(This will be the last chapter for a month as I have a very full calendar ahead. I would like to thank everyone who is generous enough to leave reviews, I am extraordinarily grateful and it is for you that I keep going.)
Chris Parsons is talking. His tone, initially grave, is now somewhat shriller, reprimanding me for not having sought his expertise earlier, aghast at my predicament, declaring that I am in need of all the help I can get. Strange how it is as if I am listening to a radio playing at a distance, or two strangers conversing quietly on the tube; I feel wholly disconnected, impervious, offering nothing in my own defence but silence. He peppers his admonishments with barks of mirthless laughter while I flip impatiently through the MHRA bulletin, my thoughts elsewhere. I am, however, aware that I should feel something. Clearly, he expects that I should be incensed at the news he imparts, that I should rail at the utter incompetence he has uncovered, disgusted by the petty corruptions and the shameful cronyism. But the reality is I am numb, completely detached. The truth is, I feel nothing at all.
With enormous effort, I wrest my attention back to his voice, forcing myself to focus on his words as he describes his findings: years of suspicion, hushed-up allegations and hasty resignations, and a succession of managers who have done nothing but sit on their hands. I can see Chris in my mind's eye, bowing his head and pinching the bridge of his nose, composing himself, collecting his thoughts. While I am not surprised that there are dozens of anecdotal reports of Ben Dixon's behaviour, I do wonder what on earth it has to do with my own situation. Chris stammers with outrage: at least two formal complaints of alleged sexual harassment, he tells me, yet there is no record of any action ever being taken, no investigations ever having taken place.
"Not a pretty story, Mart, the sort of governance failure that results in ministerial enquiries!" he cries. "What I've discovered…well, let's just say it's a cover up of sinister proportions…"
And then he tells me that Veronica Palter has been traced, the one person who might reveal the truth behind the counterfeit trial results, and instead of a confession she has lobbed a grenade of her own, she herself another victim, her formal complaint another that has disappeared, mysteriously, from the files. Understandably, Chris is upset, and incredulous, his sentences littered with phrases like gross misconduct and high-level incompetence. But his chief irritation is his late involvement; only once the Palter woman had been located, and only after she threatened to go to the papers. His voice, squeaky now with indignation, fades into the distance as I shift in my seat, holding the receiver loosely between my ear and shoulder. I do sense his frustration; both with me, with the whole situation, but it is as if I have been anaesthetised, and closing my eyes, even briefly, feels like such a relief.
"Mart? Are you still there?"
I flinch, and sit sharply upright, clearing my throat hurriedly as the room comes back into focus.
The lecture is over, and he brims with self-confidence; of course, the situation will be brought to a swift conclusion because he is taking control. In fact, he will see to it personally that I am completely exonerated, and heads will roll, he mutters darkly, a plethora of apologies will be coming my way. It's the least he can do, he adds cryptically, his tone once again grave. Yet, even though I understand that these are positive developments, I simply can't summon any enthusiasm, I can't shake off the feeling that it's all rather pointless, that everything I've achieved in my life is desultory, insignificant, and vague. Involuntarily, my finger brushes the red light that now glows permanently upon the keypad of my telephone. I can't bring myself to delete her message. How can I when it might be the last time I hear her voice.
"I..ahh…appreciate your intercession on my behalf." I tell him briskly, "But I really must crack on."
"Right. Yes, of course. Completely understand. And, Mart, hang in there, I will be in touch."
"Umm. Yes."
"And please send my regards to Louisa." He adds, his voice suddenly low and earnest. "How is she, by the way? It's been a while, umm, perhaps we should catch up for…"
"Yes. Thank you. Goodbye." I interrupt, forcing the receiver down, and exhaling heavily into the sudden, welcome silence.
Having to talk to anyone at present is aggravating and tedious, but hearing her name aloud is like a fierce blow to the diaphragm, a weight that pulls at my shoulders, a merciless taunt that makes me want to press my hands to my ears like a petulant child. Time and distance have been too revealing; my flaws have become even clearer since she left, my failure hangs over me like a zeppelin inferno in the sky. Without a doubt I am the only one culpable in this disaster, I am the one who is entirely to blame. But the irony is, it would almost be a relief to be covering after hours at St. Mary's again, I'm so desperate to keep busy, to clog my mind with distractions, to do anything to help me fill the endless, empty hours.
Odd, too, how I don't want to go home to the flat but, once I'm there, I can't bear to leave, it's the only place I dare allow myself to think about her, it's the only place where she still feels real. And I'm aware that I must conquer this feeling, I know that I must try and move on, but it's as if trying to forget her just makes everything worse; if anything my need gets becomes more intrinsic by the day. It's shameful how, for two weeks running, I have cancelled the housekeeper, knowing Louisa's towel still hangs on the bathroom radiator where she left it, not quite ready for her to be cleaned and laundered away.
I lock my office and make my way down the stairs, grim faced and once again determined to pull myself together. Two weeks since she left and not a word of her whereabouts, so it's time to face the fact she's gone for good, I must deal with what she's left behind. Time to get it over and done with, Ellingham, I tell myself firmly, better a short, sharp pain than a long, drawn out denial. So, on my way home, I purchase a flat pack of moving boxes and a small roll of bubble wrap. After supper, in a silence that seems now oppressive, I make up the boxes but, with a clumsiness bordering on mental decrepitude, that's as far as I get. It is impossible to identify her possessions and not think about her. I can't even box up her appalling collection of music without a debilitating sense of regret. For all my months of frustration at having her things scattered so randomly through the flat, the thought of them gone now feels like the loss of a limb. The femininity, the energy, the joyfulness that she exuded, all cleared away, only to be replaced by a monotone flatness, a dismal, two dimensional grey.
If I can barely control my conscious mind when I am awake, darkness seems to render me utterly powerless. Nights are a brutal and sapping examination of my mental endurance, the void seems enormous, my muscle memory refusing to believe that she has gone. A fortnight without her and still I roll over to seek her warmth, to gravitate toward her softness. Two weeks alone and I still reach out to pull her into my arms. And my subconscious mind mocks me, it teases me with exquisite dreams: Louisa is here, she has come back to me, the physical sensation of her so strong, so intense, that I can feel the heat of her flesh as surely as if her legs are wrapped around me. Yet, every morning, I relive the agony of her departure, every morning I wake with the misery of realising that she is not here, and never will be again.
Waking once again exhausted and bereft, I steel myself to start on her clothing, the undergarments sprinkled throughout the house at the top of the list. I can hardly bear to touch them, so I pack like some sort of automaton; not looking, barely feeling, desperate not to recall. Breathing deeply, I open the wardrobe, working my way uncomfortably through that which she has left behind, quicker on the sturdier items, taking more care with the delicate fabrics. And, all the time, I clench my jaw, not allowing myself to dwell on what I had and what I've lost. Every time my thoughts threaten to stray, I wrench them back under control, the greatest challenge coming with the delicate fabric of her burgundy dress. Little care seems to have been taken with it's hanging so I even out the tissue it is draped in, straightening the folds and repairing the tears. And, as hard as I try, I can't help myself, I trace my finger across the beading, recalling how luminous she was, how I had swung like a pendulum all night, from helpless at the sight of her, to swaggering like the most fortunate man in London. My god, she had been even more beautiful than seemed possible; so bright, so encouraging and, most miraculously of all, so happy, apparently, to be by my side. My throat tightens, and it seems imperative suddenly that I remove the damn thing completely from my sight. You idiot, Ellingham, I think as I press it hurriedly into the top of the carton, screwing my eyes up against their stinging, my face hot with shame.
In the bathroom I resolve at last to collect up the linen myself, a miserably evocative armful that sees me grit my teeth as I carry it up the hallway, and jam it into the washing machine. Even after all this time, her scent is everywhere, delicate yet lingering, equal parts comforting and dispiriting. Turning my efforts to the spare room, I stack everything neatly into the back of the wardrobe. I box up her books; her paperbacks and concert souvenirs, Daphne du Maurier's Complete Works and a pile of assorted magazines. Her cheap little sound system, the battered shoebox of family heirlooms, her photo albums, and the manila envelopes stuffed with personal papers; everything lightweight or fragile I place on the top shelf at the back. Summoning what is left of my fortitude, I put her University texts in a carry bag, and replace her floppy discs in their plastic case; pens and pencils go into in the jar, and stationery into the small desk drawer. Lastly, I extricate the dust cover from where it is wedged between the wall and the desk, frowning as I attempt to shake out the deeply embedded creases, before placing it over her computer, switching both it, and the printer, off at the wall.
All that is left now is the kitchen, and the evidence of her weakness for highly processed carbohydrates. Within minutes the bottom of a rubbish bag is filled entirely with biscuits, and sugary snacks, and the flavoured noodles that have accumulated steadily since last I had an opportunity to prepare her a meal. I tackle the refrigerator next, grimacing as I tip an open bottle of Chardonnay down the sink, her objections as vehement and incredulous in my mind as if she were still standing by my side. The Fun Police, wasn't that what she had called me, as if taking responsibility for one's health is a crime in itself. If so, I am guilty as charged but, if she had seen what I have seen, perhaps she might not judge me quite so harshly. If she were cognisant of the correlation between diet and lifestyle, and venous insufficiency, she'd understand why these jars of jam and pots of chocolate yoghurt can only now be destined for landfill.
The purge now complete, I carry the detritus into the utility room, tying a knot in the bag and leaving it in the corner for the housekeeper to deal with next week. The washing machine beeps at me, it's cycle now complete, and I wrench open the door and pull the contents out and into the wicker basket below. As reluctant as I am to spend the day listening to the drone of the tumble drier, it feels imperative this task be completed with the utmost haste. But, as I open the door, my heart sinks: more of her clothing, more brightly coloured underwear, a couple of tee-shirts this time too, and a pair of inside-out jeans. Sighing, I snatch at them, holding them at arm's length as I march back to the spare room, tossing them down onto the bed in frustration, feeling as if I have been ambushed, that I am destined never to complete this bloody miserable task.
The black shirt is all too familiar, one of her favourites, one she wore all the time, depicting the sort of music I so dislike, emblazoned with words I have never had the slightest interest in. I recognise the band name though as that of her perennial favourite, a painful reminder of the concert that had caused me so much consternation, where she had been so bitter at my insistence she not go backstage to meet her precious Dave. Without thinking, I pick the shirt up, laying it flat atop the bed, and I find myself smoothing it out gently, almost reverently, as if she were actually wearing it, as if it were the only thing between my fingers and her smooth and silky skin. I glance at the writing and realise they are lyrics, finding myself reading them, prepared almost to do anything, just to delay the moment when I must put such a quintessential piece of clothing, something so typically Louisa, out of sight for good.
Words like violence
Break the silence…
Slowly, I say the lines in my head and, if I have ever heard this song before, the sentence certainly does not register. Usually, I try not to listen, I certainly never take any notice, in fact, I spend most of the time her selections are playing gritting my teeth in grim resignation. The truth is, as well as detesting electronic music particularly, I do find vocalists hard to understand at the best of times, clear diction not appearing to be a fundamental requirement of modern popular singers in the same way leather trousers, bare chests and studded garments apparently are.
Come crashing in…into my little world.
Painful to me
Pierce right through me…
Puzzled, I repeat the lines, vaguely aware that, although the lyrical quality is hardly that of Noel Coward, I feel the odd sense of sadness behind them, a familiarity that causes a faint straining sensation behind my eyes. I swallow hard, glancing around me uncomfortably, as if someone is watching.
Can't you understand?
Oh, my little girl…
I think of her, then, with a vividness that almost takes my breath away. That rapturous expression she'd assume, hair tumbling around her face, entangled casually in her headphones. Her eyes would shine as she sang along quietly, suddenly self-conscious as she became aware of my gaze. I'd stammer then, of course, muttering something utterly ridiculous as the ferocity of my love for her threatened to smother me. She'd roll her eyes then, as I cautioned her on the danger to her hearing of excessive volume, and it was all I could do to pretend to look away, rendered breathless once more, so utterly besotted by her, so in disbelief at my own good fortune.
All I ever wanted
All I ever needed
Is here in my arms…
For a split second, I feel exposed, as on display as if they were my words, my sentiments, as if the whole world is now aware of how I feel. My heart is suddenly raw, painful and revealed, and I blink helplessly as my eyes again begin to water. I have tried so desperately to keep my emotions hidden but Louisa, you were all I ever wanted. You were everything I needed. You were more than I ever believed I deserved. My chest burns and I gasp for breath, choking back tears, terrified that I seem to be sinking, drowning, exsanguinating.
Words are very unnecessary
They can only do harm…
I fumble for my handkerchief, stricken and helpless in the face of an avalanche of grief, powerless to prevent the tears that flow so freely now; burning, bitter tears, that slip silently down my face. All I ever wanted WAS here in my arms. My neck is damp, my collar too, but it only seems fair that I should feel so wretched, so guilty and so utterly without hope. If anyone understands the harm in words, it must be me. Unfounded allegations, cruel criticisms; I am aware how character assassination, delivered by those you hope might love you, can contuse your very soul. I gulp desperately for air, seeing myself as she must see me, mortified as the allegations I made play over again in my head. All I can hope for now, all that I cling to, is that she is young enough, buoyant enough, that perhaps with enough space, enough time, she might recover from the appalling things I said to her. And it is my punishment to know that I never will.
I sit there in the stillness, never more alone, and never more deserving of loneliness. Minutes tick by, half hours chime, and then, unsettlingly, the hour. I look around me, startled, blushing with shame at my need. How ridiculously self indulgent, I think, berating myself furiously as I bury my damp and crumpled handkerchief deep in my trouser pocket. How piteous, how reprehensible and utterly self-absorbed. I get to my feet, stripping off my shirt and tie as I walk, like a condemned man toward the gallows, stepping out of my trousers and climbing into the shower, snarling at my red-eyed reflection, in the mirror, as I pass.
It's the sort of thing a child would do, I think as I stand beneath the cascade of hot water: sob at his penance, lament the inevitable consequences of his own imprudent actions. It appears that I exhibited more backbone as a boy of eight, more mental toughness, more acceptance that the punishment must fit the crime. I learned to knock before entering, to take care of my things, to move quietly about the house, just as I must learn my lesson from this unbearable loss. For the hundredth time this week, at my own urging, I attempt to pull myself together, aware that if I walk quickly, I still have time to collect my dry-cleaning and go to the Fishmongers before the shops close at noon. I will plan my afternoon with surgical precision, I will fill each minute with the imposition of order, ensuring everything that I have neglected is revisited and reorganised. It has been months since I opened the back of a clock, months since I held a pair of anti-magnetic tweezers in my hand. I must keep busy, I must fill my days with repetition, I will suffocate this anguish with exhausting routine.
When I return home, some hours later, I am laden like a pack horse. Another little, remorseful, self-flagellation, forcing myself to walk at an even brisker pace than normal, weighed down, my extensor digitorum longus burning in protest, my eyes dry and gritty, and fixed on the distance as I push my way home through the crowds. While the rain held off, I should not have been very disappointed if it had poured, the outing would not have been ruined if the weather had rather matched my mood. Nevertheless, the answer is most certainly to keep busy. As well as a selection of newspapers, and a couple of freshly dry-cleaned suits, I have collected the ingredients to make Bouillabaisse, the traditional way, which will go part way to filling my weekend; distracting myself with endless seafood preparation, and a recipe that says I should set aside two whole days.
I notice the insistent beep of the answer phone immediately upon entering the hall. For many years, the damn thing was simply a trigger to annoy me, a frustrating intrusion into my precious peace and quiet. But, like so many other areas of my life, Louisa's arrival saw a change of mindset, and an almost childlike eagerness to retrieve my messages, just in case she might have happened to leave me one. Her breathlessness, her cheerful meandering, her apparent inability to ever get concisely to the point; I would listen with a frown of disapproval that belied the warmth that would surge with my pulse, the fleeting sensation that might almost be described as a thrill. In the days after she left, in quiet desperation, the first thing I'd do on arriving home was check, but there was never a message, no communication, nothing to prompt even the most a tenuous ray of hope.
And still, now, I can't deny how intensely I long for it to be her, but common sense prevails; logic, and history, and almost thirty years of tradition tells me not only who it is but just what her message will be. I predict her tone, and her bluntly-delivered felicitation; there will no frivolity and definitely no fuss. In fact, I'm so confident that I know what she will say that I almost press delete without listening before reminding myself that, not only am trying be less churlish, but that the best thing to do is surely to get it over and done with, and then I can get on with my day. Sighing, I press the button, lifting my chin and clasping my hands behind my back, resigned calmly to my fate.
"Marty, it's me. Now, before I forget, Happy Birthday but that's not at all why I'm ringing. I need you to call me back as soon as you can. Don't you dare ignore me for days like you usually do, this is much too important for that. Call me back immediately, as soon as you get this message…"
I frown then, and I'm taken aback. My aunt certainly sounds well enough, her breathless haste more indicative of a sense of urgency than any type of cardiac event. But I wonder what has happened that makes it so crucial I call her; has something happened to my father, my mother, or, heaven forbid, my Aunty Ruth? Joan is right of course, I do make very little effort to keep in touch, yet another of my personal failings. And perhaps I should have opened the card that arrived yesterday, with the Cornish postmark, but I hadn't the heart for it; I now take an even dimmer view than ever about birthdays, so I honestly couldn't care less. Whatever recent concessions I made had been only for Louisa, and she's no longer here.
When she'd seized so gleefully upon my drivers license all those months ago, forcing me to admit to the date I was born, she had smiled in that way she had, my respiration becoming shallow and rapid. With her hand on my thigh, she'd implied the sort of commemorative celebration that made me actually look forward to my birthday for first time in over twenty years. I objected of course, like the curmudgeon I am. I refused any sort of function, agreeing only with the greatest reluctance and only on the condition that we did something quiet, at home, insisting that the only attendees were she and I. But now everything is as it was, status quo returned, the only acknowledgement of attaining thirty years old: a quick call from my Auntie Joan. This time though, as excruciating as suffering through the awkwardness of her greeting will be, there is a beseeching tone to her message that is as disturbing as it is unfamiliar; in fact she barely mentioned my sodding birthday at all. Moistening my lips cautiously, I dial her number.
"Aunty Joan…" I say quickly as she barks her number into the receiver.
"Good Lord! He's actually returned one of my calls. Wonders will never cease…" she says, and I glance around the room impatiently, sighing deeply before I reply.
"Judging by the tone of your message, it didn't seem like I had any choice. What do you want, Aunty Joan? What on earth's the matter?"
"Well, since we're obviously dispensing with pleasantries," she answers bullishly. "I thought you'd want to know. Louisa's in a bit of trouble."
For a split second, it feels as if I've run at high speed into a wall. I reel physically, taking a step backwards as a thousand appalling eventualities clammer for attention in my head. When the horror abates, and I open my mouth to answer, all I can do is shout.
"What do you mean in trouble? Stop being so needlessly Victorian and vague! What's the matter? Is she ill?"
"For goodness sake! No, she's not ill…not technically anyway." she replies gruffly, her tone now defensive. "But there's been an incident here in the village, with Terry…her father, and it's all blown up, rather unpleasantly I'm afraid. She's very upset."
I attempt to regather my thoughts but composure utterly eludes me. I can't seem to make sense of it, my mind is travelling at warp speed. Louisa wasn't somewhere in London, she hadn't fled to the ends of the earth, she'd been back in that damn village all along. With her father, the convicted criminal, the man she said she wanted nothing to do with, the very man who had abandoned her as a vulnerable adolescent. What on earth did she think she was doing, seeking refuge with that man? It stings me, like potassium chloride applied to a wound, it nauseates me to think that that was preferable, that he was preferable, to coming home to me.
"What sort of incident?" I bark at my aunt, struggling to keep the resentment out of my voice.
"Don't snap at me Marty!" She retorts sharply. "The sort of incident that meant I had no alternative but to bring her back here to the farm. And the timing is terrible of course. Couldn't be worse. I've got such a lot on…"
"Oh, have you? Well, while I'm sure that it's rather inconvenient for you, it doesn't exactly sound like a medical emergency, does it?"
"For goodness sake, I would have thought…"
"I'm sure she'll get over it, soon enough." I interrupt coldly. "She, of all people, should know what he's like."
She gasps then, loudly, as if she is disgusted by me. I'm not sure I blame her. At this very minute, I don't much like myself.
"Marty, I don't think you quite grasp the gravity of the situation. I caught him red handed, helping himself to the proceeds of the lifeboat fundraising. Of course, I didn't realise it at the time and now he's disappeared, along with a substantial sum of money, leaving Louisa to face the wrath of the village."
I pause, momentarily appalled, wincing internally at the thought of his dishonesty, knowing how horrified she'd be, how angry, how ashamed. I feel myself begin to buckle; crushed by my inability to take care of her, to have prevented all of this. But it isn't Louisa calling me for help, I know she doesn't want me, clearly she doesn't need me;and even a disaster on this scale hasn't prompted her to contact me. I draw in a deep breath, steeling my backbone, hardening my heart and, when I speak again, my voice is like ice.
"Yes, I understand that it's an unfortunate situation for her, but what isn't so clear is what exactly you want me to do about it?"
"Marty! The poor thing's in bits." My aunt cries. "Every time I woke up last night I could hear her sobbing through the wall. It's clear that shouldn't be left on her own, and I suppose I hoped you might possibly still care enough to help…"
I close my eyes as a heavy sigh escapes my impossibly tight chest. Oh god, she knows. Of course she does, and I feel myself close as tightly as a hemostatic clamp. Perhaps Louisa told her, or perhaps she just put two and two together but, however Auntie Joan found out, I refuse absolutely to discuss it with her now. She will not keep her counsel, undoubtedly she will be quick to give me her opinion, and I will have to suffer her inferences, her judgments and her caustic observations. I feel myself bristling at the thought of my aunt, like a vulture, picking over the bones of my failure. It's outrageous, why can't people just mind their own business? I have no idea if she consulted Louisa before calling me, but I must assume the answer is no. Because there is one thing I am convinced about now, one thing I know for sure. The last person Louisa would want to see at this moment is me, the man that completely let her down.
"I'm afraid it's not as simple as that, I..I..I can't just drop everything and come down." I inform her crisply. "I have patients Aunty Joan. Appointments. Surgeries that have been scheduled for months…no, I'm sorry, but it's really out of the question…"
I hear her tut impatiently as my voice trails off but, regardless, I am convinced I have made the right decision. My unwanted arrival would just add to Louisa's unhappiness, it would only exacerbate her grief. However much she appears in need of help, I am not the person to provide it, I am incapable of being that man. A sudden cramping in my abdomen makes me draw a sharp intake of breath. I'm not even sure I could face her again, knowing the accusations I made, and the way she looked at me as I left. As hard as it is, I know I must leave her alone, it's all for the best, even though the realisation turns my stomach to a tempestuous sea of bile.
"Oh, I see," My aunt replies, her enunciation crisp, her tone now bitter and disappointed. "Well, Marty, it seems the apple really didn't fall too far from the tree, did it? Right then, I won't keep you any longer…"
The line goes quiet, the silence around me hums, and my carotids pound in my ears, indignation twisting my face into a violent scowl as the meaning of her parting salvo become suddenly abundantly clear.
"Now, hang on a minute," I demand furiously, "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
"Just what I said. You've had your fun and now you've moved on. You're exactly like Christopher, aren't you? You are indeed your father's son!"
"What? Oh come on! Aunty Joan! How…I mean…you…I…it…" I protest, blustering furiously but to no avail. Her voice, when she interrupts, is stern and disapproving.
"Just leave it Martin, please." She says with a grim, indisputable, finality. "There's clearly nothing more to be said. In fact, I rather wish I hadn't phoned at all. Enjoy your birthday. Goodbye."
As she hangs up, I feel like a child again; a naughty little boy, severely reprimanded. I grip the telephone fiercely, incensed and indignant as I glare at a receiver that is now denunciatively silent. Exactly like my father? How dare she say that, how dare she accuse me when I am nothing like him, when I show no resemblance to him at all! As a thin, awkward teenager, didn't both he and my mother continually remind me of that fact? Hadn't I grown up determined to be his exact opposite? To reject all the character traits he displayed? Outraged, I stride into the kitchen, pulling bowls angrily out of cupboards and dragging packets of newspaper-wrapped seafood out of the refrigerator. I work furiously on the broth, muttering under my breath, hurling shells angrily into the sink, raging against what feels like a cruel and unfair comparison. The apple hasn't fallen too far from the tree? What a sickening and erroneous statement
As I shell the prawns, my pulse is racing. I loved Louisa, I wanted to marry her, I wanted to commit to her for every minute that was left of our lives. I wield the knife on the white fish as if I were a swordsman, the blade flashing beneath the kitchen lights, my jaw clenched, my knuckles white. The hours spent stirring saucepans offer no respite, instead I am spurred on; not only by indignation but by a growing sense of utter helplessness. I am haunted by an image of my father, licentious and corrupt, flirting with every woman he ever met fawning over them, touching them when he'd only just been introduced, like it was some sort of lurid compulsion. Dear god, my flaws are legion, but lechery will never be one of them. I love Louisa. I might have behaved like an idiot, but I love her and I certainly did not want to let her to go.
At six o'clock, I am weary and as satisfied as can be expected by my Bouillabaisse preparations, setting it aside now as the recipe recommends. I eat a small, simple meal, clean up the kitchen and move to the sofa, a pile of newspapers laid out beside me to occupy my mind until it is time for bed. The new television now dominates the room, and I sigh again as I glance at it, a godforsaken monument to my utter incompetence, a clear indication that I have no idea of what a woman really wants. As soon as I sit down, my thigh starts to flex, my knee to tremble, my leg to dance up and down. I attempt the Guardian but to no avail, struggling to focus, my eyelids heavy and tired. How embarrassing to have wept as I did, to grieve so blatantly; how utterly pointless it was to cry. I rub my face, as I feel myself succumbing to a dismal, disappointed sort of exhaustion, but an early night, some welcome rest, perhaps everything will be clearer in the morning.
nothing could be further from the truth. I lie in the empty bed, my body heavy and my mind dull and downcast, drifting in and out of sleep, restless and agitated as she forces herself into my unconsciousness, infiltrating my dreams yet again, jolting me awake, denying me any sort of peace. It is like a delirium, I can think of nothing else as I lie half awake, shaken by the idea of her weeping through the night, imagining her so clearly, slumped on the bed in one of Joan's little guest rooms, devastated at her circumstances, miserable and alone. My mouth is dry, my heart pounds in my chest. Her father might be a recidivist criminal but am I really any better, leaving her to suffer, letting her face the retribution of the village on her own? How she must be questioning the unfairness of life, having always believed the best of people, those very same people have now utterly let her down.
I switch on the lamp and reach for my glass, and before I realise what I am doing, I swing my legs over the edge of the bed. A glance at my watch tells me that it is just after three o'clock in the morning. A quick shower, a careful shave and I am in the wardrobe, reaching for a shirt, slipping into the suit she always claimed was her favourite, and putting two others into a bag. I know she doesn't want me there, I will be as unwelcome as the plague but it suddenly feels like a compulsion, I simply have no choice but to go. Even if Louisa does not want a bar of me, Joan must see that I am not my father, that I would never abandon the woman I love, especially when this feels like all my own fault. Reaching for my overnight bag, I jam my car keys into my trouser pocket and fly down the stairs to the street.