It was cold but at least the rain had stopped when Martin left Francis Myburgh's rooms. He decided to walk home even though it was dark and he could feel the cold biting through the winter fabric of his suit. He hadn't expected to be exposed to the elements and had not brought his overcoat, an oversight he now regretted. But he stood by his decision to walk, it would give him time to regroup after the session - time to clear his head.

The conversation he'd just had with Francis made him uncomfortable and his mind seemed to jump between the present and the past. Incidents he'd thought he'd forgotten suddenly appeared in graphic detail and with the remembering came the feelings - dark, disturbing feelings. He quickened his pace, his purposeful stride ensuring that no one got in his way.

He thought of the bed-wetting incident. What he hadn't told Francis was that it was the first time he'd wet the bed and he hadn't told her what his mother had said to him. Her voice was as clear as if she was speaking to him now. "You filthy boy...look at what you've done. Look!" She'd roughly pulled his pyjamas off and slapped his bottom with her bare hand. It had stung and he could almost feel himself shivering again as the cold hit his naked little body. He'd been able to endure the physical cold but he couldn't endure the cold anger in his mother's eyes. He remembered how she'd slammed the drawers and wardrobe doors as she'd looked for clean pyjamas. Each loud bang had made him jump as his frightened eyes followed her angry movements. She'd thrown the pyjamas at him when at last she'd found them. "Put them on." And when, in his nervousness he'd fumbled and dropped them on the floor she'd snatched them up and roughly yanked him as she pulled the pants on and shoved his arms into the sleeves of his pyjama top, leaving it unbuttoned. His little fingers had struggled unsuccessfully to close it against the cold. His mother had approached the bed and her lip had curled in disgust as she'd ripped the sheets off and thrown them on the floor.

"Your mattress is wet and disgusting...get on the couch," she'd said pointing at the two-seater under the window. "And don't you dare wet that or you'll know all about it!" Then she'd left the room, switching off the light and slamming the door behind her. He'd stood there waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark then he'd dragged a blanket from the end of the bed and gone to the couch where he'd curled up waiting for morning to come, too scared to fall asleep in case he wet himself again. Fear had sat like a lump of rock in the pit of his stomach at the thought of coming face to face with his mother again. Of the entire incident, the thing that stuck with him the most was his mother's coldness and her look of disgust - not for what he'd done - rather it was disgust for who he was - the very sight of him disgusted her. It was the first inkling he had that he wasn't normal. He made people angry. Wetting the bed was a disgusting, filthy thing and had made his mother look at him as a disgusting, filthy boy. She should know. She was his mother.

And then there was the cupboard under the stairs. Until he went to boarding school he regularly spent time there and every time he was sent there and he heard the key turn in the lock, the feeling of dread would rise in him. Sometimes he would panic and throw himself against the door, rattling the handle in the hope that by some miracle the door would not be locked. There were no miracles. Sometimes he would be left there for hours and he'd be hungry and dazed when he was eventually let out. He'd be pulled into the light blinking and disorientated and he'd be shoved towards the stairs he'd been locked under and he'd hear his mother's expressionless voice, "I hope you have learnt a lesson Martin? Although somehow I doubt you are capable of learning anything. Go to your room."

One nanny had dared to challenge Margaret Ellingham when she'd locked Martin under the stairs. He'd heard her saying that it wasn't right and the boy should rather be sent to his room - that locking a little child up like that was wrong. The next day she wasn't there and Martin only realised that she wasn't coming back when another nanny appeared one morning. She had the same cold look as his mother.

Martin crossed the road at a pedestrian crossing and turned into the high street where the lights from shop windows reflected on the wet pavements. Did he learn anything by being locked in the cupboard? Did it work? He honestly could not answer that question. Francis had wanted him to think of what he would feel as an adult if he watched a child being locked in that cupboard now. He tried to picture it objectively. Would he let a child of his sit in a dark cupboard for hours at a time, frightened and unable to understand the reason for his incarceration? Martin stopped dead in the middle of the pavement eliciting a muttered 'tosser' from a man who'd almost walked into the back of him.

A child of his? Where had that come from? Martin couldn't imagine having a child of his own. In his universe the concept of parenthood had never even been a blip on his radar. Never. But he was getting married soon and this was a matter that had never really come up between himself and Kate. She had often spoken of friends who'd had babies and her eyes would sparkle as she looked at photos sent to her on her phone and she'd say, "Ohhh Martin isn't he just the cutest little poppet?" and her face would become soft. Kate had never brought up the subject in any depth but if he had to guess he would say that she would want children. She would make a lovely mother - soft and loving and tender. But what kind of a father would he make?

His heart began to pound. Having to talk about his childhood and being made to look at it from an adult perspective had focussed his thoughts on how vulnerable a child really is. They are at the mercy of every single person with whom they come into contact - good or bad. He'd experienced mainly the bad and his view of the world was forged in criticism and in the gradual acceptance that he was flawed and his very existence irritated others.

From his rudimentary knowledge of child psychology (by his standards), the chances of repeating the cycle of learned behaviour was possible...even probable. Did he want that? Did he want to be a judgmental parent, inflicting his insecurities on his offspring? It scared him. It scared him even more to know that he and Kate would have to eventually discuss this. Would she understand his point of view - that him being a parent was not a good idea? He was too dour and too reserved and incapable of showing affection unless it was toward Kate. She received all the affection he was capable of giving - there wasn't room for anyone else. What if his concerns about being a father meant that Kate wouldn't want to marry him after all? If she felt strongly enough about children she might call it off. The fear rose in him again. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to put the thoughts from his mind. Not now Ellingham. Not now. One thing at a time.

He began to walk again and stopped in at the little bakery near his home and bought some homemade brown bread. It was just after six when he got home. The place was in darkness and he switched on lamps as he went through to the kitchen. He missed it when Kate wasn't home when he got there. He loved how she came to greet him with her warm smile and gentle embrace. But she would be home soon so he began to prepare supper. He made his version of a chicken stir fry which meant using the minimum of olive oil and salt and using whatever fresh vegetables were available in the fridge. He prepared jasmine rice to go with it and was just putting the finishing touches to it when he heard Kate's key in the door. He pulled the pan from the hot plate and turned as she walked into the kitchen. She was so beautiful and his eyes softened as she came to him. She put her arms around his neck and moulded her body to his. "Hello my handsome chef." He dipped his head and kissed her gently, savouring her soft lips and the way her fingers caressed the hair at the back of his neck. "Hello...beautiful…" He looked down at her as she stroked his cheek and traced her finger down his jaw. "Everything alright?" Her eyes were questioning.

"Yes...fine." He turned to the cooker so she couldn't see his expression. "Are you hungry?"

"Starving - didn't have time for lunch today." She began to set the table.

"Do you want wine with supper?" he asked as he went to take glasses down from the cupboard over the counter.

"Umm...no thank you Martin. I'll just have some sparkling water tonight. I am quite tired - wine will just make me even lazier."

He looked intently at her. "Are you alright? Any other symptoms apart from tiredness? Any nausea, dizziness…"

Kate looked up at him with her eyebrows raised. "I'm fine Martin. No other symptoms...just common or garden tiredness caused by a seemingly endless day." She placed a mat in the middle of the table for the hot pan to rest on. "Alright?"

"Mmm...yes." He took off and folded the apron he was wearing and then placed the pan of stir fry and the bowl of rice between them on the table.

Kate began to dish up. "This smells absolutely divine Martin. You know, you could easily open a restaurant when you retire one day."

Martin looked appalled. "A restaurant!"

"Yes...a bistro-style restaurant. Ellingham's has a nice ring to it don't you think?" she said innocently.

Martin's lip curled then he relaxed a little when he saw the impish look on Kate's face. One day he might be able to recognise straight away when she was teasing.

While they ate, Kate told Martin about her mother's call. "The Reverend Gray has the first two Saturdays in February available for the wedding Martin. Which one would suit you best?"

He looked at her intently. "The first Saturday. The sooner the better."

She smiled and reached across for his hand. "And the first Saturday it shall be."

He grunted and resumed eating.

When they'd tidied up they went to the sitting room and Kate curled up next to him on the sofa. He had the latest edition of the Lancet open and she'd put some music on. Kate put her hand on his thigh and looked up at him. "Are you going to tell me how it went?"

Martin looked at his journal. He wasn't really ready to talk about it yet. He still felt a bit raw and this was after only one session. How was he going to feel after the next and the next? If he lasted that long.

"Umm...it was fine. The psychologist is Dr Francis Myburgh - a colleague of Simon's late wife."

Kate waited for him to continue and when he didn't she sat up and took his hand. "You don't have to tell me anything if you don't want to Martin. I just want to know that you're alright. You seem preoccupied."

He sat for a moment and then turned that open gaze on her. "Umm...she asked me to talk about things from my childhood that stirred up some unpleasant feelings. I thought I'd forgotten them...but they were still there...and still unpleasant." He threaded his fingers through hers. "I don't really want to talk about it right now...I just want to...be with you."

Kate moved and straddled his legs, leaning forward so she could link her hands behind his neck. "I'm right here." She bent down and trailed her lips up his jaw to nuzzle his ear and she felt his shoulder lift. "Do you really want to read that magazine right now...mmm?"

She heard it drop to the floor as his arms went around her and he shifted further down on the sofa and pulled her close. His mouth sought hers and their kiss was sensual and slow. Kate pulled his tie loose and unbuttoned his shirt. She felt his hands slide up to cup her breasts. "Mmm...that feels nice." She bent forward and this time her kiss was hot and demanding. Martin held her by the waist and turned her until she lay on the sofa and then he moved to lie on top of her.

"This feels even better," he murmured as his lips teased hers and he trailed kisses down her neck. She could feel his arousal against her body and she wanted him. She began unbuckling his belt and his hand slid up under her blouse until he felt the silky material of her bra under his fingers. "Don't you think we should go upstairs," he murmured shakily against her neck.

She slid her hands down his back and under the waistband of his trousers. "I don't want to think Martin…I want you just to love me."

ooooOOOOoooo