It turns out to be one of those mornings where life just tests your determination to be an optimist. The footpaths are crowded, and I find myself surrounded by rude and competitive pedestrians, their umbrellas angled into the wind, their expressions grim as we all struggle to make our way along the blustery, sodden streets. There is no space under shelter at the bus stop, and the only spare seat downstairs is occupied by a sour-faced woman's heavily-laden shopping bags. As she studiously avoids meeting my eye, I resign myself to standing for the whole commute and, without anything to distract me, I can't help thinking I've only gone and made everything a million times worse.
I also wish my backpack wasn't quite so full and heavy because I really don't want to put it down in the puddled central aisle. So, as the bus lurches in and out of the traffic, I cling to the alarmingly sticky pole by the door, and wince as my boots chafe at my heels. Without Martin to do it for me, I'd sort of forgotten the ritual of stuffing wet footwear with crumpled newspaper, and I'm paying a miserable price. My boots feel like they're filled with wet cement; each staggering step is heavy, abrasive and unpleasantly damp. I bite on my lip as, embarrassingly, I start to feel just a little bit teary, and I wonder how you can miss someone so badly that it seems to actually hurt you inside, how you can count every sorry solitary minute apart, yet the moment you clap eyes on them, you end up having the stupidest of rows?
Perhaps I should have tried harder to explain that sometimes you just need something nice to look forward to. But, as independent as Martin is, I can't see how he could ever really understand. He doesn't seem to need anyone or anything in the way most normal people do. I mean, he finds his job incredibly stimulating, everyone tells me his career is brilliant, and he's self-reliant in a way that's almost intimidating. And it stings a little bit, I certainly can't imagine him going to sleep, desperately cuddling a pillow because the bed feels so enormously empty, curled up in a ball all alone. And I'm not completely deluded, of course I know that, as exciting as the idea of spending Christmas with Libby is, it's more a happy distraction from the dreariness of the autumn term than anything else. Castles in the air my dad used to call them, a bit like the pony he always promised would arrive just before Christmas, or the much talked about holiday in Brighton that never ever eventuated.
Alighting the tube, some creepy guy calls me sweetheart and suggests that I should smile a bit more. Muttering 'Get Lost' under my breath, I become part of a throng that traipses toward college, pulling my scarf up tightly over my mouth and nose. As I enter the stairwell the stench is even more unpleasant than usual, the dampness a catalyst for years of urine and disinfectant to ooze its way out of the ancient cement. Cold, incessant rain does that, doesn't it, and I realise dismally that there's months and month of this rubbish weather still to come. Outside a pub, a bin has been upended across the footpath and we're forced to pick our way through the slippery and putrid remains. I think about the few lines Libby scrawled about Sydney; the blazing sun, the streets lined with flowering trees of every colour, and the water at the beach as warm as your bath. Why couldn't Martin just go along with it for a bit, you know, just admit that there's no harm in searching for a mirage on the horizon when everything else is lonely, monochromatic, and cold?
"You are aware, Louisa, that long-haul flights of eight hours or more can double the risk for isolated calf muscle venous thrombosis?" He'd said tersely, and my heart had literally sunk.
I'd sighed then, closing my eyes briefly, feeling instantly deflated, a little bit by reality, but mostly by Martin's particularly unemotional medical logic. And it stung a bit too, obviously because I was overjoyed at finally hearing from Libby, only to have him snuff out that exhilaration. So casually, so thoughtlessly, like a candle he considered superfluous when, at the moment, it was the only thing to light the way.
"How could I give any thought to….Venus…trombonist..or…whatever you call it, since I've never ever even flown anywhere before…?" I'd demanded, sulkily.
"Mm," he replied, his voice heavy with superiority, "Clearly."
"Martin! For goodness sake! You've just this minute given the postcard to me. I haven't even had the chance to think about anything!" I countered, defensively.
We'd stared at each other for a moment before he looked down at the envelopes that remained in his hand. There was a faint glassiness about his eyes that I'd never seen before, a grim sort of tightness about his jaw that made him seem older, and even more disapproving of me than ever. I don't know why but he just seemed to spark this feeling of defiance in me really and, honestly, I felt so cheated of joy that I could barely look at him as he enlarged upon his point, stuffily outlining the impracticalities, the apparently endless impediments to me ever enjoying a holiday in Australia. I felt my hope just evaporating instantly as, like a total and utter killjoy, he reeled off all of the factors that supported his stance; that we were clearly better off stuck here in gloomy, miserable London than enjoying ourselves anywhere else.
So of course I'd snapped at him, pointing out sullenly that the only thing that was clear was that I now had nothing to look forward to, and then everything just got a bit more inflamed than it should have, unfortunately. Something came over me and it wasn't very nice, a feeling of frustration, and of resentment too I suppose, just a really intense need to prove to him that, as far as my life was concerned, he wasn't the one in control. I don't know where it arose from but, for a split second, I realised I was Eleanor, pointing out in a shrill and jeering sort of voice that he had absolutely no right to tell me what to do. His scepticism over whether I was capable of travelling alone actually felt really insulting, and I may have told him that he could take his superior knowledge of traveller's cheques and visas and passports, and stick them where the sun refused to shine.
"You know, I don't actually need your approval to go anywhere, Martin." I'd added, heaving my bag over my shoulder and tossing my head at him. "In fact, I might just pop into a travel agent on my way home this afternoon, and make some enquiries about flights."
Perhaps, if he hadn't shrugged his shoulders so indifferently, things might not have become so fraught. If he hadn't raised that eyebrow at me in such a condescending way, I might have managed to calm myself down. I probably would even have found myself relenting quickly, throwing myself into his arms and kissing him goodbye with all the pent-up enthusiasm that, moments earlier, I'd been almost overwhelmed by. And things might have been ok then; perhaps not brilliant, but at least I could have gone about my day, fortified for just a little bit longer, without the feeling of crushing unhappiness that now plagues my every step. But it's too late to take what I said back now. I'd wanted to wound him, and though I'm not particularly proud of my behaviour, I just couldn't bear him assuming I wasn't capable of taking care of myself, worse still that he always needed to be the one in control.
"A one-way ticket can't be that expensive…" I'd added, loudly and pointedly, over my shoulder, as I squeaked and squelched my way mutinously out the door.
And though my glimpse back of him was brief, his stony expression was really quite alarming, and I feel more despondent with every step I take. I make my way into the lecture hall and scan the room for any familiar faces, hoping to at least sit in proximity to someone nice that I might know. But it's as wintery and inhospitable inside as it was in the street, and I'm forced to edge into a narrow space at the far end of a row, apologising profusely to a surly, disgruntled stranger who has to shift less than a couple of inches to actually let me in. My feet are icy and my tights are soaking wet, but not as chilled as my hands, having attempted to wash them clean of public transport germs only to find the soap dispenser in the ladies loo was empty, and the trickle of water out of the tap was freezing cold. My fingers are white and I can barely grip my pen as I write shakily on my notepad, wondering sadly where I've left my favourite dark blue Biro, annoyed that I have to transcribe today's notes in red and blotchy ink.
Despite my best efforts to concentrate, all through the next hour my mind wanders. The lecturer is hoarse and repeatedly clears his throat, my thighs tremble sporadically from the cold and, behind me, two girls are sniggering and for some reason I get it into my head that their laughter is directed at me. As ridiculous as it is to feel like an outcast in my own course, I'm almost relieved to be invisible to them as the lights in the auditorium dim. Murmuring fills the room as we wait for the video to start playing; we have audio, but the screen is resolutely blank, and I watch with frustration as the lecturer fumbles with his remote, hunched over it, thumbing all the buttons frenziedly as he points it in bafflement at the screen. There is a ripple of laughter, the chat gets louder, and an air of restlessness fills the room. Certainly, what was left of my focus has now totally disappeared. Eventually, the lights come back up, illuminating the lecturer as he stalks from the podium while, all around me, bewildered students begin to stand up, pack up and shuffle awkwardly toward their next lecture. After a while, I'm one of only a few left waiting, perched in the far back corner, uncertain and uncomfortable, until a rather shirty technician with an aluminium briefcase, marches across the stage and dismisses us rudely and conclusively from the room.
A little bit resentful and just a tiny bit humiliated, I make my way to the faculty office, pushing my way through clusters of students, all oblivious to me and deep in conversation. There is a queue for course materials that snakes out into the hall. A disgruntled young man in a camouflage jacket is arguing with one of the office staff, an elderly lady determined to hold her ground, her lips thin and her arms folded across her chest. I'm not sure if it's the weather, or the imminent approach of exams, but everyone seems touchy, and prone to asking ridiculous questions, so I place my essay hastily in the box and fight my way back to the door. In the corridor I pass my most approachable lecturer and I smile at her, and blurt out a cheery hello. But even she seems apathetic, simply nodding at me vaguely and, for the first time in a long while, I feel horribly anonymous and small.
When I eventually scramble my way home, what little daylight there was today has been swallowed by the icy gloom. The rain has stopped but the wind has picked up, funnelling down the side streets unpleasantly, and gusting so strongly that I'm scuttled sideways several times. As I struggle up the stairs, longing for a hot shower, my shoulders aching and my heels raw and bleeding inside my boots, I want so desperately for Martin to be here. Honestly, I would give anything to sit across the table from him tonight, sharing a hot supper as he listens to me expound upon my day, and I wouldn't even pull a face if it was fish. But the flat is once again deserted, eerily quiet in a way that seems to drive the breath from my lungs, and I'm defeated by the prospect of another evening spent alone. I toss bread in the toaster, scrape out what's left of the marmite, and eat on the sofa; feeling solitary and forsaken and sad.
I drag myself off to bed quite early as there doesn't seem much point in staying up. Huddled beneath the covers, I lie awake for ages, listening for his footsteps, and in the morning when I wake, I realise he hasn't come home at all. Cruelly, it seems like my mind has decided to play tricks on me; I swear I can smell espresso, wafting warm and richly fragrant down the hall. I realise how badly I miss even the silly, small things that he does; there's so much comfort in watching him polish his shoes, wind his watch, or even just put on his ridiculous rubber gloves. I close my eyes and I'm sure I can feel his finger tips gliding lightly up and down my spine. The bed even seems to shift as it does when he slips in beside me, and I hold my breath expectantly, waiting to hear his voice, eager to agree to whatever he is suggesting when he tentatively says my name.
How can you be totally rapt in each other as lovers, and next minute not know when you'll even see each other again? How does anyone ever adjust to that? Sometimes, in the silence, the tall ceilings, sparse furnishings, and the thin morning light reflecting off the brilliant white walls can make this place feel almost like a monastery. For me, there is little peace in the quiet, there is no calmness in the solitude, and no comfort in the ease. And I hate how it makes me stupidly teary, despite my resolve to see this challenge through to the end without complaint. But my resilience feels like it's eroding, and I can't stop thinking about our quarrel, I can't get that look on his face out of my head. And though I try to convince myself that it was partly his own fault for being so pompous, any thought of blaming him is disappearing, as my annoyance is drowned in a deep sea of regret.
Resignedly I drop my textbooks on the kitchen table and contemplate what options I have for my breakfast, having dined on toast for just about every meal this week. While I'm distracted, looking for stationery and choosing background music, I let the porridge catch and the odour of charred oatmeal fills the air. Furious with myself, I pick up the saucepan only to burn myself on the handle, dropping it into the sink like I've accidentally picked up a live grenade. I fill the pot and leave it to soak in soapy water, vowing to sort it out later, cursing my own inattention as I hold my palm and blistering fingers for ages beneath the relief of the streaming cold tap. The upshot of it all is a dismal repast; a beaker of stewed tea, and half a dozen soggy chocolate digestives, a pointless act of hollow defiance that only seems to make me feel even worse.
After I have applied plasters to my collection of minor wounds, I do eventually become utterly absorbed in my case studies; children with insecure disorganised attachment, the micro dynamics, and the impact on bonding, trust and learning. I scribble copious notes as I'm reading, chewing on my pen, and sipping distractedly at my lukewarm tea. When I'm startled by the sound of a fumbling key in the lock, I have no idea what time it is and, without thinking, I leap to my feet and rush toward the door. Half way there, I glance down in horror and realise I am still in my nightwear; worse still because I'm draped in one of Martin's oversized tee shirts, the one I borrowed last night from the spare room because I was childishly comforted by the way it smelled like him.
As the door swings open, I step sharply out of the way, trying not to let my disappointment show on my face. Before me is an unknown older woman, compact, active-looking, and crisp, who inexplicably possesses a key to Martin's flat. To be fair, she seems even more surprised than I am as she takes half a step backwards and subtly looks me up and down. Fixing a forced, tight-lipped smile to my face, I stand my ground as she advances toward the threshold, stretching my arm across to the door frame and gripping the edge as tightly as I can.
"Hello." I say cautiously, "Can I help you?"
"Good morning." She replies, her tone pleasant but firm.
At first glance I would say she was dressed like a nurse, a midwife, or possibly a modern sort of nun. Whoever she is and whatever she's here for, it's like we're in some sort of stand-off, a territorial battle of wills, and I incline my head at her and scrutinise her closely.
"Sorry…you're….?"
"Oh, excuse me, of course we haven't met before." She replies with a little tinkling laugh. "Mrs. Holm. Mr. Ellingham's housekeeper."
The penny drops, and I exhale with relief. While her timing isn't particularly convenient, at least it's all starting to make some sense. Tugging at the hem of my makeshift nightdress, I stand aside and usher her in.
"Oh right, of course! Sorry, please come in! I'm Louisa, Martin's…girlfriend."
"Louisa! Such pretty name." She says, whipping out what appear to be fabric overshoes from her handbag and nimbly placing them over her sturdy sensible footwear. "Quite old-fashioned in a way, don't you think?"
"Umm…I suppose…I've never really thought about it really." I tell her, feeling just a little put out as she bustles past me, her walk an energetic wiggle, like a toy that's bottom heavy and slightly overwound. "Sorry….do you mind…it's just that, umm, is this the day you usually come to clean?"
"Oh, didn't Mr. Ellingham mention it to you, dear?" She says distractedly, as she stands and surveys the kitchen. "I had a hip replacement and, while I was out of action, I recuperated with my sister, Judy, down in Dorset."
"No, actually, umm, he didn't mention it….but, it's wonderful that you've… made a full recovery…" I tell her, grimacing as I cast my mind about for the right sort of thing you should say, feeling like I'm hopelessly gauche and already on the back foot. "Is today your first day back then?"
She laughs again and then glances at me patiently. "No dear, I was here last week, and the week before that. In fact, I've been back at work nearly a month now but Mr. Ellingham asked me not to come to the flat while you were so ill…."
I flash her a quick smile of acknowledgment, and bite my lip, trying hard to appear composed when I feel anything but. It actually feels a bit disconcerting, like I'm simply a guest in this flat; not only that Martin never mentioned his housekeeper's extended absence to me but how on earth he managed to keep the house immaculate for over a month, on his own.
"Right then…Well, I won't hold you up…" I mutter and for an instant I'm not sure what to do. "I'll…just…umm…go and change….I'll be in the bathroom…if you need anything…"
She murmurs in agreement and turns her back, and I notice her hair, a sensible crop with a bluish hue, sitting neatly above the perfect white collar of her light blue smock. Snapping open her handbag, she drops her keys inside, pulls out a pair of horribly dated, enormous Deidre Barlow glasses and a pair of pale mauve, rubber gloves in a ziplock bag. I watch as she floats about the room, cupboard to cupboard, assembling her cleaning products and placing everything neatly on the worktop. She oozes efficiency and competence in a way that makes me feel awkward, and actually as if I'm in the way.
"I do hope I won't interfere with your study, but Mr Ellingham does expect me to be thorough." She says and I notice the expression on her face change as she takes in the carnage in the kitchen sink.
"I'll take care of that!" I assure her hastily. "Sorry, I was just focused on….I got…I'll, umm, I'll find the scourer…"
I rummage around in the cupboard and find the remnants of the wire wool, rusted on to one of Martin's good white porcelain saucers, secreted deliberately in the far bottom corner. A memory comes flooding back; me, absorbed in the final chapter of a gripping novel only to discover I'd allowed toasted cheese to cascade copiously throughout the grilling racks of his pristine cooker. My heart races as I recall my frantic efforts to clean the mess up before he got home. It just shows how distracted he's been, how absent, that he hasn't noticed either the missing crockery or the baked-on charcoal that I really couldn't shift.
And now the sink is a congealed soupy mess of incinerated and caramelised oatmeal. It's hopeless of me, I know, but I never could remember when to put the brown sugar in. But, judging by an inch of what looks like tyre-rubber adhered to the bottom of the pan, I think it should probably not have been the first ingredient I used. I sense the housekeeper's unhappy gaze, her unwanted attention in my direction, and I swivel at the sink, partly to obscure her view.
"So, did Martin…Mr. Ellingham…tell you that I'd moved in?" I ask her, not only because I'm trying to change the subject but also because I'm genuinely quite surprised. I imagine him phoning her when I had the 'flu, to request that I not be disturbed, and it brings a little smile to my face.
"Oh there was no need, my dear." She says, and she smiles knowingly at me. "I've been taking care of his domestic duties for many years now and, though Mr. Ellingham has always been the soul of discretion, of course I always notice when a gentleman's domestic situation changes."
"Oh right." I reply, and my smile deserts me, a helpless response to her smug little speech, one that's left me feeling uncomfortable and unsure.
"Ladies always leave hints of themselves, you see." She continues, vigorously attacking the front of the kitchen cupboards as she speaks, liberally applying sanitiser to every surface. "There's always a particular fragrance, or a shade of lipstick on the rim of a glass… something that gives their presence away…"
My hands grip the saucepan. The hot soapy water stings my burn and I hear myself laugh but it really is quite mirthless, and almost hysterically shrill. I want her to elaborate because I can tell by the way my heart is pounding in my chest that what she has said is significant. But, I also don't want to listen to a word that she might say. Because I'm terrified that she might be inferring what I always suspected, that I am just one in a long line of Martin's girlfriends, and she is a wily and observant old lady, keeping a tally of just how many women there's been. I reach up to push my fringe out of my eyes, and flick suds across my face. Wincing as I blink furiously, I feel a cold sort of stab to my heart. I can't deny that Chris Parsons' assertions were a knock to my confidence; alluding to Martin's irresistibility to women was absolutely not what I wanted to hear. And, you know, when one or two doubts fill your mind, you can force them back down into the darkest recesses, if you can convince yourself evidence to the contrary does exist. But when you hear it from everyone, and, worse still, Martin refuses to discuss it, it's only natural to find yourself assuming the absolute worst.
And it suddenly frightens me when I recall that look on his face, an expression that I can only describe as glacially cold, and unimpressed. I realise with a lump in my throat that I really have no idea where he is and I wonder why it is he never even phones to tell me. And then it starts to niggle at me, if he wanted to come home a bit earlier from time to time, surely he'd find a way to do that? Isn't he the flash consultant, the one the hospitals are always chasing, the one who has the golden touch? I mean surely he can dictate his terms to them? And where's he sleeping, and where's he showering? His suits still look perfect even when he's been away for days. I'd just assumed that the hospital had a little bedroom for overnight doctors, or is the truth much much worse than that?
I am being ridiculous, I realise it, but my heart still feels gripped with fear. I remind myself that this is Martin, an honourable man, often an eye-wateringly truthful man, and I tell myself, again, that he is not like that, that he's the last sort of man who would ever play away. I tell myself how stupid I am, how silly it is to let the housekeeper's cryptic comments get under my skin, to let her of all people open up my Pandora's box of insecurity and fear. And just as I'm starting to breath again, it hits me like a cold stinging slap: I don't know if my father every thought he had a reason not to trust my mother and, when Danny was unfaithful, in the whole of London, I was of course the last to know.
I hear her voice behind me; Anita Holm, the smug keeper of secrets, and she is saying something cheerfully in my ear. I feel her at my shoulder, I inhale her cloying floral fragrance but I can't turn to face her in case she sees the tears that threaten to overflow.
"Oh dear," she says, and I detect an aggravating hint of condescension. "You'll be still standing at that sink 'til this time next week trying to sort that mess out. My mother always said that boiling with bicarbonate of soda always did the trick if you were ever so…unlucky…to burn the pan. What did your mother do in such a situation? The old ways were are often the best ways…that's why mothers should always make sure they hand their know-how down to their daughters."
I pause and hang my head for a moment, suddenly crushed. It's true that my violent attack on this immoveable layer of tar is turning out to be completely ineffectual, just like it was all those times, all those years ago, when I had to stand on tiptoes to reach the sink. The last time mum left, she actually took the saucepans with her, leaving us just the one battered pot which Dad used for chips, or boiled eggs and, especially, baked beans. I picture Mum, with her gaudy beads, her tie dyed frocks and her crocheted sandals, lighting a cigarette from a glowing element on the stove, and triumphantly blowing smoke rings up to the ceiling. It wasn't a trick that I'd ever found particularly useful but, at this moment, it feels like the only one I've got.
"No. Actually, she didn't." I admit after a moment, and in this moment I feel oddly protective of my mother, tortured by her failures as if they were my own. "….I'm sorry…I'm not…I just need to…'scuse me…"
Ridiculously, I rush from the room, not knowing where to go or what to do; not thinking about anything really other than needing to get as far away from the spotlight on my failings as I can. Blindly I make my way to our bedroom, shutting the door loudly behind me, hoping she realises it's a signal for her to stay away. And just like I did so often in that little cottage high above Portwenn, rather madly I take refuge in the wardrobe. But there's no denim or muslin or patchwork to be found, instead it's a neatly-hung line of suits that I find deeply reassuring. I touch my favourite pinstripe, and the dark blue one that seems to change the colour of his eyes. Rows of shirts, perfectly pressed and colour coded, predominantly white or subtle, cooler shades, and dozens of tastefully coordinated, silk ties, both classically patterned and elegantly plain. It's all so soothing but also, in its way confusing, I mean, how can his sense of control be so totally reassuring yet, at times, be so suffocating it makes me want to scream?
I sit down on the floor, hugging my knees, curled up amongst his collection of oversized shoes, each pair neatly fitted with their own shoe trees, and polished to within an inch of their lives. I take deep breaths and hold them, wondering why my heart seems so determined to pound and race like I've just run up Roscarrock Hill. I can't understand why, when my life has never been more secure, why I have never felt so vulnerable and that's when it dawns on me, really. I have never had so much to lose. I suppose I've always been a little bit in denial. Whenever the impact of absent parents on children crops up in our tutorial discussion, I am full of self-satisfied bravado. Whenever our coursework focuses on abandonment issues, I always congratulate myself for escaping with so little damage, declaring to myself how well I've done to reach adulthood and find myself relatively unscathed. I laugh dismally. So much for always being adamant that my upbringing hasn't affected me, wouldn't define me, when here I am, hiding in a cupboard.
And that's where Martin finds me, god knows how long afterwards. Deep in thought, I startle when I hear him say my name, in that honeyed way that's like a question, a slightly cautious enquiry as he comes into the room. I don't even have time to scramble to my feet before I am discovered and I gaze up at him like chastened child, silent and full of regret.
"What are doing?" He asks, in that tone he uses when he suspects I've lost my mind. "Louisa?"
He seems so confidant, so tall and powerful from this low vantage point and it strikes me that my moments of insecurity are something else about me he will never understand. My bum is numb, one of my legs has gone to sleep and I feel helpless, and rather ridiculous, and momentarily incapable of standing. He's frowning at me now, a serious, objective glare, like he's assessing me for sectioning and that's when this girl has had enough of feeling like a victim, an object of pity, someone who needs to be treated with kid gloves.
"Mrs Whatsit out there wanted to play Hide and Seek, Martin….I don't know, what does it look like?" I reply, my tone heavy with a sarcasm that appears to go completely over his head.
"I have absolutely no idea, that's why I'm asking." He replies matter-of-factly, reaching for the switch and turning the light on.
"Perhaps if you wanted to be useful." I point out, just a little tartly. "You could help me up."
"Yes, of course." He replies and he reaches down to take my outreached arm, gripping my wrist and pulling me upright.
I feel ridiculously relieved to have him close again and its like I'm not ready to let go of him yet. I thread my fingers through his, and smile at him a little self-consciously, enjoying the feeling of his skin against mine, even if it is only our hands that are intertwined.
"I still don't understand why you were hiding in the wardrobe…"
"I wasn't hiding…Anyway, can we just leave it please, Martin?" I warn him but I'm finding it hard to maintain the archness in my tone.
I just want everything to be alright between us. I just want him to tell me that he's missed me, that he loves me, and then it will be my turn. I can assure him that it was all just a stupid misunderstanding and we can go back to normal, can't we? I take a step closer to him, gazing up at him from under my eyelashes, willing him to kiss me, hoping for a thaw to appear in his current cool and undemonstrative demeanour.
"But you're alright?" He asks and he sounds almost terse.
I bite my tongue as the urge to reprimand him is almost overwhelming, answering his question with a brief and conclusive nod. I'm desperate for both of us to get back to our familiar wavelength because at this moment we seem to have completely lost our way. That understanding we had, that greed we feel for each other, how effortless it is, how spontaneous; god, it's been weeks and weeks now and each hour that passes makes the lack of intimacy harder to bear. As I look at him, he seems locked in this state of frozen resistance and it weirdly makes me want him even more. I touch his arm and it feels rigid, I lean against him and his body is made of steel. I have to stand on my tiptoes to kiss him and as I slide against him, he is like a statue; not a single muscle twitches, and his passionless expression steadfastly refuses to change.
I want him to know I'm sorry we quarrelled so I kiss him eagerly enough that he can feel my remorse. But I don't want him to think that he controls me so I tease him a little, the way I know that he usually enjoys. His eyes are closed but he is resolutely still; as unresponsive as if he's still several postcodes away. I clasp my hands around his jaw and pull his head down toward me, I kiss him harder and deeper, pressing myself against him, pulling his hips against mine by wrapping my hand around the solid, hard muscles of his bum. I kneed his scalp lightly, my thumb circling his temple, but still his arms hang at his sides and I feel an increasing sense of panic. I reach for his hand and push it up the inside of my tee shirt, my fingers over his, forcing him to take hold of my breast, as I wrap my leg around his and murmur his name in his ear, breathlessly. I run my teeth across his earlobe and press my lips to his neck, my breath coming in sharp, hot bursts, telling how much I missed him, suggesting to him what it is I'd quite like him to do.
And that's when I feel something, his vehement expulsion of breath, his arms coming up to encircle me, holding me tightly, my own arms fixed and helpless, as he presses his mouth to the top of my head.
"No," he says crisply. "….I….can't."