Through a swarm of milling bystanders, I'd watched as she swept in to embrace him. Appearing from nowhere, a spontaneous gesture, a tiny moment that, instantly, had filled my cup of certitude to overflowing. And her smile, genuine and angelic; so much of what I adore in Louisa, illustrated in a single action. Kind, thoughtful, and with a radiance uniquely her own, one that adds much needed brilliance to this dreary, sepia-toned village. Amongst damp earth, bleached timber, and sepulchral clumps of dead vegetation, she was like a bonfire, a beacon, a blinding solar flare, illuminating everything. And wasn't it just so obvious then; love and loss, the prospect of a life lived alone, all laid out before me, galvanising, stark and raw.
Now, as the last of the dim-witted audience drift away, I shudder. While it's not unusual to feel a sense of exhilaration after a successful surgery, this is different, this is more than simply residual epinephrine. I'm distracted, agitated, even anxious, and it's proving difficult to wrench my thoughts back to the pneumothorax case. Even as I check the woman's capillary refill, I fight a desperate urge to be elsewhere. And as for this inept fellow, Sim, he fills me with no confidence at all. However, the patient is responsive, and haemodynamically stable, so I determine he, as her own GP, can take responsibility now. As the wail of the ambulance becomes closer, I glance at my watch, oddly eager to get back to that godawful cottage, if only just to see her again.
As soon as the ramp is down, with their backs turned, and my instructions ringing in their ears, I slip away. After only a few steps, I find myself breaking into a jog, initially cautious on the uneven surface, but with an increasing haste as my sense of urgency begins to snowball. It must be the last lingering trace of adrenaline that drives me on. That, and an explosion of pent-up energy, the intensity of which I've never experienced before. With every footfall I am more acutely conscious that this is my only chance, and desperation begins to squeeze my heart like a vice. I must not fail but what if I do? It's too painful to contemplate driving home to Kensington without her, never mind where to start, stitching together the shreds that remain of my life, alone.
A spasm of nausea, and I recognise the rusty gate. Thank god for a familiar landmark among this haphazard, rabbit warren of alleys. Faster now, up the short, well trodden path, blackened moss on either side. Past the desiccated weeds and drifts of wind blown leaves, a fittingly grim barometer of apathy and neglect. Two steps up to her cottage and they offer no impedance, managed easily by a barely lengthened stride. Avoid an ashtray, a scallop shell lurking in the shadows, overflowing with damp, discarded, half-smoked cigarettes. For god's sake, how disgusting. So shabby and so completely unworthy of Louisa. Bloody hell, I would take much better care of her than this, if only she would let me. If only she would give me another chance. Such crippling need, such desperation, such fervour, I throw my shoulder into the warped, old door, wrenching open the handle, my grip on it ferocious.
Alarming, like a volley of warning shots, my footsteps clatter on the bare stone floor as I burst into the room. Instantly, it is a different world; a grotto, a catacomb; secret and undiscovered. Silence descends again, and into the half-light she appears, a study in alabaster, Grecian and ethereal. Louisa, delicately pale and glassy-eyed, and so vulnerable that my abdomen lurches violently, the floor falling away rapidly beneath my feet. Frozen to the spot, tongue-tied and utterly out of my depth, only my swallowing reflex seems prepared to function. How ironic, how apt, after a lifetime of brutally suppressing my feelings, it has come down to this, a single moment of self-expression, relying on an eloquence I do not possess. God, it might be easier if she weren't so utterly compelling, so effortlessly beautiful, the manifestation of everything I've ever longed for, the living embodiment of every desire I've ever had. Stunned, I wonder how long I stand there staring, before I recognise the plaintive voice as that of my own.
"Louisa, please, listen to me. I know I've been the most enormous arse…"
She listens, as proof of my own inadequacy spills from my throat, her eyes fixed on me, malachite green and crystal clear. The knowing gaze of the woman to whom I have revealed more of myself than I have ever shared, could ever share, with anyone else. So familiar that I feel a violent stab of pain at my very core. So appraising as her chin rises upward, a glimpse of that indomitable spirit yet her expression remains so steady. So guarded, even when the space between us seems to draw me toward her like an irresistible force.
"Have you, Martin?" She replies hesitantly, in a small quiet voice.
"When I listened to your answer phone message…" I mumble, trailing off helplessly as she turns her head away, staring fixedly out of the window, eyes brimming with tears, twisting the hem of her jacket in her fist. "I…I just…I wanted to…I just…"
My god, I have made such a bloody mess of everything, so accomplished at suppressing those feelings which should have been revealed, so adept at voicing every clumsy thought far better kept to myself. And this is the upshot, standing right in front of me. Proof that, not only have I sabotaged my own good fortune, I've jeopardised Louisa's future happiness as well. I never thought it possible to feel such a degree of regret. A quagmire, a quicksand, an enveloping slurry; save me Louisa, say something please. I'm drowning, I'm suffocating, I can't translate my feelings to words.
"I wondered whether you heard it." She says, resignedly, after a moment, as if she reads my thoughts. "Apparently you did, though obviously…too late."
"Yes. And I do…regret that…immensely."
"Do you?" She says, pressing her lips together pensively, her expressions fleeting, changing, contorting, as competing emotions appear to jostle for the upper hand. Such a stark reminder, yet another thing I always loved about her, another trait I always found fascinating; her transparency, her honesty, how incapable she is of deception, of pretending how she feels.
And so I watch as her brow furrows, her jaw flexes, and her mouth twists, as if she is wrestling with her thoughts, reasoning with herself, her inner monologue, as ever, passionate and intense. Odd then that I should be so distracted by the curve of her lower lip, soft and full, and shimmering vaguely as she moistens it with a pensive stroke of her tongue. More muscle memory, another surge of heat as I am transported back to a drizzly London afternoon, the sort of weather that lends itself to staying current, and a study of antiplatelet regimes. But Louisa had more of a lesson in spontaneity in mind and, though I presume I would have protested, it is her eyes sparkling with mischief as she glances up at me that are seared into my memory. How quickly my shyness had became a thing of the past, we were lovers without inhibition, my trust in her full and complete. Remembering her then, I am a sinking ship. Everything must be jettisoned over the side; my pride the next to go.
"Of course I do." I tell her, in a strangled voice. "I know I was wrong. I'm aware how very badly I behaved."
Am I imagining this pull towards her, as if I am caught in a vortex? Even in the gloom, her hair gleams like polished mahogany. She bites hard on her lip again, and it assumes the colour of over-ripe plums, dark and swollen as she lowers her eyes, refusing now to look at me. My shoulder gives an involuntary flex and I can think of little else but this yearning to touch her. Another step, another shallow breath, willing her to look at me, hoping desperately that an opening move might come from her. Take my face in your hands now, Louisa, crush my mouth with yours. Kiss me until we are both gasping for air. Crash your pelvic bones into mine, press yourself against me, let your hands wander, smothering my failure beneath your dewy insistence.
"I haven't had much practice at this…apologising I mean…" I tell her, huskily. "But, please, Louisa, I don't know what else to say in order that you might forgive me…."
As I speak, I take another half step toward her, noticing that she gives a tiny shake of her head, how she still avoids my gaze. Every moment, every glance, a reminder of how irresistible she is, and I can't help myself, drinking in every detail as she smooths out her skirt and tugs at its hem. Her familiar scent, so comforting, sweet and lightly floral, her ubiquitous black jacket, the leather so buttery and soft. Dark lashes, creamy complexion, a sprinkling of pale freckles across her perfectly symmetrical face. But I notice, too, dark circles hinted at beneath her heavily-lidded eyes, and the way her fringe sits up quite raggedly, suggesting she's been running her fingers through it repeatedly, forcing it to stand on end. I watch her blink, and blink again and then, without thinking, I raise my index finger to her eyebrow, and sweep a spiky lock of hair back from her eye.
An inner voice sounds an alarm, warning me I must not touch her, that her body is out of bounds. Even though I was, in the past, blessed with the miracle of access, none of that has any relevance to us now. But I seem incapable of self-control, allowing the back of my knuckles to linger, the barest touch against her temple, yet one that elicits in me a feeling of utter elation. She tilts her head and looks up; a slight lift at the corners of her mouth, a glimpse of perfect teeth and I, too, am a lost little boy, desperate for her kindness, craving the gentle reassurance of her smile. Such perfect peace, too, discovered in this tiny cottage, enfolding us in so much welcome silence that we might well be the only two people on earth.
Hesitantly, I trace her cheekbone, shadowy in the half light, her skin so soft and smooth beneath my fingertips, her hair, lustrous and so very tactile, like silk against the back of my hand. A shuddering sigh and our breathing is synchronised, adjacent hearts beating together in rapid time. And that slight pressure I'm aware of, the faintest pushing back against my touch, is it a sign of encouragement, does it mean anything or am I simply deluding myself? I lean down and though my cheek barely touches hers, the effect is sensuous, arousing.
"I'm sorry." I whisper, as my mouth brushes her ear, repeating myself once more, slipping my hand beneath her collar, the skin of her neck silky and warm, the taste instantly evocative, the face cream she always has favoured, her body fresh from the shower. Lightheaded as my mouth slides over her throat, I close my eyes, our foreheads come together gently, she is passive, unresisting. I kiss her cheek, her temple, I trace her lower lip with my thumb.
"I love you." I tell her, wondering if it makes any difference, resigned that there are so few words available to me to explain. I know of no phrase that could possibly do the way I feel any justice. I only have actions, and platitudes, and a flickering remnant of hope.
But, her hands sliding up my chest feels like permission, and when she clutches at my lapels, I bend to meet her, her lips so soft, her kiss so delicate and feather-light. Abandoning all reason, I revel in every sweet second of it, in utter disbelief at my good fortune; equal parts bewildered and ecstatic. For the briefest time, my hands hover over her waist, until I feel her fingers sliding through my hair, and it seems that, against all logic, I might just have been forgiven. As her lips part, I know this is nothing short of a miracle. I pull her against me and all remnant of space between us completely disappears.
With my eyes closed, there is nothing else but Louisa. Whatever sorcery brought her back to me, I will not question it. I will not ponder a medical explanation for the hypersensitivity of my skin, nor will I seek a cure for my lightheadedness, or my complete loss of propriety and reason. Because nothing matters more than being with her, here and now, and I will offer no resistance, I will revel in her exploration, I will tremble at her every touch. And, when I slide my hand inside her shirt, she will gasp and murmur my name. She will laugh as I lift her up on to the table and I will relish the thrumming of every nerve in my body as she wraps her legs around my hips.
"Louisa! You there?"
The voice is like a foghorn, out of nowhere, an ice cold bucket of water upended over my head. For a split second fear turns me stone, guilt and shame making my skin burn as if I had lain for hours in the tropical sun. Reefing my hand from her breast, immediately I adjust my clothing, anxious in case my state of concupiscence is rather obvious. I hear the thwack of elastic on flesh, and Louisa gives a little protesting squeak. Thank god for the bad light, the film of salt spray across the windows, the electricity disconnected, the net curtains drawn. I spin around to face the intruder, attempting to shield Louisa, and her modesty, behind my back.
"How dare you barge in here like that?" I shout furiously, fumbling with my jacket buttons, indignation and thwarted libido fomenting inside me like H202 and yeast. "Who the bloody hell are you? Get out!"
I feel her hand on my sleeve as an almost gnome-like little man comes into view, jowly and narrow-shouldered. "It's okay, Martin." She says, giving my arm a reassuring squeeze. "This is Bert Large, you know, Mary's husband."
"I don't care who you are, you can't just go round walking into people's houses unannounced. Sod off!"
"Martin." She says again, and her tone has a hint of reprimand, her grip on my arm becoming more forceful. But when I turn to look at her, about to protest further, she smiles at me conspiratorially, the hint of a devilish glint in her eye.
"How's Mary? Is Al all safe and sound?" She asks, far too kindly in my opinion, as she slips from her perch at the edge of the table, her boots thudding against the hard cold floor.
"I'm leaving Al with Sheena Selkirk. Best thing for him. And I'm heading to the hospital dreckly but I thought I should pop in. You know, to say thanks so much for looking out for him. Considering, you know, everything else that's happened…"
"Oh no, it's fine Bert. " She assures him, and she comes to stand alongside me. "And, I mean I didn't do anything really. It was actually Martin here who really saved the day…"
A hand slides over my buttock, and trails lazily down the back of my thigh. While the fact I even considered performing a consummative act in this place does makes me wonder if I have temporarily lost my mind, I would be lying if I said I wouldn't do it again, in a heartbeat. She knows it, too, just as she is well aware of how inflammatory I find her touch, amused by my obvious distraction as she caresses my right gracilis muscle, a beatific smile upon her face. And all the time, she remains conscious of the social niceties, however tedious and time-wasting I find them, it's a skill that just comes so naturally to her. Apparently, she must introduce me but I really have no interest in this intrusive little man other than to note an excess of visceral fat around his abdomen that, undoubtedly, places him on a collision course with type 2 diabetes and cardiovascular disease. A disapproving glance at his physique, a perfunctory shake of his hand, and I assume a neutral expression, waiting impatiently for him to depart.
"So it was you then, doc!" He says, and I watch his mouth form an oddly small circle as it seems the penny finally drops. "What a plonker! I didn't put two and two together, see? Right then….so you're Joan Norton's nephew…and it was you who saved my Mary. Bloody hell, of course…and that means…you and Louisa are…"
"Yes Bert." Louisa interrupts. "Martin's my boyfriend. We live together in London actually…"
"Have you come to take her home then Doc? Good idea, if you don't mind me saying so?"
"What?" I bark, and I feel myself glowering at him, indignant that he should be so presumptuous.
In fact, the only thing stopping me from bundling him from the room is the fact that he is the family of a patient, albeit a brief, transient one that I will never consult on again. Still, he needs to learn some manners, not only is his behaviour physically obtrusive but he seems now intent on prying into our private affairs. Glancing briefly in her direction, I open my mouth to remonstrate with him, to tell him in no uncertain terms to mind his own business but I'm stopped in my tracks, taken aback by her sudden and alarming mood swing. What on earth is the matter? Why does she seem suddenly so self-conscious? Why does she withdraw her wandering hand, dropping her gaze despondently to the floor?
I curse myself then, because I am an idiot. It takes me thirty seconds to realise I have learned nothing, despite just receiving such a miraculous reprieve. Clearing my throat, I reach for her fingers, the sort of awkward unpolished gesture you would expect from an inexperienced adolescent, not a professional man of thirty. Her hand feels cool as I wrap it in mine, yet so reassuringly familiar; slim, elegant fingers, devoid of gaudy jewellery, smooth cuticles, short, sensible nails. Of course, I know that I will have to practice these things, again and again, until they become second nature, like all the other skills I've wanted to possess. This time, I am only too aware that I have been dealt a huge reprieve, gifted another opportunity. This time, I realise I never knew a day of loneliness until I knew the pain of losing love.
"Umm, yes…I hope so." I admit to him, clearing my throat in an attempt at conviviality. To my enormous relief, she gives my hand a clandestine squeeze, one that fills me with a fleeting, indescribable feeling of joy.
"And, Mr Large, your wife should make a complete recovery, but you must look after her. " I add, lifting my chin and gazing down a him. "In medicine, as in life, second chances don't often come along."