(I apologise for the length of time between chapters, but my plan is most definitely to complete the story this year. If its been two years since you read it, may I suggest you read from the start again? JAH xx)

The noise in the hall seems mercifully to abate. The last straggling clusters of over-excited children are shooed outside by their parents, and I feel as if I've escaped from under a wet and heavy tarpaulin. The carollers have abandoned their task and only the occasional crackle of static shimmers through the PA system. The potter saunters past, now wearing only part of his ridiculous Santa costume, and it is only as I watch him walk toward the refreshments table that I notice he is not wearing any trousers. Beside me, Louisa sniggers and I realise with some horror that she has noticed too.

"I'd only give that a two out of ten…" she says, in a rather audible stage whisper. "But then I am rather spoilt. I mean, no ones gonna fill your boxers, are they?"

I stare at her incredulously, as I feel myself turn as red as a beet.

"Don't give me that disapproving look Martin. One of the first things I ever noticed about you was that your bum looks like two basketballs wrapped in cling film…"

"Louisa, for God's sake!" I mutter, taking her by the elbow, and leaning down so I can hiss into her ear. "Keep your voice down…I think it's time we went home and checked on James…"

"James is fine! He and Ruth will be having a lovely time together. Can't we just stay a little bit longer? It's been ages since we went anywhere together…and it might actually be my last chance…please Martin?"

I glance around, considering my options. The hypochondriacal woman from the hotel poses by the door, like a crocodile lying in a waterhole, waiting for an oblivious thirsty gazelle. She holds her glass to her lips, running her fingers up and down the stem, apparently mesmerising that helpless arse, Mark Mylow, the only man paying her any attention. His standards have certainly plummeted since Louisa was his dream woman, and his excruciating confession to me that he loved her, and he thought he always had. And though it's none of my business, I suspect that this, too, will end in disaster for him. I'm familiar with her type and I suspect she's in for quite a surprise. It's not just Mark Mylow's wallet that she might discover is significantly smaller than average.

Appearing to have strategically placed herself to my right, Mrs Tishell blocks the only other route of escape. She leers at me over the top of an enormous, punch-filled brandy balloon, her expression vulturine and suggestive, as she sucks vigorously through a ridiculous novelty straw. Not ten feet away, the American loiters purposefully, never taking her eyes off me, even as she demands to know whether the punch is organic, low GI, and Fair Trade. Nodding slyly, Bert hands her a glass; tonight's self-appointed barman, always up to something, always on the take. Stewart James hovers by the punchbowl, his demeanour hinting worryingly at a the onset of a manic episode. I frown, but before I can make my way to check on him, something strikes fear in to my heart. Isn't that the undertaker at the entrance, peeling off her brightly coloured coat? Her eyes dart about as, eagerly, she surveys the crowded room and, instinctively I turn away. Ever since she asked me for sperm in the street, I admit that I've been obsessed about avoiding her; it hasn't been easy and it now it seems my luck's finally run out.

I feel a playful hand on my arm, and a low voice says my name, imploring me to fetch her another glass of punch. Louisa, my human shield, my insurance policy should I choose to run the gauntlet of these women. One glance at her wide smile tells me that she determined to suck the marrow from the evening. As much as I don't understand its appeal, I do recognise how she shines in these sorts of social situations. But if she'd wanted to go out, I can think of a several more palatable options. This hall's too noisy, and too crowded. It smells of onions. It smells of damp. The volume of conversation is escalating, the laughter is more raucous, more widespread and it's becoming my idea of hell. And even as I'm formulating my argument for persuading Louisa to leave with me, I am distracted by an over excited, ear-piercing squeal. I turn around in time to see the curate, her hand clutching at her bottom, laughing as she waggles her finger at the overexuberant Park Ranger. My god, it looks as if he's actually pinched her, but rather than indignant, she seems actually rather pleased.

With Bert nowhere to be seen, I pick up the ladle and carefully fill another glass. It's the usual, yellowish concoction, lumps of miserable fruit bobbing about pointlessly, a fermenting scum clinging to the edges of the bowl. I take a surreptitious sniff, trying to reassure myself that no alcohol is involved, only to have Louisa catch me in the act, fixing me with a quizzical, slightly cautionary stare. In my defence, there must be something in it that is status-altering but I detect nothing other than the scent of oranges, apples, too much sugar, mint and possibly bergamot. And, though I admit that the symptoms presented are not entirely consistent with drunkenness, I am aware of a lowering of standards, and inhibitions, a certain over-familiarity pervading the entire room. And there's a look in my wife's eye that certainly suggests an element of prurience. I raise an eyebrow as I offer her the glass.

"Louisa, are you feeling light headed or dizzy? Any blurring of vision, any difficulties with balance?"

"No," she whispers, flashing a dazzling smile as she leans in, conspiratorially. "The only difficulty I'm having is keeping my hands off you. I can't wait to get you home, and out of that suit…"

"What on earth has got in to you?" I splutter, burning with embarrassment, shooting aghast looks in every direction, terrified that someone might be listening. "I'm sorry Louisa, but I really do think think it's time to go…"

Perhaps through sheer luck, we are not overheard but it feels like the crowd is closing in on us. Mad pharmacist, presumptuous tourist, predatory innkeeper, they all seem to be inching closer. Another shriek and this time it's Morwenna of all people; she and Al appear to be dancing and he's dipped her so low, her hair brushes over the floor. Louisa's appalling mother is draped around Chippy Miller's shoulders, she's stroking his beard in a rather suggestive manner, apparently whispering in Spanish in his ear. And there is no one here who will be able to impose any order, the vicar is clearly drunk, and Joe Penhale has Jemima, our childminder, bouncing on his knee. Louisa can do what she likes with me once we're somewhere private but this is ghastly, it's like Sodom and Gomorrah, and I want no part of it. I reach for her arm, about to insist that we go home, and that's when I hear it, a shout of shock.

"Help! Doc! She's having a heart attack!" I recognise Mark Mylow's panicked voice and, as I turn, the Wilson woman crumples dramatically into his arms.

There's a large part of me that knows this woman as scheming and manipulative. However, I am duty bound to do what I can to assist, I glance at Louisa and she displays the merest hint of scepticism, smirking at me before thoughtfully folding her arms.

"My heart, Martin, it's bouncing up and down! It feels like my chest's doing star jumps…." The woman gasps, clutching at my fingers. Before I have a chance to react, she plunges to my hands between her breasts, panting like a dog, her face uncomfortably close to mine. "Can you feel that?"

"Steady on Martin." I hear that idiot architect chortling in the background. "You don't want Lou to catch you with your sticky mitts all over the breasts of a beautiful woman…"

"Mrs Willmot, let go of my hand, and the rest of you, give us some space! " I growl, glowering at him as I reef my arm away.

I remove my handkerchief from my pocket, furiously wiping at my hands. Only then, and with the greatest reluctance, do I press my ear to her chest.

She fans her face with her hand. "It's Wilson…and, seens as I'm here Martin, why don't we just pop into that little room over there and you can examine me in private? Goodness, all these men staring. I mean, I know you'll say I should be used to it but, honestly…"

"Any nausea, pain or discomfort? Lightheadedness? Dizziness?" I hiss, confident that the only thing wrong with this woman is the need to constantly be the centre of male attention.

I clasp her wrist and glance down at my watch. Her pulse is steady, seventy nine bpm, no sweating or shortness of breath.

"I am feeling a little dizzy…" she says and I feel her hand slide across my thigh, in a manner I'm aware generally only implies one thing. Horrified, I leap to my feet with the spring of a electrocuted Cossack.

"As I've I told you before, if you require a consultation, make an appointment at the clinic in Wadebridge…in the mean time, as we've discussed previously, you need to manage your alcohol intake and reduce your consumption of stimulants. I'm sure I don't need to ask you again how much caffeine you've had today…"

"If you're dizzy, perhaps I should take you home..." The architect interrupts, crouching down in front of her and and clasping her hands in his.

"I was going to say that!" Mark Mylow interjects, his expression that of a rather confused spaniel. "Anyway, you can't…can you? Leave right now…I mean…I was…I've just…I've fetched you another glass of punch…"

She glances at me, her fingers trailing over his as she takes the tall glass from the poor chump's trembling hand. I don't even try to hide my disgust; the woman's a predator, and Mark Mylow's a fool. And the only thing to be said about Danny bloody Steele is that, at least, if he's ogling the Wilson woman, he's leaving Louisa alone. I dust off my knees, glancing sharply about the hall, keen to discover the whereabouts of my wife. Having drifted across the room again, she appears deep in conversation with her red-headed former workmate, the woman who's spent far too much time in the sun. In sharp contrast, my god, Louisa is utterly radiant, even from this far away; a poster child for geriatric pregnancy, she is simply glowing with good health. Of course, she is naturally very beautiful and keeps herself fit, but I'd like to think my morning routine of kale and spinach smoothies contribute significantly to her overall well being.

Watching her, I feel that familiar lurch of disbelief, still incredulous that, of all men, she chose to marry me. That she actually wanted me to share her bed, to be the father of her children, that she persists with loving me even though I know I am not an easy man to love. As I look on, I'm dismayed to see the undertaker join them, throwing back her head and emptying her glass in one fell swoop. Women seem always to find something in common with each other, friendship is easy; they open up to each other, even if they've only recently met. In a breathless voice Louisa say something indiscernible but, whatever it is, her companions dissolve into paroxysms of helpless laughter. As much as I'm desperate to leave, it feels suddenly churlish of me. To drag her away now, when she asks so little of me socially, seems such an inherently selfish thing to do.

"Hello there, how you doing?"

I startle, swinging round to see who has accosted me. A tall, slim woman, her features regular, if a little sharp: The American of course. Predictable that she couldn't keep away. The exchange rate, the quaintness, the darling British accents; they come for one sunny day in summer and decide they want to emigrate. I've heard it all before.

"Very well, thank you." I reply curtly, and I turn my back to her, shaking my foot lose from the coiled electrical cord that is snaking through the chairs.

"You know, since the last time I saw you, I've made quite a lot of changes in my life." She moves around to face me, a knowing smile plastered across her face. "You could say you were quite the catalyst, Doctor Ellingham."

I grunt impassively.

"Also, with my ex-husband finally out of the picture, it was easier than I thought to finally quit drinking. So I'm pretty sure my views on alcohol, like a bunch of other things, now correspond with yours. "

"Yes, right. Good." I mutter, edging sideways as I look for an escape route out. I'm very aware that Louisa considers me rude and overly dismissive of people in general but in situations like this, honestly, how on earth am I to get away?

"You know, most people could care less about the planet, and all those cute animals being eaten, but I totally couldn't look at myself in the mirror. So, be the change you want to see, isn't that so, Doctor?"

"Couldn't care less."

"Excuse me?"

"Couldn't care less. It's the correct expression."

"Oh. Really?" She says, and she looks confused. "But you approve of my decision to go vegan though, right?"

I glance up at her, wondering what it is about vegans that they feel the need to tell absolutely everyone. I point to her glass of punch.

"Is that vegan?" I ask.

She smiles. "That guy from the bar gave me his word…the heavy one. He said that's why it was a little dearer than the regular punch.."

I raise an eyebrow at her but I decide to keep my counsel. Bert Large charging ignorant tourists for free punch is really none of my business; I'm only concerned with seeing my wife home, and confirming my son is safely in bed.

I clear my throat. "Excuse me." I say coldly but, before I can walk away, I feel her hand upon my chest.

"Do you work out?" She asks, staring at me over the top of her glass. "I know it's not a big thing for you Brits like it is Stateside, but you know, I gotta tell you, you have great shoulders. And it sure doesn't look like you've been skipping leg day…"

I stare at her, rooted to the spot with horror. "Of course I don't" I manage to growl, embarrassment turning my tongue to wood.

Even the prospect of the undertaker seems suddenly less terrifying. It's only a few desperate strides to get across the hall, and the relative safety of Louisa and her overexcited little coterie, but it seems to take me forever. As I approach, each of them is bent double with laughter, and my wife is clearly gasping for breath. Her empty glass lies on its side, rolling about on the floor. Muttering my disapproval, I stoop to pick it up.

"You'll have to become an expert in all this, Julia, you know, if you do want a little brother or sister for Arthur." Louisa points out, and, instantly, my ears prick up. "Though I think it's the timing of 'it' that's really crucial, more so than, you know, the actual position that you use…if you know what I mean."

I take half a step backwards, suddenly uncomfortable, not really knowing if this is a conversation I should overhear. Technically, she is correct, and I wonder if elaborating on the actual medical science might add some dignity and accuracy to the discussion. I open my mouth to add my perspective on the fascinating subject of ovulation and timing, only to have have sharing my expertise stifled by a lightning bolt of shock.

"The books say, any position that offers depth." The undertaker blurts out, and she giggles. "Apparently, you want the semen deposited as far in as it will go, as close to the cervix as possible…"

"That's what I put my twins down to…" The ginger woman replies loudly. "My Barry said the fertility specialist insisted he try it from behind…"

The undertaker splutters, spraying out what is left of her drink over the floor and clutching at her oversized scarf theatrically. "And you Louisa, what's your secret to conceiving in your forties? Or are you going to brag that being married to Martin means you've never had to worry about achieving depth…?"

I stand aghast. I have not felt shame like this for decades. My face burns so fiercely I feel like I've stuck my head into a furnace; and yet it's like they haven't seen me, like I'm not standing here at all. This is the sort of coarseness I thought sprung from men's locker rooms, never imagining it would be the level educated middle-aged women would sink to. I reach for Louisa, gripping her around the elbow and growling her name. She turns and stares at me, a mischievous smirk spreading across her face, her eyes sparkling wickedly.

"Martin!" She says breathily, and she stifles another laugh. "There you are! Just in time to get me another glass..would you mind?"

"Louisa," I repeat, sotto voce through gritted teeth. "I'm not sure what is going on, possibly you've had some sort of reaction to the refined carbohydrates and the fructose, a sugar rush if you will…but either way, I must insist that we go home."

She leans her head on my shoulder and I feel her hand slide softly over my cheek. Her hair smells of fruit, and her ubiquitous Kenzo Flower. "You have lovely kind eyes." She murmurs in a sultry voice, caressing my hair with the tips of her fingers. "Did you know that?"

I let out a sharp, impatient sigh, taking her wrist and holding it, down low, out of sight. "Can we just stop this now, Louisa, please? It's far from amusing, and I really think we should be getting home to James."

"Alright. You win." She murmurs, smiling at me lazily, with hooded eyes, her expression suggestive. "I do just need a wee though, before we go."

I nod, watching her walk away, hips swaying from side to side, smiling at everyone she passes, her hair gleaming like burnished bronze. In that way of late gestation women, her hand goes to her hip and, despite how unfathomable I find her behaviour, I feel a sense of something deep inside; more than gratitude or even affection, rather more like tenderness, a strange thing to experience in this dreary village hall. But I have no time to ruminate as I wrench my gaze away. Her companions are still sniggering, clearly speculating about me like I am some sort of prizewinning ram. Determined to ignore them, I pin my shoulders back, standing up straight and snatching at my cuffs. It's nobody else's business how this pregnancy came about; the mechanics, the frequency, for God's sake, that's entirely between Louisa and me.

I glance down at my hand, and the empty glass that I'm holding, recalling the night she threw my notebook away. I was so focused on Basal Body Temperature, grimly intent on limiting her caffeine. But for Louisa, the science seemed unimportant, more than ever it was the notion of romance that she seemed to crave. So I'd made love to her, in a room full of burning candles, initially worried that I should keep half an eye on the door, waiting for the fire brigade to hack their way in. But, like so many things, once she convinces me my principles can safely be abandoned, any objections I have are quickly forgotten. I walk towards the makeshift bar, recalling how, from the moment we'd decided to try for a second child, she was so optimistic about the process, so patient, so determined. Clearing my throat, I pick up the ladle, recalling how many times she'd sat so uncomplaining as I slipped the thermometer into her mouth. One more glass if she wants it, if it will make her happy; all things considered, I suppose it won't really hurt at all.