He rounds the front of his car, buoyant, energetic, as light on his feet as a dancer, the palm of his hand skimming the paintwork like a flat stone over water. His chin is raised, his expression cool and self-assured, such an air of confidence in his step. But, if anyone is allowed a little swagger, it's Martin. I mean, I don't think I even understood how extraordinary he really is until I saw him calmly save a life in the street. Watching him slip into his seat, my heart does a little stutter and the feeling returns, low in my hips, tingling through my limbs the way a sparkler fizzes. A glimpse of his watch within an immaculate cuff, his trouser crease stretched smooth across his thigh as he flexes his knee; mutterings in my head warn me to be a bit careful, yet my heart urges me to throw caution to the wind. So many feelings, so many emotions, so much to consider, where on earth do I start?
We accelerate up the hill, the roar of the engine bouncing off the stonework, a cyclist pinning himself to a wall as we pass. Cottage windows are like mirrors, sunlight dances on the harbour, St. Piran's flags hang listless in the absence of a breeze but I'm not sorry to be leaving it all behind. More times than I've allowed myself to acknowledge, this is all I wanted, for Martin to come and find me, to tell me he loved me and that everything was going to be alright. Here beside him now, it's like I can sit up straight for the first time in ages, I can fill my lungs and relish the bite of the cool salty air. And, as he releases the clutch, I feel an overpowering urge to touch him, to follow his trouser seam upward til, as usual, he clamps his hand down on mine. Everything suddenly feels exhilarating, as narrow streets become country laneways, the bare brown hedgerows, already stripped of any berries, rapidly becoming a blur.
""How are you feeling? Umm…tired, I expect?" He asks, his voice gentle, soothing, as he glances in my direction.r
"Yeah, I spose, a little bit. But I'm fine." I tell him, nodding because it's actually, it's the truth.
Cows stand up as we pass, foraging roadside chickens scatter; a confident driver, Martin always did prefer to use the speed limit merely as guide. But then he didn't get taught what to do by a steady policeman with an encyclopaedic knowledge of the road code, did he? Besides, with his seat pushed back as far as it will go, long legs stretched out before him, there's something about his confidence behind the wheel that's reassuring. Perhaps, sometimes, it might be okay just to let him be in control. I lean back against the headrest, warm and relaxed, and cheered by the glimpses of turquoise sea that reveal themselves. Everything seems just that bit lighter. Easier. It all feels like home again; blue sky, brown earth, green fields, the ocean merging into the horizon.
"Would you like the radio on?"
Startled, I laugh, imagining how surreal it would be to be accompanied by Caroline for the duration of the drive. Sweeping along the narrow roads to the sound of the Top Tips For Basketweaving, or having her hectoring voice instruct us How To Make Mothballs Last Longer; Where To Find North Cornwall's Best Value Saffron Threads intruding on such a significant and delicate point in me and Martin's life. We once were good friends, she and I, and I don't want to be cruel because I mean she's doing her best but she does come across on air as sort of superior, and even a bit mean at times. Plus, and I hate to say this, but her playlist does seem more suited to the pensioners at Hightrees than pumping out through our car stereo as we roar through the countryside at breakneck speed.
"No thanks." I tell him, and I grin. "You can only pick up Radio Portwenn around here and, for a station that styles itself 'Easy Listening', trust me, I think you'll find it isn't."
When he replies, his tone is light. "It sounds appalling."
"Honestly, you'd hate it, Martin. Not a cello in sight." I point out and for a moment we feel like old friends again. "Anyway, what was it you told me once? That nothing is more musical than silence?"
I hear him sigh. He shifts in his seat and glances across at me, the hint of a rare smile dimpling his cheeks.
"Perhaps…it does sound rather like the sort of perceptive thing I'd say."
Just for a moment he holds my gaze; his eyes turn back to the road in an instant but his expression leaves me heady and now anticipation shimmers through me like confetti scattered on a summer breeze. I know we have such a lot to talk about, so many issues we need to address but recalling those divine few minutes before we were interrupted, his hand sliding up inside my sweater, his mouth on my throat, I can barely breathe, suddenly I can't think about anything else. Everything feels like a spring morning after rain, fresh green beech leaves unfurling in the hedgerows, the sun penetrating what is left of the long winter shadows. A fervent apology, an unprompted admission that he still loved me, and then a surge of passion that nearly turned me inside out. Crossing my legs doesn't help with their tremble, the skin beneath my skirt now so awkwardly sultry and hot.
He taps the brakes and we swing into the lane that will take us to the farm, barely slowing for the turn. I cling to the seat belt and brace myself, squeaking under my breath as my battered knee refuses to bend. Ever perceptive, Martin is on to me in a split second, regarding me suspiciously for a moment before I feel the warmth of his touch, the lightest pressure on the inside of my knee.
"What happened? If I'm allowed to ask…"
"I tripped. It's nothing." I tell him airily. Always the same, always responsible, somehow convinced it's his job to take care of me.
"It didn't sound like like nothing." He replies as he feels his way methodically around the joint. "Any pain? Did you feel a popping sensation when you tripped?"
"No, honestly, nothing like that. It's just a scrape Martin." I assure him, and I wonder if the man that notices everything, has observed the way goosebumps are now rippling across my skin.
"What it is, is a contusion, along with heat, and some swelling…" He corrects me. "I should take a proper look at it when we get back to the farm."
A rebuke forms in my throat but, without even thinking, I swallow it again. Isn't it funny how annoying his solicitude usually is, how frustrating it can be, sometimes even demeaning? Until just before, on the Platt, when I understood I really needed him. Until that moment a protective hand on the small of my back was exactly what I craved.
"Fine." I tell him, and I notice he doesn't take his hand away.
We slide to a stop in front of Joan's house, what little gravel is left on the driveway spraying dramatically into the hedge. Glancing at him, I detect a mutual sense of relief. No sign of her truck, the place seems deserted, gulls squabbling behind a ploughing farmer the only discernible noise. Almost reluctantly, he withdraws his hand, applying the handbrake, and switching off the ignition before inclining his head and assessing the yard, as if he needs to be absolutely sure we are alone.
"Cup of tea?" I ask, touching his sleeve and not waiting for his answer. A few minutes of Martin's languid exploration of the tight space beneath my skirt and I'm not going to pretend we don't both have the same thing on our minds.
I swing my legs out of the car and stand up, shivering with shock at the sudden coolness of the air. But, after weeks of the dreariest sort of weather, above us, now there is just an endless blue dome. No clouds on the horizon, no creeping sea fog, not even a contrail to mar the perfect sky. Rose hips glow red in the wilderness that is Joan Norton's garden, close at hand a dove coos and, just for a moment, it seems imperative I take it all in. So often I've stood here, a place of refuge when life fell to pieces, not appreciating any of it, blinded by hurt or by disappointment, or my eyes were simply just too blurred by tears. And we've discussed nothing, Martin and I, so we've resolved nothing, yet somehow I'm starting to believe we're going to be alright. We will talk, we have to, but it will be later, in the dark, when his head is on my chest, my fingers running lightly through his hair easing the way for his thoughts to emerge.
"Just leave all the boxes. I'll deal with them later…" I tell him as we face each other across the roof of his car.
He nods and I can't help but smile at him, so formal in this unkempt setting; too polished, too urbane to ever seem at home. An impressive man in a beautiful suit, incongruous amongst oilskins, shapeless hand knits and brown-checked poplin shirts. Impossibly elegant amidst crumbling buildings, jerry-built enclosures and ragged vegetation, nothing about Martin is ordinary, nothing is average. It's never been more obvious either, that he has integrity and decency and standards, and I admire him for that, even if his principles do sometimes drive me up the wall. And despite all his talent, despite all of his skill, the fact he's so modest is just so endearing. To do what he did for Mary, and then not even bring it up, it makes my breath catch when I think about it, like a finger drawn lightly down the length of my spine.
"You know, watching you looking after Mary…" I blurt out, my voice gravelly and low. "I mean, I suppose I've had glimpses here and there but, really, I don't know much about what you actually do…"
He looks at me from under his brow; speculative, thoughtful, perhaps even a little bit bashful.
"Well I don't usually do that." He replies, wryly. "But it had to be done. Her condition was critical…"
"Is she going to be alright, do you think?"
"Mm." He says evenly, retrieving his things from the back seat. "She will have to be careful, having had one pneumothorax does statistically predispose her to a recurrence. And it appears she could manage her asthma better…taking her inept husband in hand before he kills someone wouldn't go amiss either…"
He has that look again, imperious and self-assured and, even in my boots, my feet feel light, my legs like coiled springs. I throw my bag over my shoulder and follow him toward the house, bouncing along behind him like a frisky foal following its mother. I can't help but feel a bit bad for Bert though, he may be a rubbish handyman but at least he's always been in my corner and, for all his faults, he really does adore his wife. He might not be everyone's idea of a perfect husband but Mary sees something in him, she focuses on his good points and just works around everything else. It would have been a tragedy for everyone if we'd lost her but, by a strange series of events, a brilliant and capable surgeon just happened to be there when she collapsed. A quick appreciative glance up at those broad shoulders and it all feels suddenly like kismet, like Martin being in the village was actually fate.
At the edge of the drive he pauses, offering me his arm but I grin at him, shaking my head and indicating that he should go first down the steep grassy bank. The view from here is incredible, a vast expanse of coast, whitecaps dancing on the sparkling water as far as the eye can see. Anywhere else in the world, high rise hotels would be clustered along the cliffs, taking advantage of the vista, but here in Cornwall, it's occupied by chickens and they don't seem that impressed. But standing here is suddenly exhilarating, even Martin has lingered on the lawn and is staring out to sea. I call his name and, as he turns, I launch myself down the slope, laughing out loud as I crash into his arms. I feel his hands against my ribs and for a moment I am weightless, swinging off his shoulders, his face buried in my hair. I never for a moment doubted he would catch me but the way he holds me aloft, and so tightly, for so long, fills me with something that feels like elation.
A thousand tiny things bind us together but the intensity of this moment springs solely from relief; we both know what we have, and what we nearly lost. Even as he lowers me to my feet, Martin's gaze is unfaltering, and I stare back helplessly, pressed against him, squeezing him around his waist like I can't bear to ever let go. Beneath my chin his chest rises sharply and falls away, and it feels divine just to be standing here, tangled up amongst his overcoat, and a carry bag of sandwiches, his casual strength an incendiary to my growing sense of need. Everything feels so still, so safe. All around us, country noises; dry leaves rustle, screechy old iron flaps and bangs in the barn, and hens cluck contentedly as they scratch around in the sandy dust. From a distance, sounds carry on the breeze: bleating sheep, barking dogs, the stuttering rhythm of an idling tractor. And across all of this, an incongruous sound, melodious and resonant, velvety and warm.
"I think perhaps it's time we went inside." He suggests, in his beautiful voice and I nod at him, bright-eyed and breathless as I relinquish my grip. "Shall we…?"
Madly, I feel like skipping, swinging my bag and grinning at nothing, looking back over my shoulder as I rush headlong toward the door. Joan isn't home, we have the place to ourselves, and the afternoon stretches blissfully out before us. I wait impatiently as he stretches his free arm up to retrieve the key, his face a mask of concentration and, not for the first time, I am conscious of how tall he his, how broad, how overwhelming he might seem if he weren't always so unfailingly gentle with me, so patient and so polite. I feel a surge of love for him. Blonde hair gleaming in the sunshine, cufflinks glinting, the silk of his tie reflecting like polished metal; he seems somehow gilded today, brilliant under the sharp Cornish sunlight.
I wander in to the kitchen and stand by the table, dreamy and distracted, peeling off my jacket, smiling to myself at the way Martin naturally assumes command. He moves around with that spare elegance he has, filling kettles and loading wood into the oven, measuring out tea leaves and scowling at the tarnished state of the strainer. One minute stabbing a needle precisely through a failing chest, carefully removing clingfilm off sandwiches the next. Every action so measured, so efficient, so well considered, no matter what the task. Not a moment wasted, nothing left to chance. While the kettle boils, his attention turns to his coat, hanging now on a hook by the door; inspecting it closely for damage, brushing vigorously at imaginary marks on the sleeves. I can't help but smile. Steely jawed, deep creases between his brows, his mouth tight with disapproval; funny how such a haughty, fastidious face can be so powerfully attractive.
"Martin…?"
"Mm?" He replies, vague and distracted.
"Take me upstairs."
The air in the room seems suddenly weighty, like silence has a pressure that makes it hard to breathe. In the midst of all this stillness, he lifts his head and looks at me. The fridge hums, the clock ticks and a plethora of tiny creatures float in the shaft of sunlight that cuts the room in half. I bite my lip, fighting alarm as I watch him pick up his scarf. He folds it meticulously, each step so careful and precise, pressing it flat on the table with the palm of his hand. The boiling kettle is next to capture his attention. Half disappearing into the steam, he turns the plug off at the wall, clearing his throat as he glances about the room. And, suddenly, he is striding purposefully toward the back door, and my heart gives a little wobble, I cry out in disbelief
"Where are you going?"
Biting my lip, I wait for that familiar, crushing sense of panic but the fear doesn't escalate, in fact, it fizzles out to almost nothing. Squeezing my eyes shut, I cover my face with my hands, breathing hard until I regather my composure. Of course he's not going to leave me. Deep inside, I finally understand it, I realise he just never would. The hefty double clunk of the deadlock reassures me of that as I gaze at his back, following the faint outline of his braces over his shoulder blades and down to his waist; any lingering sense of alarm evaporating as he rattles the door to check it's secure. Flooded with relief, I feel as if my heart might explode, and I smile at him as he walks to toward me, almost a saunter in his step.
"Do you think Joan'll mind…being locked out of her own house?" I ask him, playfully.
A hint of a smile plays about the corners of his mouth.
"Horribly." He replies, with a gleam in his eye, and he reaches for my wrist.
Giggling helplessly, I'm drawn through the kitchen and up the stairway behind him, his grip on me gentle but determined. Funny the things you notice; four perfectly aligned buttons on his cuff, stair treads that creak in protest, faded pink brocade wallpaper separating at the joins. I float along the uneven hallway, over the faded axminster leading to his old bedroom; the door is open and I follow him inside. The walls are a soft blue anaglypta, lace curtains screen the window, and it feels vague in here, opaque, everything cast in a dusky haze. With a deftly aimed, sideways kick he forces the door closed, twirling me around to face him, and pulling me into his arms.
"So, here we are…upstairs as requested." He says, leaning back and contemplating me thoughtfully. Even here among the shadows, a film of moisture glistens in his eyes. "Was there anything else you wanted?"
My heart beats fast and shallow in my chest.
"No" I assure him, and I shake my head slowly. "This is…nice."
We might be the only two people on earth and the way he holds me feels like a slow dance, a delicious, mesmerising sway. Irresistible, he draws me in more tightly and I shift my weight, pressing myself against him, sliding gently from side to side, every curve an exquisite point of friction. Barely moving, his soft mouth and warm breath are like a feather drawn delicately across my skin, blurring time and space. His eyes are closed, as if he is in a trance, lips parted, groaning my name under his breath as his hands slide down to grip my bum.
My palm against his cheek rouses him, and he fixes me with a steady gaze, his meaning explicit. I feel it as heat, like hot wax trickled slowly across my thighs. Flesh becomes electric, drizzled, inflamed. He tugs at his jacket as I fumble with the buttons, his body as hard as rock beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt. Cufflinks, braces, and I can't wait any longer, pushing him a few steps backward on to the little bed. Offering no resistance, he perches on the edge, among piles of bedding and bags of jumble, wide-eyed as he absently winds his tie around his hand.
Taking hold of my jersey by the hem, I pull it over my head, discarding it on the chair beside the bed. Martin clears his throat, his fingers suddenly still, his hands motionless on his stomach as he abandons unbuttoning his shirt. So unwittingly gorgeous with that incredulous expression, that lightly tousled hair. So authentic and straightforward, he doesn't even try to disguise the way he stares. Cool air gives me goosebumps as I reach around to undo my bra, and still he doesn't look away. It's all you want, really, even just once in your life, to have someone gaze at you like this. I ease the straps shyly from my shoulders and watch the bra slip and shimmer to the floor.
"My god, Louisa." He says, slowly leaning forward and reaching for me. I feel his fingers on my rib cage, has hands running lightly up and down my waist.
My hands go to my head, pushing my hair back from my face as his kisses rain down hot against my throat, my chest. So sensitive now, his mouth on my breast makes me gasp until, languidly, he drifts away, holding my wrist, pressing his lips to the inside of my arms, my stomach and down to the soft receptive skin below my navel. My flesh is seared, my legs won't support me; hot, wet, my body trembles as he glides his tongue across my nipple, pulling me against him with arms of steel when, involuntarily, I cry out.
Breathing hard, I climb into his lap, and he watches as I touch him, as I impatiently explore his need. Silently, his hand closes over mine and, perfectly, I understand his meaning. How sweet it is to taste his mouth as he eases inside me. How divine to bear down on him til it takes my breath away. Take me, Martin, remind me that here in your arms you worship me like I'm some sort of goddess. Fevered, impassioned, my past doesn't matter, my family forgotten. The only truth is this secret rhythm we keep, the feelings we hide from the world and only reveal to each other. Rocked by gentle waves, I beg him to give me every inch of himself, hooking my legs beneath his thighs, our eyes locked together as I shudder to a climax so explosive it nearly tears us both in two.