Afternoons with Martin

Okay, just so I don’t forget…

His name is Doctor Martin Gatsby. He’s tall and a bit lanky, his gazelle-like legs took huge strides when he approached my bed this morning. His slightly loose navy-blue button-down shirt hung over his jeans in that effortless yet posh way, and when he sat down next to me, I was cocooned in the smell of the Woolacombe sea breeze I had to leave behind for university in London two years ago and petrichor. When he greeted me hello and extended a large hand, oh how his peridot eyes sparkled along with that half-moon smile.

Oh god, Anthea! Do you really fancy your physician? Must you melt when he settles into that taupe leather chair across from you, his loafered feet gently tapping a soft bossa nova melody as he listens to you ramble about your day? Must you giggle like a hyena when he jokes about you carrying that brick of a copy of Sense and Sensibility from the uni library? I swear, if he took your temperature right now, you would cause the thermometer to go haywire with how flushed your cheeks are.

Other than that, he seems lovely, though. He’s certainly kinder than those other lab-coated, uniformed twats that poke and prod me with those granite fortress gazes.

No, seriously, stop swooning.

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I’m finally out of hospital…and Doctor Gatsby --- uhm, actually, Martin --- wants me to stay with him? Is there some sort of machine that turns daydreams of him lying in bed with you, those muscular fingers combing your long, dark hair into reality? Of course, I said yes!

I’m guessing it’s just so that he could monitor me better and check my healing progress. Still, I couldn’t help beaming as if I were plugged into the sun when I saw the room he had prepared for me. The walls were painted a luscious amethyst lacquer which made the gold leaf frames surrounding black and white photos of the city pop. A turquoise oak door led to a small terrace lined with cerulean pots of peach roses. A large, dark wood bookshelf was filled with titles in five languages from top to bottom, their covers a rainbow of colours and cultures.

It was so fun, so quirky…so me.

Oh, stop, Anthea! Swooning again ? Oh well. Either way, it’s so kind of him.

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Today, Martin took me out to The Garden Bistro. Yes, when he suggested we two grab a bite, how was I to know that it came with a serving of gasping in delightful surprise? The large, airy windows, the stainless-steel origami-style cranes hanging from the ceiling, the soft, chocolate brown leather seats --- I surely have missed those since my hospital stay, and it was so wonderful for him to take me there.

When we sat down, I was expecting the servers to come over with the menu. My jaw just about clattered to the stone floor when Martin gave a soft nod and a gold-rimmed plate each of my favourite salmon starter came out. I only managed to mutter “How did you know?” when he grinned and replied that he just did. Oh my! I didn’t even lift a finger as my regular lamb and couscous and my usual chocolate cheesecake glided out of the kitchen doors. Wow, does this man have X-ray vision to peek into my thoughts? It was divine!

Oh, and you’re not going to believe this, but I think I just noticed a faint rose flashing on his cheeks when he was trying to reach for the bottle of pinot gris and accidentally brushed my hand. He apologised and whispered something I couldn’t quite decipher, sure, but it was undeniable! If he only knew I didn’t mind a single bit.

Okay, Anthea, time to come down from your candy-floss-tinged cloud and stop swooning.

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My goodness, who is this Doctor Martin Gatsby, and how does he know I love West End musicals? Must he make my soul float as if defying gravity when he surprised me with tickets to see Wicked, my favourite musical of all time?

As we made our way to the orchestra level seats he’d reserved for us, I watched him beam as I prattled about the anticipation at the base of my stomach for seeing Elphaba levitate over the stage. I couldn’t help giggling as I glanced at those deep-set green eyes sparkle at my own cocoa ones. When the curtain was raised, I couldn’t help discreetly singing along with the actors; and Martin, he couldn’t help attempting to join me, his windchime voice tickling my ear at every note.

Oh, and I did something that may be a bit brazen, something that until now, my heart is thump-thumping about. You see, when Elphie and Fiyero began their ballad “As Long as You’re Mine”, I couldn’t help it. What else are you to do when you’re plummeting like a stone in a pair of peridot lakes and the lyrics “Kiss me too fiercely. Hold me too tight” come on? So yes, as Martin was taking in the scene of the musical show’s lovebirds, I gently entwined my delicate fingers in his. He then turned to me, his mouth stretched up to the stars.

Okay, so I had to ignore the feel of that thick platinum band on his left ring finger, but come on now! Yes, my head’s conjuring up images of him…and I'm swooning.

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Oh my word! I can not believe I’m saying this, but I just met Martin’s daughters. He’d asked me if I wanted to say hello to his girls, and just like that, an invisible needle stitched me even closer to the dashing physician. Wow!

If Christmas card children ever decided to leap across the envelope and the two-dimensional glossy surface, they would come to life as these two little angels. The elder, seven year-old Iris, looks like a photocopy of her father --- lush, gemstone eyes, chestnut waves, and all. Meanwhile, little three year-old Rosamund must look like her mum with her almost ebony hair and large brown eyes. In any case, could you believe how both of them bounded towards me and gave me a hug, how as they settled into my arms, there was a honey-like warmth that surrounded my insides?

The four of us spent all day ensconced in Iris’ bedroom. Oh, how I felt my core turning into a puddle as she and Rosamund squeezed my hand and led me to a pillow castle. In the middle was a chair with carvings of lotuses, all painted silver. When the kids asked me to take a seat, how did I know they’d place a paper crown they’d made on my head, effectively dubbing me Queen of the House?

I know, I know. Where is Martin’s wife in all of this? Does she know? I’m not sure….but why am I not bothered?

Yes, fine. I’m staring at the photo Martin took of the four of us and swooning.

*****************

Well, I think it’s obvious: I have fallen completely, madly in love with Doctor Martin Gatsby. I suppose no one could blame me, though. If a man makes your every afternoon magical, makes every single gold light bathed moment even more luminous with his little surprises.

Oh yes, all of me will always remember that and etch it into my mind like frosting on glass. For as long as I live, Doctor Martin Gatsby is the man who will make me swoon.

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How can I ever forget?

Her name is Anthea Wakefield, and since the day I first saw those chocolate brown eyes in a hospital, I’ve been besotted with her, knew I would do anything to make her everyday full of light. She loves the seaside town she was raised in under a light diffusion of rains, so I switched to a more aquatic perfume. She’s always dreamt of living in an exotic library, so I decorated my flat to look like one. She often pops by The Garden Bistro for a quick bite, so I swung by and became a regular to the point of memorising the menu. She would buy front row tickets to West End shows as soon as they announced the opening of the box office, so I slowly became a theatre fan.

I married her ten years ago after a long, blissful relationship born out of a medical school internship. As she walked down the aisle, her cocoa peepers filling with tears behind her gossamer veil, the realisation of getting to spend every afternoon, every second with her hit me. I vowed to give her a love she can never forget, to make our entire marriage be as pink hued as a sunset no matter what --- for richer or poor, in sickness and in health.

Who knew that in only a decade, that very promise would be put to the test?

Right now, her psyche places her in 1999, a full five years before she ever dropped that mauve pen as she was talking to a patient and I picked it up. As her early onset Alzheimer’s progresses, I know that all we have built --- the laughter in front of a stage, the countless meals at her favourite restaurant, our girls and I --- are being washed away in the sands of her mind by a crashing wave of disease. The possibility of our late in the day romps completely dissolving into bubbles inside her looms as the years roll on. So, what else am I to do but to make the now memorable, to make the instance she’s living in as bright as the sun’s rays at 3 p.m.

I promise. She’ll never stop swooning.