Let's get this baby back on the road :-)
it was going to be the Valentines Day chapter, hopefully Ive squeezed in a bit of romance...
The last time St. Mary's had been besieged by a media throng of this size was several years ago now. A group of repugnant vultures, equally as ghastly as the scurrilous bottom-feeders that wait currently on the street below, had set up residence outside the Lindo Wing, salivating over themselves, clamouring for news of some imminent and apparently newsworthy, royal birth. Then, as now, we'd been given strict instructions by our Chief to ignore them, to offer a firm 'no comment' if questioned, and to leave the building via one of several alternative exits, if at all possible. All this disruption, all this attention, because of a talentless, self-absorbed philistine, with the intellect of a sea sponge, currently taking up a valuable bed space in CCU. Not content with simply impairing his neurological pathways through his substance abuse, he now can add virtually severing his own limbs as a consequence of his rampant dipsomania. As I examined his hand this morning, I could barely disguise my distaste.
As a consequence, after rather too many aggravations during the day, combined with my lingering resentment at having my own plans so thwarted due to his crass stupidity, I now take strong exception to the suggestion that I might have to deviate from my norm and forgo my routine taxi-hailing site just to avoid the waiting media scrum. In my opinion, it is nothing short of outrageous that we are thus laid to siege and, as a result, I now find myself striding purposefully through the middle of this particularly rabid mob of vermin. Clearly desperate for information, a vacuous, overblown reporter thrusts a microphone in my face. Cameramen with faces like goblin sharks scurry between stationary vehicles, shouting at me as if to attract my attention but I am impervious to them all. Growling at them all to get out of my way immediately, I fix an angry sneer to my face and, towering above them as I do, within a few short minutes I am clambering into the back seat of a black cab, and instructing the driver to take me to Pimlico.
It's just before seven o'clock when we pull up outside The Cormorant, and my first impression is that there are considerably more patrons in attendance than was the case on my only previous visit. Standing on the kerb, resigned to my fate, I look around with a sort of subdued acquiescence, reminding myself for the hundredth time, exactly why I am here, wrestling with both discomfort and distaste yet steeled by a grim determination that I must see this evening through. I do have rather a large degree of intestinal fortitude to call upon, a deep well of resolve to invoke, and a rather philosophical attitude to the evening ahead, a belief in the intrinsic truth of a mantra that I have heard in common usage, especially amongst school sports masters and sadistic physiotherapists; that is, no pain, no gain. One night of platonic proximity to Louisa was manageable, two seems absolutely out of the question; a realisation that infinitely bolsters my resolve and, in anticipation, improves my mood
How much I am prepared to compromise in order to achieve a harmonious personal life does bring to mind a conversation, years ago in the middle of a particularly onerous weekend rotation in A&E. I was an exhausted junior doctor, faced with yet another avoidable fatality, yet another young man on a gurney, verified life extinct and on his way down to the mortuary. I'd barely had a chance to strip off my blood soaked scrubs before we were on to the next, just one more in a seemingly endless procession of pointless and preventable, critical injuries. In the morning, as I sat dazed and sleep deprived in the staff cafeteria, the registrar, a dry, imperturbable Scotsman, had taken the seat across from me. My spirits had marginally lifted when he'd admitted that, even for him, it had been a difficult shift.
"What doesn't kill you makes you stronger." He said cheerfully, stirring copious packets of sugar into his large steaming mug. "For what it's worth, I always found it helpful to think about it this way. I don't know who said it first but, in medicine certainly, it does seem as if we have to sacrifice what we are, for what we could become."
I'd squinted at him, because his words had made perfect sense to me, even in my state of extreme fatigue; as dull and overwhelmed as I was. Gazing across the table at his pale face, his deeply etched cleft chin sprouting a veritable lawn of short dark overnight stubble, I'd been both thoughtful and rather transfixed, as he dunked a succession of biscuits into his tea with the intensity and wild-eyed enthusiasm of a chain smoker on amphetamines. As it turned out, in a professional sense, he was unerringly correct, and there were many subsequent occasions when I'd forced myself to recall his words; self sacrifice and a medical career existing as hand in hand as they do. And here again, on a warm Friday night, I remind myself once more, fortifying myself; resolute and dogged in my intentions, knowing that, if I can so willingly give up as much as I did for the advancement of my career, then it must also follow that I can ignore a few principles, for a few hours, to please Louisa.
Surprisingly, merely to get to the front door of the venue, I must fight almost as hard as I did to vacate the hospital premises earlier. Oblivious bystanders stand in self-absorbed groups; some, as I am, dressed in more formal professional attire, others presenting themselves as if they have arrived directly from the athletic track, the football club changing rooms, or even a tropical beach, with shirts as gaudy and overblown as the flowering baskets that liberally adorn the facade of the building. Once again, being tall does provide significant advantage and I manage to effectively force my way through the crowd and into the gloomy interior, glancing around me, as cool and offhand in attitude as I am capable of, in the hope of locating Louisa as quickly as I can.
As I approach the vicinity of the bar, I spot her at the end of it; she stands out like a beacon to me, leaning on her elbows and swaying back and forth, happily, as if she keeps time to the insistent beat that emanates from unseen speakers. While I wait for the backlog of dithering new arrivals to clear from my path, all seemingly unaware of the disruption they cause, I glower at the backs of their heads, clearing my throat vexedly as an impatient snarl overpowers my face.
"Oh, for god's sake." I growl as the last of my goodwill evaporates at their air kisses and insincere greetings, elbowing my way through the middle of them as they turn to harangue me with the usual insults, oblivious to everything, including the irony that they should accuse me of being ill-mannered.
As I approach Louisa from behind, my heart rate quickens and I watch as she reaches up, gesturing in an unsuccessful attempt to attract the barmaid's attention. I notice her dress, a short, black, lacy one she has worn before, and I swallow hard as it rides up her thighs as she raises her arms in frustration, the satin lining sliding easily across her warm honey-toned skin. She runs her fingers through her fringe and turns to the girl next to her, tall, fair-haired and vaguely familiar and who, therefore, I can only assume is the departing friend. Their heads are together and they seem to find the whole situation highly amusing, especially Louisa who seems particularly effervescent and high-spirited. I feel rather madly elated to see her; there is something about her exuberance that draws me to her like a magnet, and I step silently in behind her, feeling a surge of almost irrepressible delight at her closeness, bending down and murmuring in her ear before she even notices I am there.
"What seems to be the problem?" I ask her, adopting a deep and formal tone, as if I am consulting with the Duchess of Argyll or the wife of the Archbishop of Canterbury.
I hear her squeal in response; a short, joyful expression of apparent delight as she spins around to face me. I fold my arms and gaze down at her, my heart thumping with excitement, awash with disbelief, still incredulous that anyone might ever be this delighted to see me. Her face splits in half with one of her stunning, brilliant smiles and yet we both hesitate, as we gaze at each other.
"Martin! You came!" She says joyfully, beaming up at me, her arms twitching upwards before she seems to make a conscious effort to put them behind her back.
Even if the love she professes to have for me doesn't last, as long as I live, I will never forget how it feels; the invigorating sensation of actually being wanted, and by someone like Louisa, who I believe could have anyone she chooses. I can't describe the emotion that this discovery invokes, the understanding that I'm not only valued for my professional skill, nor is my company sought, cynically, as a career move or some sort of conjured up marital alliance or meal ticket. To Louisa, I'm not a target, a mere notch on a bedpost, or even an aloof ascetic, seen as a challenge, as I have been by a number of determined, charmless, cold-eyed women. Whatever it is Louisa sees in me, she stands before me now, a breathtakingly beautiful girl, the absolute embodiment of every virtue I've ever valued and, despite the chaos I have inflicted on her this week, it appears as if I've made her happy just by being here.
"Would you like some help, or am I not allowed to ask?" I say, raising an eyebrow at her.
Her eyes narrow, and her expression changes to the smouldering insouciant stare that I find so inflammatory. I fight the most overwhelming urge to abandon my horror of public affection, experiencing an intense physical ache simply at the sight of her. I could almost convince myself that, at this moment, we are the only two people in the world. To have her instantly eliminate the stress of my day with one of her particularly fervent and impassioned embraces seems suddenly rather desirable, especially as I see how her eyes sparkle, how her lips move almost imperceptibly as she formulates her insolent response. As usual, she is stunning, unerring in her ability to not only dress suitably for every occasion but to appear, to me especially, as completely irresistible. Even in the dusky light of the crowded pub, she is luminous. Before she can reply, and before I even realise what I am doing, I duck my head and press my lips fleetingly to her cheek, catching both of us completely off guard.
As I straighten up, allowing my hand to linger briefly on the velvety bare skin of her upper arm, she says my name again, breathlessly, and we gaze at each other.
"You remember Libby." She says, after a moment, as more of a statement than a question.
I tear my attention away from her and force myself to glance across at her friend, nodding as pleasantly as I am able.
"Umm, yes, of course." I reply, feigning interest. "How are you?"
Her face is familiar or, more accurately, her penetrating gaze is; the ferocity of her apparent appraisal, the acute sensation I experience that she is evaluating me. I lift my chin and fix her with a rather intense look of my own; confident and unaffected.
"Really brilliant actually, Martin." She says, her stare unwavering. "I'm so glad you came."
"Mmm." I reply, unable to quite shake the feeling that I am somehow on trial. "Umm, can I...buy you both a drink? Louisa?"
"I've got a tab running, actually." Libby says, suddenly more enthusiastic. "And Louisa is, like, Libby, I really think we should be drinking champagne but then is, like, total rubbish at getting served. We've been standing here for ages..."
"Right." I reply, relieved to have a clear and obvious path available to me, a simple option so secure that even I can't see how I might fail.
"Four glasses too, please Martin." I hear Louisa say, as her hand slips around the back of my thigh, and I feel the gentle pressure of her fingers through the fabric of my trousers, as if she casually and absentmindedly appears to trace the path of the long saphenous vein.
I clear my throat and flash her a warning glance but she isn't looking at me, rather she holds up four fingers enthusiastically to the barmaid, whose attention I have successfully demanded. As I reach into my back pocket to retrieve my wallet I pause, wondering whether I should take Louisa's wrist and draw her hand away. It's only a moment's hesitation but, for me, it is more than just mildly significant. In a crowded room, aroused by her touch, I consciously choose to do nothing. Despite the involuntary clenching of my gluteal muscles, despite the shimmer of goosebumps that radiate from her delicate pressure, even despite the instant heat of my involuntary response, I abandon every one of my deep seated prejudices, I ignore all my fears and reservations and instead allow myself to revel in the momentary amatory trance.
"The tab, Martin!" Libby exclaims as I hand a couple of large denomination notes over the bar, but I hold my hand up dismissively, frowning instead at the harried barmaid who insists that she must uncork the bottle herself, despite Louisa's reassurances that we are quite capable of managing the task ourselves.
Entrusted with carrying both the ice bucket and the bottle, I follow them, in between the maze of seating, shuffling sideways through the crush of bodies. Heads turn as the two young women slip past, the usual sort of male interest I'm aware that Louisa attracts, and rather a strange array of thoughts enter my mind; a series of flashbacks to a painfully isolated time in my life. Inexplicably, I wonder what my fifteen year old self would think now, if he could see me, how incredulous would he be. The fact that I was ever brave enough to even speak to the the beautiful dark-haired woman in front of me now, never mind that we are out in public, unashamedly, as lovers, would dumbfound him and, as I remember his painfully withdrawn reticence, the very thought of what currently circulates at the back of my mind would have terrified him as well.
We arrive at a long, narrow table, tucked away in the far corner next to a little raised platform that Louisa tells me, rather excitedly, is something called a DJ booth. It seems to be important to her, so I nod sagely but I don't fool her in the slightest, and she laughs at me with sparkling eyes. Our worlds are so remote from each other but, right now, I simply don't care that we are in a pub and I am truly a fish out of water. From the moment I laid eyes on her again tonight, I knew that all I wanted to do was to be with her and, to that end, I am indifferent to my surroundings, heedless of the staring, unfamiliar faces that currently occupy the other chairs around the sturdy oak bench.
I wait as Louisa and her friend slip into seats on either side, proffering their flutes enthusiastically, as I pour the champagne; doing exactly as my father had rigorously instructed me, the bottle in one hand, thumb in the base, displaying the merest hint of a confident flourish, all without spilling a drop. I lower myself in beside Louisa, accepting her casual toast before taking a small sip of the beverage that she is enthusiastically referring to as 'Bolly'. My partaking of just the slightest taste seems to have rather oddly impressed her, placated her somehow and I set my glass aside and take the opportunity to look around me.
Seated on the other side of Louisa is a pensive looking young man whom she introduces as Libby's cousin, Stephen. I shake his hand and he peers at me hypermetropically, squinting as if he struggles to make out the details of my face. Though his rather wild mop of curly hair and bohemian style of dress suggest someone of a more artistic bent, his chipped nails and stained fingers do seem to indicate that he works with his hands.
"Martin." I mutter, looking away quickly, hoping that I should remain invisible and uninteresting to the miscellaneous selection of young people that fill the space to his right.
I suspect that, although Louisa informs me who they are, she has little expectation that I will remember any such details. As they greet me with baffling good cheer, I nod in their direction, rather relieved that they, too, are presented to me only by Christian name; this is clearly not the sort of event where the first thing everyone asks is about one's profession or where one lives, or even where one went to school. The cloak of anonymity suits me, and I feel myself relax just the smallest degree.
"How was your day?" Louisa asks me, a wry smile appearing on her face. "Were you horribly late?"
"No, umm, fortunately I managed to arrive on the wards with a few seconds to spare." I tell her quietly, conscious that Libby seems to be paying particular interest to our conversation. "And, I...ahh...I managed a quick visit to your young charge, umm, Perry, is it, this afternoon."
"Piers?" She says, her voice suddenly squeaky with excitement. "Oh god, how is he?"
"Umm, progressing..." I tell her. "Responding well to treatment. Apparently conscious, though, umm, it seems he was asleep when I was there, ahh, briefly, this afternoon."
"What about his parents? Are they visiting him? Were they there?"
I glance up at her, cautiously.
"I didn't see anyone. I just...umm...read his chart and spoke briefly to the Ward Sister." I tell her, wondering if I should try and explain things to her; that, as a unofficially visiting consultant, involving oneself, questioning the family situation, is just not the done thing. I can only imagine her horror should I tell her, quite honestly, that I don't even take much, if any, interest in the families of my own cases. In fact, it is my experience that families are usually more trouble than they are worth, arriving bearing unsuitable gifts, crowding the bedside, asking ridiculous questions, even sometimes clinging to the patient while the staff are trying to take them down to theatre.
"Oh, right." She replies thoughtfully, before attempting to lighten her tone. "But that's great, really Martin, isn't it? I could call his dad on Monday actually, now that, you know, the news seems positive."
"Mm." I say, in as neutral a way as possible, not wanting to encourage her too much, as I experience a mild pang of apprehension that she might, in fact, give the boy's father a piece of her mind. "Have your agency found you another child to tutor or is that income stream now lost to you?"
"It's not long til the schools start again. Probably no point."
"I see."
"Don't worry, I promise to try and use my free time, you know, productively." She says and I see a sly smile tweak at her mouth.
"Liar." Libby retorts, and they both laugh. "You'll just bloody lie around in bed all day, as usual."
I watch Louisa take a long sip of champagne, holding the stem so elegantly in her long slim fingers, clearly relishing the contents, glancing at me over the rim of the flute, her eyes sparkling with mirth.
"Not if I'm home alone." She replies, after a moment, placing her empty glass down in front of me.
After a few seconds of silence, Libby seems to splutter in amusement, and they glance at each other momentarily, their expressions disconcertingly knowing. It occurs to me then that Louisa is being suggestive and my realisation is confirmed by the presence of her hand, once more finding its way to her favoured spot on my inner thigh. I experience a moment of embarrassment, a sudden sense of impropriety but, as usual, I ensure my face remains a mask of cool, unaffected self-possession, as I glance cautiously across at the girl who seems so intent on observing me.
The narrative I've constructed for myself, and my outward appearance, would have any onlooker believe that I am imperturbable, but the company of young women, their behaviour, their conversation and, often, their seeming excitability, is so foreign to me, so bewildering, so incomprehensible that I do admit to feeling rather out of my depth. Louisa on her own is enough of a challenge; but now paired with this Libby, they suddenly seem slightly intimidating. My traditional coping strategies, the ones that have served me so well; incivility, disdain and, occasionally, scorn, seem hardly appropriate in this circumstance but neither does the softness that Louisa seems to bring out in me when we are alone together feel quite de rigeur.
I allow myself a moment of recollection, a rare backward glance at a childhood I've done my absolute utmost to forget. I can picture myself as a twelve year old boy, glancing surreptitiously at the well-thumbed women's underwear catalogue that has appeared in our dorm, seeing the scantily clad female physiques for the first time as something other than just anatomical models, mere medical curiosities. And that same boy, at fourteen, wiping his perspiring hands continually on his handkerchief prior to the misery that was our compulsory dancing class, staring in terror at the row of infinitely mysterious, giggling, hair-twirling, finger-pointing girls from St Catherine's, in their shapeless blazers, thin cotton blouses and regulation knee length skirts, painfully aware of my own inadequacy. Oddly enough, the memory of how awkward and unpolished I'd been makes me feel rather grateful for how far I've come; reaching down below the table, I place my hand over Louisa's and give it a thankful squeeze.
"What do you do for a living, Martin?" I hear a male voice ask, calmly, and I cringe slightly as I turn to face him. I've already forgotten his name and, honestly, my job is the last thing I wish to discuss, but I've vowed to support Louisa tonight and, even if indulging in pointless pleasantries is part of that mandate, I will attempt to comply.
"Umm, Vascular specialist..." I reply quietly, glancing at him quickly, only to recognise that I've clearly piqued his curiosity. "And you?"
"I don't even know what that is!" Another girl exclaims, before he can answer.
"Isn't it something to do with cows?" I hear someone say and I turn in horror, staring at them in disbelief.
"Absolutely not!" I retort, somewhat indignantly, as Louisa dissolves into laughter beside me.
"Martin's a surgeon." The girl called Libby says, and now I have to frown at her too. "Honestly, Zoë, love you, but sometimes you really are just too dense."
"My flatmate is training to be a doctor, you might know her; what hospital are you at?"
"You mean the gorgeous Allanah?" One of the young men interrupts. "Bloody hell, she can operate on me any time she wants."
"Yes, well she won't be operating on anyone, will she, because she's not qualified." I say, rather snappily as Louisa glances at me, her eyes narrowing as if she is scrutinising me.
"St. Mary's." She says, sharply, and my heart sinks.
Of course I don't know this girl, whoever she is. Even if she had been on the wards, or even in theatre, I wouldn't remember her. I barely take any notice of the residents, never mind the students especially, if my interactions with them are anything to go by, the current crop are generally ignorant, incompetent, and beyond frustrating. Unfortunately, now that the group of lightweights gathered around the table know what I do and where I work, I brace myself for the usual round of 'do you know such and such?' Inevitably, if I don't, they seem ridiculously disappointed and, if I do, the colleague is usually an ineffectual half-wit, leading to either me causing offence or a period of long uncomfortable silence. At least none of them are in that demographic prone to starting a conversation with the horrifically inappropriate gambit : Could you have a look at this for me?
"Oh my god!" One of the girls at the other end of the table shrieks loudly, interrupting my train of thought, and I look up at her in mild annoyance.
I notice that she seems to have more hair than anyone I've ever seen in my life, a soaring, blonde, gravity-defying, frizzy mane that causes my lip to involuntarily form into a disapproving sneer. Noticing her heavily made up face, and her vacuous expression, I take rather an instant dislike to her.
"Isn't that where Bucky is?"
"Yes! I saw it on the news!" Someone else adds excitedly. "Some old bloke was stood out the front, reading a statement about him. Definitely St Mary's."
Despite my chagrin, I can't help but smile to myself at the thought of the Medical Director, a man who would be forty five at the most, being considered an old man. It also makes me realise, slightly uncomfortably, just how young Louisa and her friends really are.
"I haven't seen the news today." Louisa says, and her voice sounds suddenly intrigued. "What happened to Bucky?
"Bladdered, and fell through some glass. The rumour is that he cut himself to ribbons. They saved him but he might never play again." Someone chimes in.
I frown impatiently. Mindless speculation. The patient had three handpicked specialists operating on him and, for my part at least, I am confident that the repairs I made will enable him to regain the full use of his arm. Though he did suffer significant blood loss prior to arrival, the ambulance crew had done an excellent job and he'd stabilised quickly once I'd removed all their clamps and begun repairing the seriously lacerated arteries. Considering the other two surgeons are both acknowledged leaders in their respective fields, I'd say this moron's ability, if you can call it that, to play his guitar is the least of his worries. Addressing his alcoholism, and removing some of his revolting body piercings, should surely be a priority.
"When was this?" Louisa asks, and I notice that she is gazing at me, rather too appraisingly.
"God, Louisa, have you been under a rock?" Libby says, laughing at her in disbelief. "Last night! It's been all over the papers today. Apparently he nearly died."
"His housekeeper found him, impaled on these gigantic shards of glass, like daggers they were, in this enormous pool of blood." The girl with the big hair exclaims breathlessly.
"He'd, like, sliced through all his his veins. She fainted." Someone else adds, and it takes every ounce of self control I possess not to correct him, not to point out what an idiotic peddler of ignorant untruths he really is.
"Surgeons saved his life. They had to operate on him half the night apparently." One of the young men chimes in and, next to me, I feel Louisa shift in her seat.
Her expression changes, and I watch her face transform from surprised concern to something that could almost be construed as approval, as she clearly puts two and two together. Desperate that she doesn't say anything to the others, I shoot her a warning glance, giving a tiny, desperate shake of my head and, reassuringly, she smiles at me, a slowly spreading, acknowledgment that she, too, is now in possession of a secret.
"I'm not a fan actually." She says thoughtfully, after a moment. "But I wouldn't have wanted him to die in such a horrible way. I'm glad there was someone, you know, with the skills to save him."
A murmur of agreement ripples around the table and, because most young people seem to have the attention span of a sleep-deprived gnat, the subject changes, to something that, mercifully, has nothing to do with me. Libby stands up, languorously, and wanders down to the other end of the table, cheerfully but rather inexplicably, hurling insults at whichever of the young men is called Simon.
Louisa intertwines her fingers with mine, leaning in to me, so closely that I can feel her breath on my neck as she speaks to me in a low, conspiratorial whisper.
"Was that where you were?" She asks, and I swallow hard.
"Umm, Louisa, I'm sorry but I can't discuss a patient."
She pulls away, and smiles gently, gazing at me with an odd expression, her eyes shining and her face appearing soft and almost innocent in its sweetness.
"I'm not asking you to discuss him, Martin." She says quietly, regarding me from under her impossibly long eyelashes. "I just wanna know if it was you, you know, that saved his life."
I stare back at her, uncomfortable with this level of attention but, at the same time, feeling just the smallest bit affected; sensing as I do that the look she has fixed upon me might almost be one of admiration. I raise my head slightly, a self conscious acknowledgement, finding myself swallowing hard at the disconcerting affect her approval has on me. Her gaze is unblinking and I can't tell what she is thinking, as she bites down, contemplatively, on her lip.
"Mm" I say, when I cannot bear any further scrutiny, ducking my head and looking away as discomfort threatens to overwhelm me. "There were three, umm, leads if you will, and...ahh, assistants, anaesthetist of course, theatre staff..."
"Quite crowded then?" She says gently, her eyes sparkling as I glance back at her cautiously, feeling ridiculously and rather childishly overwhelmed by shyness.
My mouth feels suddenly dry, and despite the klaxons that go off in my head, I reach for my abandoned glass of champagne, and swallow most of it, desperately searching for a legitimate change of subject; anything that takes her focus from me. I glance down and it's then I notice the bruising on the inside of her knee.
"How does it feel now?" I ask her gently, knowing that to broach the subject of her health is to venture out on to the thinnest of ice.
"It's fine. Hurts a bit if you press on it, but not to walk on." She says cheerfully, running her finger lightly around the edge of the pale purple contusion.
"Or kneel on..." I say, before I even realise I've let my thoughts turn into words and tumble from my mouth.
I can feel myself blush, a rapid flush of heat that quickly involves my whole body and, suddenly, I can't meet her eyes.
"What are you two looking at?" I hear Libby ask, in a tone that I suspect was meant to tease but only has the effect of inflicting toe-curling embarrassment upon me.
"Martin's flirting with me." Louisa says, and I can hear the smile in her voice, knowing as I do how much she will be relishing my discomfort.
I open my mouth to object but their focus is suddenly elsewhere.
"Oh whatever, you two," Libby says, rolling her eyes and feigning boredom. "Deejay's cranking it up, nearly time to hit the dance floor. Come on."
I look up at Louisa in absolute horror. It's probably taken half an hour but I have reached the limits of my endurance. Under no circumstances will I be dancing and there is no temptation in the world that will induce me to change my mind. I shake my head emphatically.
"I will sit it out, thank you." I say, glancing at Libby with an expression on my face that indicates, clearly, that this is the end of the discussion.
"Are you sure, Martin?" Louisa asks, somewhat hopefully. "Be fun..."
"Not for me." I assure her, folding my arms and setting my jaw mulishly. "I am quite content to wait here while you get whatever it is out of your system."
She grins at me, inclining her head and frowning slightly.
"Stephen!" She exclaims, without averting her gaze from my eyes. "Keep an eye on Martin, talk to him if you want to, but don't let him escape!"
The curly haired man, looks at us, blinking in surprise, as if he has stepped out into the glare of fluorescent lights after the gloom of a darkroom. Of all the other guests, he seems the most sensible and so I clear my throat and we glance at each other awkwardly.
"Louisa's great fun, isn't she?" He says, as we watch the the two of them walk away. "My Auntie Fi was really worried that Libby would go right off the rails once she got to college, unsupervised and all that, but thank goodness for Louisa, keeping her on the straight and narrow, or at least trying to. Auntie Fi loves her, you know, Libby reckons more than she loves her own daughter.
I stare back at him, bewildered. Should I tell him that I have absolutely no idea of what he is talking about nor, if I am honest, do I have even the slightest interest in the domestic issues of this mysterious Auntie Fi.
"Mm" I reply carefully, and I find myself draining my glass of champagne. It was remiss of me not to organise water for the table and now I must pay the price, or brave the seething scrum that stretches out across the room, making a trip to the bar seem rather onerous.
We sit in silence for a moment, not entirely a difficult sort for I sense, in Stephen, a natural reticence similar to my own. Eventually, rather awkwardly, I ask him about his job and that seems to be enough to encourage him into a stilted, uncomfortable declaration that he is an antiques restorer, admitting to a career that began in French polishing and has now come to encompass all manner of furniture resurfacing and reupholstering. After a moment, I haltingly confess to my fascination with antique clocks, and tentatively we begin a conversation; a meandering, hesitant exchange of facts that passes the time quite satisfactorily. As he reaches for the champagne, I place my hand over the top of the class, shaking my head and declining the top up but, eventually, for reasons I will never understand, I acquiesce and, before I even realise what has happened, I am draining the last few drops from the bottle into his glass. He laughs and downs it in one mouthful. The music seems impossibly loud and I realise we are now forced to lean in rather too closely to make ourselves heard.
"My round." He shouts, gesturing toward the bar and smiling lopsidedly at me, even more animated now than when he was espousing the relative merits of orange shellac versus clear. "You, umm, you stay here though. You're not allowed to wander off, remember?"
I nod, clearing my throat uncomfortably as I inform him that I need the lavatory, and ask him for a large glass of water, conscious that drinking alcohol has never really agreed with me, never mind it's detrimental effect on the liver and central nervous system. He gives me an awkward thumbs up and walks away, timidly attempting to push his way through the crowd while I gaze around me, searching for the ablution facilities. In the end, we arrive back at the same time; I take a long grateful draught of the cold water and have only just retaken my seat when Louisa and her friend bounce up to the table, their faces flushed and glowing, each grinning broadly.
Noticing there are now no spare seats she laughs and simply throws herself into my lap, collapsing against me before I even have chance to react. She slips her arm around my shoulders, her face disarmingly close to mine, and even though I feel I should be objecting, and recoiling in disapproval, I just can't. Every so often I have a flash of intense emotion, a sensation of the miracle that is Louisa in my arms, and now is one of those moments. The way I feel about her momentarily eclipses everything, all my fears and my shame and even my inherent shyness. After a few moments, the sensation fades, and my conscious mind takes over, urging me to remove myself, to put a seemly distance between us, to do anything really to avoid the prying glances of others. But, seeing the happiness on her face, the absolute radiance of her smile, I understand now only too well that to reject her attention, to censure her at this time would seem like a travesty, a punishment, an unnecessary cruelty. As much as my instinct is to push her away, I am becoming more and more aware of the well hidden part of me that actually craves the warmth her unselfconscious bursts of affection provide.
I fill her empty glass, slipping my arm around her waist to support her as I lean forward. Libby raises her glass and they clink them together, laughing again, inexplicably.
"To Australia!" Louisa says.
"They won't know what's bloody hit them!" Libby replies, and she waves her arm at the rest of the table, unable to make herself heard over the relentless bass and the electronic cacophony that, no doubt, Louisa will try and convince me is music. Eventually they seem to all understand what she wants of them; there's a raucous, indecipherable cheer and some horrifyingly rapid imbibing of a vast volume of alcoholic beverage.
Louisa shifts the arm that is around my neck and I feel her hand in my hair, running her fingers lightly through it, indulging her perplexing and mystifying fascination with the activity, all the while gazing at me thoughtfully.
"It's going to be a big night." She says, smiling at me with that strange little Mona Lisa expression she favours.
"Is it?" I reply, without enthusiasm.
"Libby wants to go all out. Bonkers. As soon as Matt and his friends get here, they're planning on chuffing off to Soho to a club..."
"I see." I reply, as my heart sinks. "And, umm, are you planning on joining them?"
Her faces twists into an insolent smile and she shakes her head slowly at me, leaning in and whispering in my ear.
"Thought we might have a big night of our own...what do you think?"
Although I know that not another soul can have heard her, I feel myself blush again and my swallow reflex goes into overdrive as I try and maintain my composure. I have deviated so far from my behavioural norms, my rigid set of rules and my deeply entrenched personal beliefs that I barely recognise myself. I'm aware that no one is paying us the slightest attention; the girl, Libby, is currently locked in an embrace with a tall, tanned young man who has just arrived, the room itself is poorly lit, and overcrowded; at almost every table, there are women perched upon the knees of men, and not one single person seems to either notice or to care in the slightest.
I have spent the evening in licensed premises, I have drunk wine, and made conversation with a complete stranger. I have even succumbed to Louisa's determined displays of affection and, I realise, none of it matters, nothing appalling has happened to me, my sense of self is still in one piece and I have not been struck down by lightning sent to smite me by a vexed and disapproving god. Things seem to clarify in my mind, calmly and rationally, like the separation of oil and water, and I force myself to acknowledge that I have spent my adult life condemning as ridiculous, that which seemed to be personally unobtainable.
I remember the miserable flashes of jealousy I'd experienced as a teenager, the overriding sense of exclusion, the feelings of unworthiness that had only intensified when I got to university. I was shy and awkward in a world where pairing off seemed to be the goal of every student. As deficient as I was emotionally, as limited as I knew myself to be socially, biologically speaking I was a normal adult male and, as a result, I'd lived a strange, disapproving sort of existence, half in denial, half in fascination; often wanting very much to be the boy holding the hand of the pretty girl but having an intrinsic understanding, a bitter realisation really, that it would never be me. It's an epiphany of sorts, I suppose, not a cure, not an overnight transformation, more of a dawning realisation that I have invested a lot of energy into protecting myself; achieving a perception of safety by deeming everything that appeared out of reach as clearly superfluous, definitely contemptible and, possibly, even dangerous.
"Shall we go?" I ask her, suddenly, pointing at the brash looking new arrival. "I mean, I'm assuming that's...umm..."
"Matt, yes it is..." Louisa replies slowly. "And, yes, let's. Before she tries to make me change my mind..."
Extricating ourselves from the painful assembly becomes a bit of a blur. I've never been one for emotional goodbyes but it seems to be the speciality of most of the young women at the table. Eventually, I have had enough, clasping Louisa's wrist firmly and encouraging her to follow me, bending over and hissing her name firmly in her ear, growing more impatient with each apparently important post script to the endless breathless farewells. I draw her along behind me, taking her hand firmly as I push my way determinedly through the crowd. Perhaps the champagne has emboldened me, or at least allowed me to see that the walls around me are not quite so thick and strong as I thought. She laughs as we barge through the door and stumble out onto the street but I don't seem to be thinking with total clarity and I can't decide which way to go, where to hail a taxi from so, without saying a word, it seems we are content to walk for a while, to revel in the cooler air and relative quiet of the street.
"Have you ever done this?" She says suddenly, tugging on my arm and hauling me sideways into the doorway of what appears to be a travel agents.
I'm confused for a moment until she gives a throaty laugh and I feel her hands around my neck, pulling me down to kiss her with a sort of desperate impatience. I realise it was a rhetorical question, one with clearly no requirement that I answer and so I willingly submit, returning the intensity of her embrace with a reckless disregard for both location and outcome. She laughs again, pressing herself against me, wrapping one leg around mine, inspiring in me a rather mad sort of impetuosity that has me leaning against the door, pulling her toward me, dizzied and incredulous, and consumed with a rather alarmingly inappropriate desire.
"Oh for god's sake, you two, go home!" I hear someone cry and, with absolute horror, I realise it is Louisa's friend Libby, marching down the street with her entourage, bringing my loss of self control to the world's attention, catching my eye and smirking at me rather knowingly as she passes and shrieking excitably at Louisa, almost in jubilation. Amongst an eruption of cat calls and raucous laughter, slowly and self-consciously, I release her from my grip, sliding my hands from her hips, self consciously, and rather reluctantly, dropping them down by my sides as she buries her face in my chest and whispers my name, apparently incoherent, choking with unsuppressed laughter.
"Oh my god Martin." She says after a moment, gazing up at me with sparkling eyes. "How absolutely brilliant!"