How Do I Love Thee? (7 page)

The following Sunday morning, Martin knocked at my door, arms filled with coffee and croissants from the deli downstairs. I opened the door, realising that I was wearing no make-up and my hair was tangled. One hand automatically formed itself into a comb and valiantly pushed through the knots. I was also wearing my old Buffy the Vampire pyjamas that I’d put away because Simon mocked what he called my ‘cultural immaturity’. Martin smiled at The Slayer with her stake raised and ready, and I fancied that he was not averse to Buffy.

At any rate, I forgot that I looked a mess and, possibly, ‘culturally immature’ as we ate and drank on my balcony where I kept my easel and painting stuff. The air reeked of paint, linseed oil and turpentine.

‘Show me what you’ve been painting,’ he said, brushing croissant crumbs from a chest that had benefited from all that skiing and climbing and diving. I suppressed a desire to say, ‘Let me do that for you,’ but said instead, ‘This way,’ and led him to the spare room.

As Martin moved around, picking up a canvas here, a painted sketch on paper there, I wondered if I was falling for him. That would be ridiculous, of course. Martin was a sweetie but he was not long-term material.

After nodding a couple of times at my partial still life, he went back to a barely brushed-in sketch of distant mountains
with a vibrant foreground of crops. I’d done it hastily on a drive with Simon, who’d paced around, keen to get going again.

‘That’s only a quick study for a proper painting. I haven’t got around to developing it,’ I said.

He pointed to a distinctive peak on the mountain range. ‘I’ve climbed in those mountains.’

I had this vision of me, by the roadside, painting a mountain while Martin climbed it. A peculiar sense of togetherness gripped me. Stupid, of course. I was too imaginative for my own good. Perhaps I should phone Julia for some ice-water sarcasm before it went any further.

With a throwaway gesture at the sketch, I said, ‘You can have it if you like.’

‘I’d like that.’

Well what else could he say? ‘No thanks, it’s not good enough’? ‘No thanks, I can afford
real
art’? I kicked myself for putting him on the spot. At least, though, it was only on paper and easier for him to dispose of than one of my boxed canvases.

Martin offered no particular reason for dropping by and it was only later that I noticed that. After the initial surprise it had seemed a very natural way to spend a Sunday morning. I went to the door with him and he raised the sketch and said, ‘Thanks, Cass.’

Then he leaned over and pressed a kiss to my cheek, just touching the corner of my mouth. I was about to turn my head to make it into a real kiss but, fortunately, Martin kept it brief and, with a parting smile that warmed me from my bare feet upwards, he was gone.

I stood holding the edge of the door for some time, worrying about these impulses to touch and snuggle. Not Martin. Martin was a lovely man, a friend, even occasionally a confidant. But a partner? All those girls-I’d-never-seen-before. And I could hear Julia saying, ‘Avoid sportsmen.’ Besides, he probably only saw me as a friend. I closed the door at last and my inner chaperone said, ‘No,’ and ‘No,’ again.

But next time Martin suggested dinner, I was so surprised that there was a next time that I said ‘yes’ again.

‘I’ll cook,’ he said, which was a clincher in itself. A man who cooks, I thought. I wonder if there is a genetic indicator for that. Just so long as he didn’t make lasagne.

He didn’t. Martin casually tossed strips of beef and vegetables on a portable hotplate while we sipped at some cold white wine and talked about adolescent angst and fashion crimes and best friends and favourite places. There was a spicy sauce to go with the main course, followed later with a dessert of raspberries and cream piled into champagne glasses.

‘Raspberries,’ I said with a sigh as I finished mine, ‘are the most seductive of fruits.’

He smiled. Well, actually, he smouldered. ‘Want some more?’

When your heart skips beats, it is pointless to remind yourself that it is only a surge of adrenaline or sundry hormones that causes it. The feeling makes a person vulnerable, a little bit breathless. Did I want more? Martin waited, his eyes steady on mine. Blue was supposed to be a cool colour, but it could be very warm, I realised. Hot, even.

‘Yes,’ I said, almost in a whisper as if that strict inner chaperone might not hear me say it. ‘But not raspberries.’

If the taste of raspberries was seductive, the taste of them on Martin’s lips was irresistible. We sat on one of his couches, arms entangled as we explored by touch the territory we knew quite well by sight. I passed my palms over his chest, his shoulders, his beautiful back. When I felt Martin’s hands on my bare skin I leaned back and watched as he slid my bra out from under my shirt like a magician pulling silken scarves from a pocket. I giggled then sighed when he gathered me up in both hands and worked his thumbs until I was whispering his name over and over.

‘Beautiful Cass,’ he breathed, just before his mobile buzzed.

He was still for a moment but then withdrew. ‘Have to take this,’ he said, passing a hand over my hair as he got up. ‘Might be news about my father. He’s somewhere
in South America and I haven’t heard anything from him for weeks.’

Dreamily, I lay back while he talked. It was his father actually on the line. As the call went on, I got up and wandered about, enjoying the casual comfort of his home, more obvious without the party crowd. I passed a half-open door, not wishing to pry, but a glimpse of something familiar drew me back to look inside.

My paint sketch, framed, hung on the wall of what was clearly Martin’s home office. Intense pleasure pulled me inside. He really must like it. I wouldn’t have thought that my feelings for Martin could grow any warmer but they did.

Lightly, I touched my painting, feeling again that strange sense of connection with him.

I heard Martin say, ‘Take care of yourself, Dad. Don’t forget the antivenene.’ With a sense of anticipation, I moved towards the door, trailing my hand over Martin’s desk as I passed. I turned back to straighten a lab printout that I’d shifted and some small print leapt into my vision as if in a headline. Keith Farrar. I smiled. I’d all but forgotten Keith.

Underneath it was another printout. And another. Different formats and different laboratory names but all analyses of Keith Farrar’s DNA. The foreign labs showed Martin’s email address as contact. I frowned over the pages and looked up as Martin came to the door.

‘I saw my painting and came in,’ I said. There was something worrying about the way he folded his arms when he saw what I was reading. Silently, I held the printouts up in inquiry.

‘I—uh—wanted to compare our methods with the opposition,’ he explained, coming over to take the pages from me. ‘You probably noticed that some of the results differ. I sent a DNA sample to each of them and ran one through our lab as a control.’

‘A sample from the same person, of course,’ I said, with a doomed feeling. ‘Cheek swabs?’

He nodded. ‘Mine.’ Warily, he went on. ‘I used my uncle’s name so that no-one at any lab would relate the sample back to me.’

‘You let me rabbit on about Keith and all the time—’

‘Cass, you must know I feel more than friendship for you. Always have.’

This seemed irrelevant but I couldn’t let it pass. ‘You never said anything. Never gave me a clue.’

‘You were with Simon for the first year I knew you.’

‘But after we broke up you didn’t say anything either.’

Martin spread his hands in classic masculine helplessness. ‘I’m just a scientist, Cass. I don’t know what to say to a woman whose man has—um—’

‘Dumped her,’ I supplied, without pain. I was hurting about different things now.

‘I was waiting for the right time because I didn’t want to be rebound man. Then you fell for
Keith
,’ he said, throwing up his hands to show his frustration.

I gaped.

He paced around the room. ‘You don’t realise how hard it was to take—you raving on about his qualities and thinking he was the ideal man.’

I reclaimed my sagging jaw. ‘You couldn’t say a nice word about Keith.’

‘I wanted to get him out of the way first. I wanted you to fall for
me
,’ Martin appealed. He stuck his hands on his hips and studied his shoes. ‘I was jealous.’

‘But Keith was—is—
you
!’ I felt as if I’d entered some weird world beyond the looking glass.

He shook his head. ‘No, that’s what I’ve been saying. Keith’s my profile. My profile isn’t me.’

Ah. Now I was grounded again.

‘You’ve got AVPR1A with no copies of 334,’ I accused, jabbing at his chest. ‘But you were always with a girl-I’d-never-seen-before. You’re not monogamous!’

Martin shrugged. ‘Not so far.’

‘And you’re addicted to adrenaline sports.’

‘Not addicted, Cass.’

I swept past him and into the living room where I snatched my bra off the floor. Is there anything more depressing than discarded clothes when the desire has gone? ‘Oh, yes. Addicted. Like your father. “Don’t forget the antivenene”,’ I mocked.

‘Look, I could have told you I was Mr Perfect Genotype, claimed that I was genetically programmed to be the ideal partner in spite of appearances, but I was honest about it. I wanted you to want me the way I am. Ten minutes ago I thought you did.’

My face heated. ‘Don’t remind me.’ He moved towards me and I held up a hand. ‘You lied to me, patronised me. I came this close … to … to being just another one of your girls. Brilliant technique, Martin. Removing
this
—’ I jabbed with the bra which swung like a pendulum, ‘was like a magician’s trick—practice makes perfect.’

‘Sorry I’m not a fumbling fool in bed,’ he snapped.

‘And nice touch, hanging my painting.’

‘Now wait, Cass—’ He caught my arm as I headed for the door. I shook him off.

‘Ironic, isn’t it? If you hadn’t hung my painting I never would have gone into your office and seen those printouts. When were you planning to tell me that it was your DNA I’ve been mooning over?’

The words hung in the air, ludicrous, laughable. If he laughed I’d throw something. But he didn’t laugh.

‘Goodbye, Martin. You’ll have my resignation on Monday.’

It was a miserable weekend. The sun shone in a crystalline sky, the air was mild, early tulips appeared in the park across the road. Miserable. Eventually, I made a phone call, not to Julia but to my mother. She painted too, and I supposed it was her genes and influence that had started me off. After Dad had re-married for the second time, she had moved to Cairns, as far away from Melbourne as she could get and still find good art supplies. I often pictured her at her easel, a lonely woman living by the beach.

‘What’s up, Cass?’ she said, bracingly. ‘You’re not still moping over Simon, I hope?’

It did occur to me occasionally that Mum might be lonely for reasons other than Dad’s defection. Artistic sensitivity did not spread far from the canvas where my mother was concerned. No, I said with dignity. I was not moping over Simon.

‘Someone else then?’

‘I don’t think there’s going to be someone else,’ I told her. ‘Too risky.’

‘Life is risky.’

‘
You
haven’t moved on to someone else,’ I pointed out. ‘Once burned, twice shy.’

She laughed. ‘That’s nothing to do with it. If someone comes along I’d take a chance again.’

‘But—Dad left you, messed up your life.’

‘I’ve no regrets,’ she said. ‘I’d do it all over again. I loved your dad and he loved me and we made a lovely baby together. But nothing’s guaranteed.’

‘You’ve never said this before.’

‘Haven’t I?’ she said vaguely. I heard the scratching noise of a palette knife on canvas. ‘I was a bit broken up for a while but things change. Now, don’t mope and eat plenty of vegetables. I’m busy with a commission right now. I’ll give you a call next week.’

I pressed the off button. No guarantees. Martin had said that.
You’re looking for certainty, Cass. It doesn’t exist
. I put my still-life canvas on the easel and started work on it again.
I wanted you to fall for me
. Apples and lemons were so uncomplicated.

When the doorbell rang I was not only Sunday-dishevelled but in my oldest jeans and a man’s shirt daubed with oil paint. I wiped my hands on an oily rag and opened the door.

Martin was there, leaning on the doorframe.

‘Cass.’ Just my name with a full stop after it, as if that was all there was to say.

I swallowed hard and swung the door wide. He stepped through with shoulders squared, then turned to me as if I was one of a firing squad about to offer him a blindfold. After a moment or two he found some more words.

‘Cass, I’m not my profile and my profile isn’t me. I can’t offer certainty, if that’s what you want. But I can say that until you came along I preferred the hazards of mountain tops and whitewater to those of a serious relationship. I think I could risk it now with you.’

There was a funny feeling in my chest that I’m sure science could explain. A very warm and fuzzy feeling. Followed by a sudden cool change.

‘
You
are prepared to take a risk on
me
?’ I said, astonished. ‘I’m the one who would be wondering if you might discover a—an irresistible snow-bunny on a mountain peak. What risk would
you
be taking?’

What had I said that made him look as if all the bullets had missed?

‘All that divorce in your family,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It could be genetic. And you might come across a sweaty T-shirt that appeals to you more than mine.’

‘Don’t be absurd,’ I scoffed. ‘I only said that because I was thinking that you smelled like cheddar and grapes and—I could hardly say that.’

He turned his head, lowered his chin and sniffed. ‘Is that good or bad?’

‘It’s okay,’ I offered, not prepared to stroke his ego or anything else just yet. ‘As for divorce in my family—even if there are genes to predict for that, and even if I have them, it doesn’t mean that I am—that I would be fickle.’

I’d made his case for him. Genes are not the man. Or the woman. Only bits of them. He smiled and put his hands on my waist. ‘Cass, I put your picture up because I like it. It makes me feel close to you because—say you won’t laugh—?’