confronting. "And… the ahhh, the green represents biased interpretation of data which serves to support the group that have provided the financial support…for the research…."
"Can we prove it? In a court of law?" Sholto demanded sharply, his eyes flashing furiously, his hands flying to his hips.
I'd paused, hesitant and uncomfortable. There were still so many gaps, so many threads to bring together, it seemed like a knee jerk reaction when what we really needed was a carefully considered plan.
"Ah, well…difficult, perhaps…because, umm, it seems to me that, since no human trials appeared actually to have taken place, that it is a more insidious sort of deception. That said, I consider it a rather more dangerous kind…one that might result in a loss of….umm…public confidence…in science…and in medicine…specifically."
He waved his hand around, gesturing irritably at my careful organised piles of folders.
"Yes, but you would say that wouldn't you? Your opinion can hardly be seen as unbiased, can it?"
I opened my mouth to object; about to insist that, if my parents have committed a crime, then of course they must pay but he was dismissive, talking over the top of me, his voice cold and critical and suddenly demanding.
"And the rest? What else have you unearthed?"
For a moment I was back at school, tormented and falsely accused, but never ever given the benefit of the doubt, the right of reply, wincing as the cane laid into my flesh, fighting the tears that inevitably came. It was as devastating now as it had been back then. No one cared that I had done nothing wrong, it was easier to flay me than find out the truth. But I was no longer powerless, I was not a small thin boy crippled by shyness, and enuresis, and the knowledge that I always seemed to be in the way. I raised my chin again and this time there would be no crying, I had too much to fight for, I was not prepared to take even a backward step.
"Some results seem completely above board but other need more piecing together…the filing was very haphazard, possibly on purpose, and large tracts appear to be missing which seems to suggest some sort of cleansing." I replied formally, my voice now low and clear. "I have not had the chance to delve too deeply as yet but initial enquiries into the limited data suggests a lack of rigor and consistency in departmental-level scientific review…"
"I see. And the pink notes?"
"Falsification of data, perhaps where the researcher has manipulated results, or umm, provided data without experimentation, or biased the results to give a false impression of their value."
Sholto glared at me, picking up a folder in a rather agitated fashion and flicking through it impatiently. I still had the unpleasant feeling that he was torn over whether he should believe me or not; his demeanour was testy, even hostile, and it still seemed as if his fury at the situation were entirely directed at me. It was as if Zalman sensed it too and, just as I was about to point out that Sholto had been Head of Surgery for at least six months and so therefore a proportion of this had happened on his watch, I was suprised when he came and stood beside me, reaching up to place his hand firmly upon my shoulder.
"Martin has also discovered that some of these trials go back five years, long before any of us were involved with Imperial, before the merger, in fact before any of us had an inkling that we might one day end up standing here…"
"Well I hope that makes you feel much better Zalman…" Sholto had replied, dropping the folder back onto the desk with a resounding crash and glancing at his watch. "And this seems like an appropriate point at which to adjourn. I have to front the board again tonight but, before that, I've a meeting scheduled with the Bursar and the Dean at five."
Glancing sharply at both of us, he'd turned briskly on the heels of his small, shiny, tan brogues and bustled toward the door, pausing briefly before turning back to face us.
"And I want to see you both in my office at seven tomorrow morning. Zalman, I want Veronica's employment file gone through with a fine tooth comb, I want copies of everything, you understand….and Martin, I want you to go through these boxes and bring me anything that she has written, any documentation, any correspondence that bears her signature. Anything, whether you think it's relevant or not. Do I make myself clear?"
I'd nodded at him as he'd disappeared, staring at the empty doorway for a moment until, behind me, Zalman had sighed heavily and I'd turned to face him.
"Veronica?" I'd asked, frowning.
"Veronica Palter." He'd replied sharply, gazing at me in disbelief. "The Clinical Research Coordinator…"
I'd grunted in the affirmative, and gone immediately to pour myself a glass of water, my throat impossibly dry. In the chaos of the day, I realised I had neglected all basic housekeeping, failing either to refill the filter jug or to place it in the fridge. I'd tutted and fussed about the sink, frustrated and edgy, and aggravated and cross. A faint film of dust on the draining board seeming to suggest an entire spring clean was necessary and I set about a furious sponging down of every surface, squirting sanitiser liberally about the room.
"How long will going through this lot again take you?" I heard Zalman ask cautiously. "Because I was going to ask if you wanted to share a taxi to Tzippy's thing…"
I glanced at him. If he was expecting conversation or even an offer of refreshment, he was going to be disappointed. I didn't want his company and I wasn't going to do anything that might prolong his loitering about in my office.
"At least a couple of hours. I suppose I'll just crack on now and what I don't get done will just have to wait until the morning…" I told him crisply. "Sholto's waited this long to finally take an interest in the department, another few hours surely won't make much of a difference."
He said nothing, clearing his throat and taking a few tentative steps toward the door.
"But you're definitely going?"
I paused, suddenly self-conscious. "I..umm…I promised I would meet Louisa there…"
He'd smiled then and nodded at me knowingly but I was in no mood for levity. I had something eating away at me, something I needed to get off my chest.
"Incidentally Zalman, just for the record, did you actually tell Sholto that I'd come to you as soon as I discovered the anomalous trial reportage? Did you point out that I'd asked to be stood down, immediately actually, when I realised a family member was apparently complicit in the deception?"
He stared at me thoughtfully but didn't reply. It seemed he needed some prompting, a gentle reminder perhaps of how dismissive he'd been. Folding my arms across my chest, I'd raised my eyebrow and taken a step toward him.
"Or perhaps you remember telling me that I was over-reacting? That it was premature to have Sholto involved, hmm?"
"He had enough on his plate…I was merely attempting to shield him, to shield both of you as it happens…." He'd replied impassively. "Though it seems I was unsuccessful, on both counts…I will see you downstairs at six fifteen. Tzippy doesn't like to be kept waiting…"
I watched him leave, closing the door behind him and snipping the lock so there was no possibility of being disturbed. I'd set about my task but, in the quiet solitude of my office, I'd had rather too much time to think and rather too much to think about. The implications of the afternoon's discovery seemed enormous, like a mushroom cloud burgeoning and dangerous upon the horizon. My resentment grew and festered, squeezing my chest and contorting my face into an angry, unhappy sneer. Shadows hung around in the darkened corners and with them came a strange sense of fear that gripped me with terrifying force. The more I considered my situation, the more it became obvious that there was no way I could ever escape unscathed.
Mud always sticks, especially to those who are neither charming nor garrulous enough to inveigle their way out of trouble. Knowing that I was innocent made the unfairness of it absolutely untenable. Realising how my career might be ripped up from my grasp was even more distressing, but the thought that Louisa might think badly of me was what really threatened to tear me miserably apart. The idea was simply unbearable and, for the second time this week, light headed and dizzy, I'd found myself hunched over the bowl, throwing up in the lavatory.
I'd showered then, scrubbing furiously at my teeth and gargling repeatedly, before donning clean clothing and knotting my tie with intense concentration. The precision of it, the feeling of being in control, the familiar ritual all served to calm me somewhat though my jaw seemed stiff and frozen as if it were permanently clenched. And it was then that truth began to out. Having to admit to Louisa that my parents were the lowest form of grifters, white collar criminals, swindling their own son and besmirching the family name for the sake of a few hundred thousand pounds, felt like a mountain I was not quite sure that I'd be able to climb. Recalling the judgemental tone I'd taken when we'd spoken about her family, I feared she'd see me as the worst sort of hypocrite there was.
And, if the trust fund had gone, it had gone and I felt more of a sad resignation than any sort of rage. I was secure in one aspect of my relationship with Louisa and that was that she didn't care about my income. But there were so many other implications to consider. If the chickens really came home to roost, of course I couldn't work here so I'd need to think about exactly where it is that I might go? If my time in London was really at an end, or even if my vascular career was over, I would have to find a way to earn a living and the best case scenario was that I'd be loaned to some far flung hospital until it all blew over. All I could hope for was a chance to keep working, a place where I could keep my head down, and pay my dues until it might be considered safe to reappear. The problem with all of that was Louisa. She would still be here in London, anchored at least in the short term by her studies, entertained by her friends and fulfilled by going to pop concerts and browsing her favourite market stalls. I knew from experience that, as a consultant starting again in a smaller regional facility, inevitably, I'd be back to long hours and heavy rosters, and she'd be here, alone. How on earth were we supposed to make that scenario work?
And there was another elephant in the room. What if Imperial decided not to believe me? What if the investigation was turned over to the police? The board would be well within their rights to do so, after all. And, even though I knew myself to be innocent, it might take years for the truth to be finally uncovered. Meanwhile, I'd be stood down or probably suspended, and the news would spread like wildfire through the medical fraternity. I'd be pilloried ruthlessly, and more people than I cared to think about would be all too gleeful at my demise. If I were lucky, it might be kept out of the papers but, if not, Louisa would be stigmatised too, guilty by association, disillusioned once more by somebody she trusted; thus dishonoured, I would be just another man who let her down.
Thinking about it was like watching a crack on a windscreen, slowly creeping across ones line of sight until that inevitable, violent, dramatic shatter. The painful inescapability of it was almost too much for me and I'd hurried to the door and bolted from the room. I'd even left my briefcase behind, only pausing to stab my key into the lock and fumble with it until I was sure it was secure. I'd ignored everyone I'd passed on my way down to the street, forcing everything from my mind, especially Zalman and his offer of a shared commute. I couldn't face him, I couldn't cope with small talk, or speculation, or even a ride with him in utter silence. All I knew was that I desperately needed to see Louisa, I needed to reassure myself that she wouldn't automatically assume the worst of me too.
I yawn now, consumed by a debilitating tiredness and yet I do not want to sleep. Beside me, she murmurs, lost in that half awake state that renders her so sweetly and dreamily pliant. Everything is strangely peaceful, the tumult of the day a million miles away. I find myself speculating idly, that there is another law of physics, one that college never covered. It seems to me now that the more intense the passion, the greater the serenity that follows; Louisa's is a vague and hazy languor where her smile is slow, her body snaking itself around mine as I marvel at her utter and indescribable perfection. My response is simply just to lie here, immobile and weightless, aware of a faint and pleasant trembling in my limbs, content with committing every detail of her to memory, every delightful curve, every overwhelming sensation, the sweetness of every taste.
I ease the covers up over her chest and shoulders, and I wonder about the details no one ever mentions, all the critical points that textbooks don't provide. The comfort of the small things, the reassurance of an embrace from a delicate yet mercurial figure as I savour the delights of being her lover. Her thigh is stretched across my hips, and her arm draped elegantly across my chest; I've seen her as protective as a lioness with her cubs but is it simply ridiculous mawkish folly to imagine that she now attempts to shield me from the world? My thoughts drift indolently, my mind is blissfully at ease, floating along in a haze of endorphins, and the world seems calmer somehow, safer and further away.
As I encourage her closer, I feel the warmth of her breath on my neck. Whatever goes wrong, I will always have now, I will always have this moment, sublime and ethereal, when we were as inseparable and intertwined as two people could possibly be. However long or short our time together, I have had moments where Louisa has made me feel extraordinary, and isn't that infinitely better than being an ordinary man who never knew perfection at all? As long as I live, I will never forget the look in her eyes tonight, when she knew that I couldn't stop myself from watching her; intense and smouldering as she glanced up at me from beneath her long dark lashes; her touch so provocative, her mouth so effortlessly sensual that, temporarily, I lost any capacity I had for rational thought.
Women don't look at you like that, do they, they can't make you believe they are enjoying themselves as much as you are, can they, unless they really and truly love you? She couldn't pretend, she couldn't invent that level of joy and desire could she? I saw her, I felt it, marvelling that I might ever have that affect on anyone, never mind someone as beautiful and passionate and enthralling as she is. There is still enough remnant sensation in my body that the recollection makes me shiver and I stretch involuntarily; I am a clumsy, reticent man yet, for a few moments, here and there, wrapped in her arms, I feel like a king. And I want this so badly to last forever, so much so that I'm suddenly overwhelmed by the need admit everything to her, to confess what eats away at me, to tell how exactly how I feel.
"Louisa?" I whisper cautiously.
"Mm?"
"I umm, I need to talk to you…"
"Mm…"
"Something…umm…something has happened…that is to say, I've learned something…and I have to tell you…"
"Mm…Wha?" She replies slowly, sighing and shifting her leg lazily, the silkiness of her thigh as it rolls over my groin distracting but oddly and rather pleasantly affirming.
"Well, umm…Some information has come to light…and…Louisa, I don't think I've mentioned this before but, ahh, now seems as good a time as any….you see Henry, my grandfather, umm…Henry Ellingham, well he left me some money…in trust…an inheritance if you will…" I tell her gently, my lips pressed against her hair, my hand sliding across her skin to curl my fingers around the cheek of her smooth, warm buttock.
I find it all so soothing, I love the way it feels against my palm, the smooth softness of her skin contrasting with the delightfully firm muscle beneath. I would almost admit anything to her now. Laying here together is divine, stroking her becomes mesmerising; she is all arousing textures and seductive curves. For a moment, I struggle to focus, feeling as if I am floating on a salty lake, weightless and relaxed, warmed by the sun and caressed by the gentlest of zephyrs, as I drift idly in the calmest of currents.
"Umm…where was I? That's right..umm, my parents…my parents are the trustees you see and, under the terms of the trust, the deeds if you prefer, they were able apparently to invest my inheritance as they saw fit. This whole thing has been…I'd estimate that…ah…that it's been..umm..in place nearly twenty years now and, well, really, if I'm honest, I haven't given it much thought. Not as much as I should have clearly because I haven't…I haven't…let's just say…Umm, I suppose it was because…well it was a continuing link to my parents that I wanted to avoid..when all is said and done…that was something I was desperate to avoid actually…"
I swallow hard, utterly depleted by my efforts, closing my eyes and waiting anxiously for her response. Every word has felt like a sheer, ragged cliff I'd battled to scale so, when she says nothing, I'm suddenly alarmed, cringing as it dawns on me she might now be angry at me for keeping the existence of this infernal bloody trust to myself. If that is her accusation, though, then I have simply no defence. I've disclosed nothing of my financial situation to her for the reason that any discussion on the topic always seems to cause a row between us. But, if she'd questioned me, of course I would have told her, I have no reason to be secretive about my financial affairs, no desire to keep anything from her. I've made it clear I would happily support her if only she would allow me, I would buy her anything within my power if only she would trouble herself to ask.
"I know that…I understand that you feel my financial affairs do not concern you but the thing is…umm, the problem is that, if this situation turns out to be as dire as I fear, the implications are…well they're serious Louisa…for my parents obviously but also for me…for us actually…for our future. That is, if you want us to have a future…because I do…Very much."
Still, she won't reply, and I'm frightened by her stony silence. It seems to suck the air from the room and the formerly joyous atmosphere now seems heavy and grey and cold. I don't understand why she hasn't uttered a single sound, even a grunt of disapproval, a gasp of horror, or one of a million tutting, chiding sounds she seems to have for me on many occasions. That's the thing that worries me the most I realise. Louisa's character itself holds no fear for me, it's her uncharacteristic moments that can tend to terrify me beyond belief. I clear my throat, frightened now into silence. Her muteness, her lack of response, when I've just poured my heart out to her, is eerily and disconcertingly atypical and I realise I'm holding my breath.
"Louisa?" I venture tentatively after a moment, pushing her hair back from her ear and repeating her name in a slightly more desperate tone.
"Fmmff…." She replies unhelpfully, shifting her weight and settling herself even closer into my rib cage.
I give her bottom a slightly firmer squeeze and say her name again, rocking her gently as I tighten my grip.
"Louisa, did you hear what I said?"
She groans and turns her head slightly, reluctant, and frowning at me in blind confusion, her eyes squeezed determinedly shut.
"Wos got into you then?" She asks, her voice dull and muffled.
"I'm sorry?"
She gives a low, sleepy, suggestive chuckle and, rather inexplicably stretches up to kiss me just below the ear. "Round two…you know…and on a school night…."
"What?" I hear myself ask confusedly, her meaning incomprehensible to me until, suddenly, it isn't. "No! Louisa, you don't understand…"
"Your rule, not mine." She mumbles almost incoherently.
I twist my neck around to stare at her in disbelief. Her eyes are closed, her lips softly parted, and her fresh complexion and her air of peaceful innocence only adds to her loveliness. As much as I enjoy looking at her it does sting a bit to realise that the only affect of my painful and difficult confession was to have apparently put her immediately to sleep.
"Louisa, please…listen…did you really not hear anything I just said?"
"S'really tempting but…Martin…I'm so tired….so ver' ver' tired…."
Beside me she shifts again, rolling onto her back, and flinging her arm out above her head, muttering unintelligibly, a faint smile now resident upon her lips. I ease on to my side to face her, waiting for her to settle again, watching her chest rise and fall peacefully, acutely conscious of the recurrent miracle that sees her in my bed. After a minute however I realise I'm listening to her stridor, and wondering if I should arrange to have her seen by ENT. It's not too alarming a thought. As well as being highly proficient, the Otolaryngologists at St. Mary's are a sensible lot; middle-aged, bespectacled and frumpy, and I would have no qualms about placing Louisa in their care.
Without thinking, I reach out a clumsy, hesitant finger and trace it lightly down the length of her elegant neck. Her skin is beautiful everywhere but here especially, it is delicate and creamy yet almost transparent, warm and tactile and alive. I follow the line of her clavicle, brushing her hair to one side with the back of my hand, until I come to rest at her jugular notch, and I linger for a moment, paying silent homage to the freckle that undoubtedly changed my life. With almost infinitesimal pressure, I draw the tip of my finger in tiny circles around it, remembering how transfixed I'd found myself. On reflection, it's not a recollection that does me much credit, staring helplessly at the chest of an almost complete stranger, finding myself physically altered by the idea of my mouth upon that actual spot.
Of course, I'd managed to wrestle myself under some sort of control eventually, but that tiny point of dark pigmentation is now like a talisman to me. The first time I made love to her, I'd been incredulous at my good fortune. I'd gazed at her in wonder as she'd thrown her head back and I'd been mesmerised; by the rhythm, by how beautiful she was, how soft, how enveloping, and the way it felt to have her legs wrapped around my hips. And all the time, the nevus was there below me, like a smug sort of asterix, as if it needed noting how feminine she was, how sensual, as if I hadn't already observed that for myself. God, it had been so much better than I'd even dared imagine though; her flawlessness, her skin like alabaster, how firm and perfectly weighted she felt in my hands. I could turn her inside out apparently with just a stroke of my thumb, and when it was all over, I'd sought out that freckle, burying my face in her neck and pressing my lips to the base of her throat.
Whatever happens now, it doesn't matter if she's with me. Wherever I end up, I will manage if I can only keep her close. I can't even bear to imagine how it would be if I were facing a disaster like this on my own and I force the thought from my mind. The fear has begun its stealthy reclamation of my thoughts and I'm suddenly exhausted. Before I turn off the light and attempt sleep though, I turn to kiss her on the cheek, and then I'm rendered helpless. With her cleavage bare and her throat exposed, I press my lips to that immaculate spot on her jugular notch. It is like a familiar landmark at the end of a long drive, the first star in the night sky, a cognac diamond, a provocation, it is the lure that draws me in. Drawing the covers upward, I gather her to me, smiling at how tractable she is when she is asleep, how malleable, how acquiescent. In my head, I tell her how much I adore her, cup her breast in my hand and, promptly, I fall into an enervated sleep.