Doc Martin is owned by Buffalo Pictures.
Chapter Eleven
Martin vomited into one of his trusty sick bags, and got on with the job at hand. One of the local farmers had had an accident with his gardening shears and ended up with a large laceration across his wrist, cutting open his ulnar artery. Once it had been clipped and the ambulance had arrived he drove back to the surgery. Whilst showering, changing his suit and having a glass of water he pondered. Despite the brusque front he put on, he always felt humiliated when his phobia surfaced in front of other people. He often wondered why it affected him so badly – after all, he dealt with it on almost a daily basis and it had never harmed him. Surely he should be used to it by now?
It had never mattered to him so much before, because there was that one non-biased person in the village who had grown to respect him despite the blood thing. He trusted her like he didn't any of the other villagers because he knew that she would no longer laugh behind his back. The fact that she could be trusted meant that he didn't need to worry about the others, because it was clearly their problem and not his. But since the incident where they'd all laughed at his trousers he was insecure again, because he was the outsider again. Even the little brat he'd rescued from Penhale's ridiculous overreaction was sniggering as he was being examined.
He didn't understand. The farmers wandered round the village looking like they'd not washed in days, which was possibly why they couldn't go a week without coming down with some virus or other. But he wasn't allowed to go round with a bit of mud on his trousers. It took him back to his boarding school days. The other boys teased him on the one occasion he got his rugby kit muddy, because usually he hovered on the sidelines and kept it spotless despite the ridiculing from the PE teacher. Just because he chose to stay tidy and be different to the rest of them, he had to stay that way forever.
Even Louisa teased him mildly about always wearing a suit, but he knew that she didn't mind and she respected him anyway. That was what he needed – her respect – because respect from her showed him that he was still worthy of it. If only I didn't have this dratted phobia, he thought – then went in to deal with afternoon surgery.
xxx
'Au revoir!'
'Au revoir, miss.'
Louisa sent the children out for playtime and sat down at her desk with her head in her hands, relieved that she wasn't on playground duty this lunchtime. Sheila came over to chat and offered her some chocolate.
'One day wonder. Just keep deflecting the questions, you're doing well. They'll soon be interested in something else.' Louisa groaned, remembering all too well what her old class were like when they wanted information about her personal life.
'I don't understand, didn't they go through this all with Mrs Beattie?'
'No, she was teaching year six. But since they've got their SAT's coming up then the head thought they'd be better off with someone they already knew. So you get to explore unknown territory with year two.'
'Great.' Louisa had had a very tiring few hours. The children had been full of questions about the baby and she had to think very hard to come up with appropriate answers, keep quiet the children who already knew the inappropriate answers, all whilst trying to teach French, which she had been surprised to find was on the curriculum. In Portwenn foreign languages weren't taught until secondary school. But not much was taught that lesson anyway. The friendly headmistress had become cold and disapproving when she'd been told the news. Louisa was now constantly on edge, making sure that they had absolutely no reason to sack her. And that meant no impromptu sex education for the year two class, and following the curriculum to the letter. As they came back in for history, she was determined to get them learning this lesson. Or she could be dismissed for disrupting their learning. How Martin had got away with breaking the rules for so long and been allowed to keep his job, she had no idea.
On returning that evening, Louisa found a card on her doormat. It was an invitation from Holly. She looked at it curiously. She'd been sure that Holly wouldn't want much to do with her any more after her performance, which she was still both proud and ashamed of. But she'd forgotten just how thick skinned her friend was - she was acting as if nothing had happened. She'd mentioned that it was probably down to the hormones, and carried on as usual. Later in the evening Holly had called to confirm she was coming. Usually these parties were painful, or at the very least dull. But this was an art exhibition rather than a party, and Louisa was worn out, so she gave in.
xxx
Smile plastered to his face, he greeted the various superior guests – the high society London elite. He fiddled with his cuff links, which were irritating him. He was glad that the whole formal thing was just for one night – for one thing, they weren't exactly warm. Seeing another pair of guests into the building, he glanced ahead of him to see who the next pair were, and it was a hard task to smile warmly as he recognised the overbearing Holly Williams.
'Hello! Wonderful do, I do love Hirst.'
'Holly, delighted you could make it. Alone tonight?'
'Oh no, who do you take me for?' She looked over her shoulder. 'Come on, darling, we're holding people up.'
He waited, intrigued to see which new suave young man she'd have hanging off her arm tonight.
'Sorry, needed the loo,' he heard, as a vision in white suddenly appeared by Holly's side, her eyes widened in shock.
Louisa Glasson.
xxx
'Danny?'
'You two know eachother? We must all catch up in a minute, we'll see you inside.'
Louisa was still shell shocked as Holly hustled her into the gallery, where she was met by bizarre colour explosions. She'd never really understood modern art – a lot of this looked like what you got if you let reception loose with the poster paints. She'd much rather look at something nice and soft that was actually of something. Still... Danny. It was all perfectly logical – he did say he was doing some art gallery thing – but she'd never really appreciated his work as he hadn't appreciated hers, which was probably why they didn't work out. She was taken aback by the beautiful white interiors, which she felt were somewhat ruined by the random splashes of colour everywhere. The room was a work of art in itself.
She wandered the galleries for a while, but the mad supposed 'art' was giving her a headache, so she found her way out and sat at a table in a small seating area just outside the main exhibition. Realising that it was a cafe, she ordered a cup of tea and nursed it as she took in what had happened.
xxx
Danny searched the exhibition, which was a slow task as he was constantly stopped by people congratulating him and voicing opinions on the various works. He was already sick to death of them, having looked at them for most of the evening during set-up. He was astonished and a little hurt that after all she'd said, she was in London after all. But the Lord had taught him to forgive, and so he banished any bad feelings and carried on his search for Louisa. He didn't know what she was doing at an exhibition – she'd never understood modern art. That gave him an idea. Rounding a corner, he saw her in a serene white room, alone. She seemed to be in a world of her own, staring into a far corner. He didn't think she had ever looked so beautiful. Her hair was like a rich brown waterfall, the bright lighting making it shine. She was wearing a flattering white dress with a flower corsage pinned to the front, white ribbons flowing down to where her hand was resting...
'Lou?' She jumped and he almost felt guilty for disturbing her.
'Danny.'
'What are you doing here?' They spoke at the same time. Louisa looked amused. 'You first.'
'You- you're, I mean...' He gestured to her stomach as he approached. It wasn't much, but on her usually slim frame it stuck out like a sore thumb for anybody who knew her. Following his gaze, she smiled radiantly, the wide grin that had drawn him to her in the first place.
'Yes.'
'So, who's the lucky guy?' Instantly her smile faded.
'Martin.' Her eyes momentarily blinked away tears. 'It didn't work out.' He looked at her questioningly.
'It's a long story.'
'Well, anything to keep me away from the stuffy old bags in there.' He took her hand as she laughed.
She began to blurt out her story, rambling in places. He began to understand how she had ended up leaving the village she loved – to get away from the man that she clearly still loved. He wasn't sure what she saw in Martin, or how Martin had managed to let such a wonderful woman go.
xxx
'So... here I am.'
As she finished her tale, she realised that she was crying and hastily tried to compose herself. She was glad that she'd run into him, glad that she'd finally come across a proper friend in this impersonal city. She was grateful that he'd taken time from his important evening to listen to her – he was always so considerate. She'd better let him get back. She fixed a brave smile on her face and looked up to meet his dark, familiar, concerned eyes.
'You'd better-'
xxx
She finally met his eyes. The moment seemed to go on forever. She opened her mouth and began to speak. He didn't want her to break the mutual bond of understanding.
He leaned forwards and their lips met.
