(I am sorry it has been so long between chapters but I have been both madly busy and I have had some tech issues. I know this is a bit shorter than usual but I thought you deserved a little taster to get us back into the Wheezer groove.)
Her mind worked so very differently to mine. But I was beginning to understand that it was safe to trust Louisa's judgement, that it was reasonable to consider things from her alternative point of view. She had come in search of me, sliding cautiously around the door frame just in time to catch me, glassy-eyed with tears; a leak sprung solely from the pressure of an impotent, internal rage. And I made no attempt to hide it from her; I was beyond shame, beyond embarrassment; my abject failure laid so horribly bare. Oddly though, it was as if my weakness made her softer, my despair evoking in her a concordant understanding. Closing my eyes, unable to look at her, I'd felt her hands slide up around my cheeks; a solitary tear melting away beneath her lips.
"Martin, whatever hospital you choose…honestly, do you think it matters?" She'd said in a quiet voice, stroking my hair, our foreheads together. "I mean, wherever you end up…we both know you'll make a success of it. No, actually…even better than that…you'll be brilliant. You know you will…"
I'd grunted hoarsely, swallowing hard, desperate to believe her.
"And, any difficulties that arise, well, it's like we've been talking about…we're just gonna face up to them together. Aren't we?"
"Yes." I'd muttered helplessly, terrified by the the plethora of promises I'd made her recently. Did she really still believe I had that sort of capacity, that I could be the person she wanted me to be?
And then a question, one I understood to be rhetorical, her voice lowering to a pitch that indicated a truth beyond dispute. Pulling away, fixing me with that stare: whether a toddler, a teenager or this emerald-eyed temptress, she always could bend me, somehow, to her will.
"And we're not ever going back to the way it was, are we Martin?"
Cautiously, I shook my head, reaching for my handkerchief as she regarded me with that steady, searching gaze. After a moment, she spoke again, her Cornish burr enveloping her steely resolve in the softest of velvet.
"So, I don't know…it seems like, perhaps, we could just think of this as a new start for both of really. Together, I mean…"
In a faltering, uneven voice, I tried to explain to her the horror I felt at the loss my career, the shame of having to start from scratch in institutions that were so far removed from the cutting edge of medicine I'd intended, all my life, to be a part of. How could I make her understand that, prior to loving her, I'd thought of nothing else but my career, existing at the point of exhaustion for so many many years, working furiously toward one goal and, by necessity, forfeiting so much. It was inevitable that my frustration would boil over, that I would finally be consumed by a by-now-familiar resentment. Thrusting my handkerchief defiantly into my pocket, I waited for the inevitable; for the armour to descend, for that surge of cold fury and the habitual hardening of my heart. How automatic it was, to be at once defiant and defensive, my veins contracting as if they were suffused with ice.
Yet all I was aware of were her fingers, warm and determined, lacing themselves through mine, squeezing my hand as she leant back and fixed me with the most sympathetic of smiles. So real to me, so perfect; beneath her fringe, her brow furrowing with concern. The smattering of pale freckles across her nose, and those deep green eyes, a flare of amber like a fiery halo around her pupils. We had stood together in silence for just a few seconds, yet it had been a pivotal moment of unity, of synthesis and, for me, of the total acceptance of a seismic shift in my priorities. How could there be rage when now there was actual possibility; I felt frustration and fury extinguished by inkling of hope. This flat had been a sanctuary, my career had been my shield. But, if ever there was an embodiment of what security feels like, then it surely was and is Louisa. And I knew then, without a doubt: I was no longer a man defined entirely by his career.
Afterwards, collapsed on the bed beside her, I'd been almost overcome by an ethereal sense of calm. Her bare skin seemed to glow in the dusky light, her hair lustrous where it tumbled across her shoulders. I recall the weight of her forearm, warm and soft where it lay across the small of my back. And her mouth, pressed against my bicep, lips parted as we attempted to catch our breath. Dreamily, she'd began tracing spirals lightly and languidly across my rump, and I felt neither the urgency nor even the inclination to pull the bedding up to cover our naked selves.
"Nice…" She'd said, as she smothered a yawn.
The fleeting winter dusk was barely over. Only half an hour earlier, I had walked my aunt to her awaiting taxi; typically, neither of us had spoken about my parents. Of course, I had intended to quiz her about her trip to Portugal but, when it came to it, I simply couldn't find the words. Standing for hours in theatre induces a distinctive type of weariness, a test of endurance I'm well accustomed to but it is nothing compared to the emotional exertion I had endured that afternoon. But she and I were both, undoubtedly, Ellinghams and, during our procession down the stairs, if our silence wasn't companionable, at least, as close relations, it was most certainly mutually understood.
And I had hesitated before I had returned to the flat, breathing deeply, conscious of voice in my head, unvanquished, persistent, despite the anchor Louisa had been all afternoon. It was a question that nagged away at me, as unreasonable as I knew the premise itself to be. And if there were a way I could have asked her, without embarrassing myself, without appearing petulant and needy, I would have, but careful semantics were beyond me at that time. I'd sought her out, finding her in the bedroom, folding her clean laundry, and putting it away. She'd smiled at me self-consciously, a childlike expression of virtuosity upon her face.
"Louisa." I'd said, and I'd stopped, glancing down at her hands where they rested on the edges of the drawer.
My god, I suspected then I'd been a bloody fool and my relief was instant and inordinate. There it was; gleaming, and rather conspicuous, nestled on her finger in the very position an engagement ring is supposed to sit.
"You've put it back on." I'd said, in a feeble attempt to appear casual and unconcerned
"Of course!" She'd replied and she'd laughed. "I haven't got tired of looking at it, if that's what you're wondering…"
"No. Right." I'd replied, still not entirely reassured. "But yet you took it off…"
Uttering those words cast a chill that seemed to refrigerate the room. The smile slid from her face, and she'd stiffened, turning to face me contemplatively, brows knotted, a familiar twisting of her jaw.
"Yes. I did." She said, after a moment.
Her pause had been brief but the time elapsed had seemed unbearable, and I'd made a sharp, enquiring sort of grunt, more demanding than I'd intended; a sound so pusillanimous that I'd been filled instantly with regret. I noticed her chest expand, I'd heard the escape of the sigh she'd tried unsuccessfully to suppress. Though now, in retrospect, I don't think I believed my own misgivings, idiotically, I needed to hear her repudiation for myself. She glanced at me resignedly, and eased the drawer shut.
"Well, because Martin, I suppose I thought it would just be an unwanted distraction." She said, taking a step toward me. "Because, actually, I wanted this afternoon to be about you, about finding you a new job, getting things back on track for you. Not an excuse for another of your aunts to start judging us, or for Chris to make a lot of fun at your expense…"
She had shrugged then, slightly peevish, and it had been a salient moment, another revelation on my seemingly endless road to Damascus. Despite how contrary our thought processes were, often even how we were so diametrically opposed, when it came to our respective reactions, it did not mean either of us were in the wrong. Louisa simply had her approach to situations, and I had mine. It was the intent that was important and, in this case, I had to admit hers seemed eminently reasonable. If the topic of our engagement had come up, I would have glared at everyone in attendance, and demanded they mind their own business, whereas her approach was simply to remove the cause of any speculation. Acknowledging how puerile Chris Parsons could have been, I felt a huge sense of reassurance, and even gratitude, at her common sense.
"Louisa." I'd said, still somewhat pompously, as I struggled with some rather complex and disconcerting emotions. "While I…umm…I do appreciate the sentiment, I suspect Aunty Joan would have been on the telephone to Ruth before we had even turned out of her driveway…there's no way Joan could have kept that news to herself for over a week…"
Louisa had raised her eyebrows.
"I don't think she did…" She'd replied.
But, in my mind's eye, all I could see was Joan, rifling through the drawer beneath her telephone, licking her index finger in that most disgusting of habits, and leafing frantically through her battered old address book. Her mouth would be set in a grim pout, blustering impatiently as soon as Ruth had picked up the receiver; too peevish and indignant to wait for her sister to complete the brisk announcement of her telephone number. And I'd been so aware of it too; throughout the whole afternoon, I'd felt like my life was a smear on a Petrie dish and Ruth had been examining me under the highest magnification.
"I don't think you know my aunt…" I'd muttered dismally
But her response was to smile, coming closer and sliding her arms around my neck. Frankly, I was surprised by her levity, baffled at how she could ruffle my hair so playfully after the afternoon we'd had. But, out of nowhere, in that irrepressibly joyful way she has, she'd kissed me, standing on her tiptoes, pressing herself against me in a delicate waft of scent. And I was reminded of a boy, a solitary, horribly shy adolescent, who couldn't help but wonder what it would be like to kiss a girl. How could he ever have imagined anything like her enveloping softness, or the way her touch felt, when all he expected was a life lived alone.
"I think I do." She had replied slowly as we had separated. "Which is why, when you were packing the car, I had a quiet word…just asking her not to say anything to anyone really."
"Hmmph…" My hands hovered uncertainly over her waist. "If only I shared your optimism…"
She'd brushed absently at my lapel. "Well, I just told her the truth…you know, that it was all sort of…well…precious…to me….and that, really, I didn't think it was asking too much to be able tell the world ourselves…"
Precious. The word spiralled around in my head. Is that how she felt, is that how she saw us, even after the debacle of the past few miserable months? Involuntarily, my hand had gone to her face, cupping her jaw lightly, intent on holding her still for a moment simply so I could look at her. And that familiar pang in my chest, that ache of awe and disbelief. Her skin was so warm and so smooth, her eyes sparkling hopefully as she gazed up at me; even if I wanted to I couldn't look away. My god, so very beautiful, but what good is beauty without kindness and common sense? What appeal has the body of a goddess unless it too accommodates a prodigious heart, a steely spine, a courageous self? Her smile, never far away, emerges beneath my fingertips; her cheeks rounding as her lips part and she smirks with that familiar teenage insolence. So much intensity between us, always so much tension to resolve.
"What are you waiting for?" She asks, the tone of her voice obliterating my capacity for rational thought.
In the cold harsh light of day, however, making the call to Chris Parsons had felt like pulling the trigger in a game of Russian Roulette. As much as my situation no longer felt quite so dire, the ignominy of restarting my career at St. John's was still profoundly infra dig, and committing to that institution had burned like vinegar on an ulcerated tongue. Yet, as I gripped the receiver, she had perched on the edge of my desk, an exquisite exotic bird, her expression so eager, so fervent; as ever, biting hopefully on her lip. Twisting the hem of her blouse, every sentence I uttered punctuated by a nod of encouragement, akin to an enthusiastic tutor committed to coaching the most dull and uninspiring of students.
At the other end of the line, Chris had listened in silence; all I could hear was his breathing; noisy and vaguely congested. I had little choice but to humble myself. And his mumbling, approving my weary concessions, as he built up to a giddy sort of excitement, apparently oblivious that my disgrace was absolute. He squeaked out the usual platitudes of course, corporate nonsense, a mealy-mouthed lexicon alternating between caution and approval. I pictured him wiping his damp palms vigorously on his trousers, before fetching a pen from his pocket and flipping his diary open with an ebullient flourish. Another feather in his administrative cap, more tempestuous waters calmed by his liberal application of oil.
But the irritation I felt simply came and disappeared; it was Louisa that held my attention, mouthing words at me in a rather animated fashion. After a moment I realised, I had quite forgotten the expression of gratitude, I had been instructed to bestow upon Chris Parsons. As I forced a thank you between taut lips, her hand closed over mine; a smile then, a nod of her head, and I had basked for just a moment in her approval. And then a sudden burst of philosophy, one that will soon become my mantra: when it all boils down to it, Ellingham, arteries are arteries, and veins are veins. Medicine is medicine, regardless of the name above the hospital door. I swallowed hard, leaned back and let myself exhale. Because it was just so obvious then, just as I remain convinced of it now. Career opportunities will come and go but there will only ever be one Louisa.