I'd put my shirt back on, crumpled as it was, and wandered a little disconsolately around the flat, both agitated and drained in equal measure. For the first time in what seemed like forever, I had relinquished my self control and it was a strange, unnerving feeling. On the one hand, I was energised and somehow revitalised, on the other hand, I was rendered uncertain and uptight.

When she emerged from the bathroom, composed, stoic and fully clothed, we had both been a touch awkward, a little nervous possibly, and rather unsure. Or perhaps it was just me that felt exposed and a little overwhelmed. Either way, I'd glanced at her, tentatively, once again uncertain of what to say or do, and I understood in that moment that Louisa felt as I did. That much was clear to me in yet another of her endearing mannerisms: her clenched jaw, and the accompanying, self deprecating grimace. But, while her discomfort is obvious, her joyful exuberance bubbles just beneath the surface.

I'd cleared my throat and asked if I could call her a taxi, and she'd nodded, flashing me a quick, grateful smile, before averting her eyes self consciously and wandering past me back into the kitchen. At that moment, I'd wanted her so desperately to come toward me, or even just to offer some sort of encouragement that meant I could confidently draw her into my arms once again. But, as usual, uncertainty chokes me and renders me speechless. I know I should apologise for the interruption, make light of it possibly, and reassure her that, even though frustrated and obstructed as we were, I'd been fulfilled in just spending the afternoon in her company. Instead, I am silent, watching her walk past me with a painful and breathless regret.

You see, while that sentiment is genuine, it barely even scratches the surface of the complete truth, which is that today has been nothing short of momentous for me. Even if I were a more eloquent man, I don't know how I could tell Louisa that she is the absolute embodiment of every deeply suppressed need I have ever had. She can't possibly know that, suddenly, my life is awash with possibilities of which I'd long given up hope. She will have no idea of how exquisitely terrifying it felt to place myself into her hands, to suddenly and wilfully abandon every rigid physical regulation I'd placed on myself. And soon, when she is gone, I will stand under the shower for as long as it takes for this mad impetuosity to ebb away, for my composure to be restored and until I shake off this debilitating haze of desire.

I divert into my study to summon her taxi and then I seek her out, finding her standing at the French doors to the little balcony, curtains drawn back, staring out at the glimpse of the sunlit park this vantage point offers. For a moment, I wrestle with the sudden return of my punishing shyness until a sudden moment of certainty gives me the courage I need to touch her again; all it takes is for Louisa to turn and smile at me over her shoulder, softly and shyly as I approach. She leans so reassuringly against me as I place my hands tentatively on her waist. It's all the encouragement I need to envelop her from behind, to wrap my arms around her and bury my face in her neck.

"I'm sorry." I murmur, fearing the inadequacy of my words, but once again completely captivated by her softness, and her restorative warmth, how delicate she feels, yet how vital and alive.

Spontaneous affection will never be my strong suit but Louisa rewards me; I feel her shoulders begin to bounce and I recognise her amusement, as she spins in my grasp and turns to face me, shaking her head incredulously, her eyes as bright as polished jade. Momentarily she rests her head against my cheek before she reaches up to kiss me; a soft lipped, gentle pressure that's clearly a bookend to the afternoon and not meant to inflame us further. Any residual awkwardness, any self-conscious discomfort, evaporates and there's just the two of us, silently embracing and revelling in this last moment of closeness, before we are cleaved apart by the dual forces of an insistent taxi horn, and the inevitable arrival of my ever-efficient house keeper.

As disappointed as I feel after she leaves, as quiet and shadowy as the flat now seems; so devoid of colour, and sadly lacking the luminosity she so effortlessly brings, I get on with things, clearing the dishes briskly and methodically, and putting the linen in the hamper, glancing at the Chesterfield as I pass. It's as if the spectre of Louisa remains, and I breathe out heavily as I recall the sensation of her hands on my bare skin, her touch so incredibly sensual as she sat across my lap and pressed herself against me, pushing me back so passionately upon the creaking leather, and annihilating any last vestiges of resistance that I might have clung to. The memory alone is enough to make me gasp, and I say her name aloud as my breath escapes in a long, frustrated, carnal groan. I shed my clothes on the bedroom floor, rather more carelessly than is usual for me and wander, in a daze, toward the bathroom and a restorative shower.

Although I am officially on call from home, I'd already decided that I would go in to work this evening, and the otherworldly feeling that envelops me as I stand beneath the tepid insistent stream of water seems to make my attendance even more imperative. In my familiar clinical environment, I can keep busy, occupying myself in reviewing my surgical cases for the next few days, while assessing anything new that may have arisen since Friday and, if nothing else, use the bustle, the intensity and the coolly efficient hospital atmosphere to distract myself from the lingering sensations that I can't quite seem to rid myself of.

A clean shirt and a fresh suit helps, and I eschew my usual sombre tie choice in favour of the brightest red I have in my possession. As I straighten the knot in the mirror, I glance at myself briefly and I'm surprised to see that there's something in my expression that seems almost sanguine. I'm hardly surprised but I hope the brisk forty minute walk to the hospital will take care of it, and any of the other residual emotions I am struggling to shed as the memory of her almost naked body refuses to budge from the forefront of my mind. Desperately needing to regain my focus, I force myself to think about a case I saw on Friday; a saccular aneurysm of the inferior vena cava, that had thrombosed after vigorous exercise. With relief, I feel a scowl return to my face; the last thing I need is to present at the vascular department, grinning like some imbecilic ninny.

As is my habit, I arrive exactly thirty minutes before the start of my shift and, fortunately, I don't encounter anyone on the way up the stairs, at least, no one I am required to speak to. The staff on duty, aware that I don't have to be here, are familiar enough with my habits, and know that I prefer to check up on things myself and then return to my flat only if everything is seemingly under control. That way, if I am called in, I feel better prepared to deal with any eventualities upon which I might need to be consulted. Once I reach the quiet Sunday evening solitude of my office, I pull out my diary and study my calendar thoughtfully. In order to have the weekend of the Farewell function free, I have swapped shifts, an arrangement, though useful, that has unfortunately served to create much of the increased congestion over the next few weeks. I add a few items to my task list, namely ensuring my dinner suit goes to the dry cleaners tomorrow, but not before trying it on to ensure that it still fits. With the looming approach of my third decade, I have finally noticed a significant broadening of my frame, which reminds me that I had better ensure my dress shirt still fits around the neck, and I note and underline that point with a touch of alarm.

I cast my eyes over the crowded weeks, expressionless as I glance at my allocation of on-call shifts, and glowering rather more as it dawns on me just how many pointless and tedious extra mural meetings I will be forced to attend at the exact time that I suddenly have somewhere else I would much rather be. I experience an intense pang of anxiety again as I think of the risk I am not only taking in attending my father's sodding function but the peril I have also placed Louisa under by asking her to accompany me. I could sense her disappointment today though, when I suggested that perhaps we should not put in an appearance at all; I can't expect her to understand my hesitancy and my concern. Unlike me, Louisa thinks the best of people, finds the joy in situations, indeed seems to seek positivity in everything. And the result is, as I think about the damage my parents could do, the horrors they could inflict, all I feel is more apprehensive on my own account and increasingly protective on hers.

It's still light when, a few hours later, I tie up all my loose ends and decide to walk home. After a brief conversation with the Vascular registrar, fortunately a fellow more capable then most, I leave him to it and I'm soon striding purposefully down the narrow side streets, walking as fast as I can, desperate to burn off the unfamiliar excess nervous energy which stubbornly refuses to dissipate. It's a strange sensation because my body feels ridiculously like some manic, ephedrine-fuelled Jack-in-the-box, while emotionally, I am completely and utterly spent. I find meaningful communication so totally and utterly exhausting. If only Louisa realised how completely alien expressing myself to her actually is, how inept I feel, how out of my depth I am. I've had no practice at this, actually I have never seen the need; I prefer the factual to the esoteric, scientific concepts to sentimental ones. But I have never regretted my verbal impoverishment more than I do now, frustrated at my total inability to express my thoughts in words when I'm dealing with such mystifying matters as feelings and emotions.

Why is it that I can present confidently and articulately to crowded conference venues; opening my self up to the piercing scrutiny of sharp minds and expert opinions? It holds absolutely no fear for me; my delivery is smooth and seamless, flowing with barely a pause or hesitation. But now, as I walk, I cringe, recalling grimly the indecorous manner with which I blurted everything out so coarsely, demanding an answer from Louisa to a particularly delicate question, so idiotically and in such an unpolished fashion that I deserved a lot worse than the reassuring grin she responded with. Of course I had known that I must ask her; carefully considering the way in which I might broach it to her and trying desperately to show a modicum of delicacy. But, despite the fact that the situation had escalated rather rapidly, I was woefully unprepared and embarrassingly unpolished.

The truth is, we have come to this point a lot earlier than I'd anticipated. I'd barely dared even to let myself hope, whatever my subconscious had to say on the matter, but it was as if, when my quite justified medical concerns had been answered, there suddenly seemed no earthly reason to continue holding back, and the moment of realisation had been nothing short of exhilarating. And now, unless by some miracle, I face a long, tedious fortnight before I can see her again. Two dismal weeks in which I will no doubt find myself tormented to the point of excruciation by the memories that are currently on continuous loop inside my head. Thirteen days of being turned inside out in anticipation of seeing her again, and the expectation of what that reunion might hold. In the greater scheme of things, as a proportion of how long I have lived a solitary life, it should be easily achievable but, right now, it feels grim and dispiriting, and almost unbearable.

My first opportunity to phone Louisa is on Wednesday, later in the evening than I'd hoped but it can't be helped. As I dial, I find myself somewhat cynically beseeching Eros and Aphrodite to be on my side, petitioning Pothos and Anteros to intercede on my behalf, even offering up silent evocations to Rāgarāja, Min and the Archangel Gabriel to come to my aid, just this once, so desperate am I for her to answer. In the end, one of her flatmates picks up the receiver and I don't have to wait long until I'm relieved to hear Louisa breathlessly uttering my name.

"How's your week been?" She asks quietly and I recognise her efforts to be discrete in the impossible environs of her ghastly flat.

"It's only Wednesday." I point out. "But, umm, busy. And, ahhh, satisfactory."

"Oh, right, well that's good." She says slowly before I hear the teasing tone return to her voice. "Not missing me then, Martin?"

I swallow hard. The truth is, although I have struggled hard to focus on my work, attempting to stifle every other idea and temporarily bury any private thoughts that might arise, I have been rather unsuccessful.

"Ahh, well, umm, obviously it would have been preferable to...to not have such an extended period of time until...between...that is to say, umm, I realise it's not an ideal situation but, umm, I hope you are making the best of it, as am I."

"I see." She says slowly, before adding, after a long pause. "Well, anyway, I do have some news...some great news actually. Guess what?"

I detest conversations such as this but I'm sensing that my earlier economy of truth, when she so clearly wanted me to say I missed her, and I was so pathetically unable, has disappointed her. Ellingham, you are disappointing, a voice in my head replies emphatically, she may as well get used to it. Sighing, I try a different tack.

"Or...perhaps you could just tell me?" I enquire gently.

"I passed all my exams, that's what!" She says joyfully, and I can hear the delight in her voice, and picture the disarming grin that will currently be rendering her face even more beautiful than usual.

"Aah Louisa! That is..that is really excellent news. Congratulations and, umm, well done."

"Thank you Martin! We're all going out on Saturday night to celebrate but I don't suppose you can come, can you?"

"Ah, no, no I can't. Working I'm afraid. All weekend..." I tell her calmly, initially delighted that I have an honest excuse not to attend some vile pub crawl, hovering in the background, bored and aggravated, while having my lungs polluted by second hand cigarette smoke and my leather-soled shoes ruined by the filthy, sticky carpet which invariably adorns the floors of the sort of places frequented by drunken students.

"That is a shame." She replies, and she almost sounds as if she means it. "It would have been lovely to have you there."

Her voice trails off sadly and, for some reason, my reply sounds terse, when that was not my intention.

"I did try and explain on Sunday, if you recall, that this sort of thing will happen. My work will be a frequent intrusion into whatever plans you feel like you might like to make. You just have to get on with things. Without me."

There is a long pause, and I hear her sigh softly.

"Yes, Martin, you did." She says resignedly. "And I will get on with things...I wasn't trying to make you feel guilty..."

"I don't feel guilty. Louisa, you knew I was unavailable when you arranged this." I point out, and as soon as the words slip from my mouth, I feel a wave of horror.

Why must my need to be factual and accurate override everything? I picture her crestfallen expression as the delight of her achievement drains away, her high spirits hosed down by the torrent of cold water that I am. Worse still, now I do feel irritated and edgy and, as I speak, I realise that it has nothing to do with facts or guilt and everything to do with defensiveness and, as I realise with discomfort, even jealousy. I've seen the lechery her appearance attracts, out at night among the boorish, hormone-driven hordes, and I feel sickened by the thought.

I'm met by a stony silence, which is no more than I deserve but it causes me significantly more discomfort. I am such a bumbling oaf and, clearly, now I have upset her.

"Perhaps, Louisa, I could umm, take you somewhere at another time and we could, ahh, celebrate?" I ask cautiously. "It's a good result and, umm especially because you, umm, you had the dreadful migraine, didn't you, umm during your last exam?"

"Yes, I did." She says and I sense that's she's pleased in some way that I remembered. Of course I am going to remember a medical event. It's everything else that seems beyond my clumsy insensitive grasp.

"Let's do that then." She adds cautiously.

"Yes. I'd like that." I reply, somewhat earnestly.

"I'll tell you all the details when I see you next weekend shall I? Because, you know, I surprised myself, actually." She says and I can picture the smile on her face as she says it, modest and self effacing but so effortlessly radiant.

"I'm not...Umm..I'm not surprised." I say and I clear my throat uncomfortably. "Ah, you have such, umm, such a passion for your subject, ah, your career in fact and, I would have been...surprised...had you achieved any other result than the the one you did."

She pauses again and then I hear her reply, and I breathe a sigh of relief that her joyous tone has at last returned. It's as easy as that, you idiot, I tell myself. You just need to learn to filter your tactlessness and say something kind, Ellingham. It's not rocket science. You don't have to lie. Underneath all your graceless, heavy-handed bombast, it's what you actually think.

"Thank you, Martin, that's...lovely."

"You're welcome."

"I've been thinking actually, speaking of next weekend, and it might be a good time to bring this up...because, I was just wondering, you know, what your thoughts were about this cocktail thing. Logistics, I mean."

"Logistics?"

"Yes, you know, have you thought about whether we will meet there or what?"

I experience a pang of apprehension and, as I try to speak, my throat feels dry and hoarse.

"Umm, no, no, I don't think that's a good idea, perhaps you could come to my flat and we could go together?" I say as calmly as I can. "I don't think meeting at the venue would be, umm, appropriate, that is to say...umm.."

"No, that's absolutely fine. I'm happy to come to you..."

"And, Louisa, I insist that you come in a taxi. Please."

Her voice changes again, now formal and crisp and, after a moment, I realise she has company. Suddenly in the background, I hear noise and the sound of the television blaring.

"Yes, fine, we can sort the details out later. Call me again when you have a chance, yeah?" She says quickly. "Bye then."

I stare at the receiver in disappointment before I hang up and then I make my way to bed. My thirteen day wait until I see her again has now been whittled down to ten and, tonight, like every previous evening since I last saw her, I will fall into a restless sleep, with a slide show playing over and over in my head; bewitching images of a beautiful, perfectly formed woman who so effortlessly continues to take my breath way.

Thursday begins with a succession of madly frustrating imbeciles, trailing along behind me as we undertake ward rounds, pitifully unable to answer thoughtfully, or comment meaningfully on anything other than the most textbook of cases. Usually, I would find myself coldly censuring them for their lack of intelligence, their pathological absence of curiosity and, worse still, their cataclysmic deficiency in lateral thinking. But, instead, I satisfy myself with a rebuke in the form of a disapproving glare, and I move on, leaving them puzzled in my wake.

Friday is no better. My valuable research time is interrupted by a facility tour with some faceless, nameless V.I.P and I observe with disgust as the head of Vascular toadies and scrapes to this magniloquent, puffed-up bureaucrat, full of his own self-importance. After over an hour of this simpleton's non-sensical questions and weak attempts at humour, I excuse myself, despite the disapproving glare of my chief. I glance at him, unrepentant. I have an article to submit to the Journal of Vascular medicine, and I cannot stand the thought of forfeiting any more time to this pointless posturing exercise. A late afternoon AAA sees me finally home just after nine o'clock. I toy briefly with the idea of telephoning Louisa but exhaustion wins that battle; I am due back on the ward at seven the next morning and I content myself with a promise to try and call if I have a free moment over the weekend.

Fate, as usual, chooses otherwise and Saturday morning I deal with an emergency Aneurysmectomy and a transvers colon resection, and, in the afternoon I stitch up rather a nasty skill saw injury which includes reattaching the tips of two fingers. Then, just as I hope things might be quietly winding down, late on Saturday night, I'm required to step in when an A&E patient presents with a particularly interesting injury, a single stab wound to the anterior aspect of the left sternocleidomas muscle. After bilateral neck explorations we successfully performed a median sternotomy in order to obtain control of the massive bleeding from the vertebral artery, but it was long, arduous and horrendously messy. Afterwards, in my report I note that we administered eight units of packed red blood cells and four units of fresh-frozen plasma during the procedure. When I threw my scrubs into the laundry bin it seemed as if I had worn most of it, my own neck aches rather brutally and I spend rather a long time under a hot shower in the wee small hours of Sunday morning.

I manage a few hours sleep before rounds, checking on yesterday's cases and following up with the ward sister, before persistent borborygmi sends me in search of breakfast. I manage to secure a banana that is not in need of the Last Rites and a small container of fruit salad, and I remove myself to my office where I can eat in silence and, when the appropriate hour arises, I can attempt to telephone Louisa. I make myself a small espresso, of fortunately acceptable quality and, as I dial, I notice my knee jiggling nervously in anticipation.

By now, it's after nine but there is no answer. As I listen to the dull monotony of the ringing, I imagine the dreary gloom of the depressing kitchen and I picture Louisa, a few feet away in her narrow, child-sized bed, apparently oblivious. Though I don't want to, I can't seem to avoid thinking about the scenarios which might explain why no one, not least Louisa, has answered the phone. Honestly, I'm not happy with any of the possible circumstances and I can't help but feel both disappointed and rather uncomfortable when I dwell on the unpleasant options I have tormented myself with. I try once more but again there is no answer. Sighing, I wash my hands and dispose of my rubbish before making my way downstairs to meet with the registrars for their handover.

In the afternoon, we are swamped with the fallout resulting from the public's carelessness, mindless stupidity and lackadaisical approach to self-preservation, and so I am forced into theatre again as we attempt to plough through a flurry of avoidable injuries caused by oyster-shucking, lawn mowing, and motorcycles ridden at high speed in flip flops. Before I know it, my day is almost over and I'm undertaking my final round of post-op checking before dragging myself into the street and hailing a taxi. Once again, it's after nine when I finally clamber up the stairs and let myself into my flat. I open a tin of soup and warm myself a cup in an attempt to stave off the hunger pangs, but I fall asleep before I can drink it. I awaken just after midnight, fully dressed and curled on my side on the Chesterfield, and, groaning, I drag myself off to bed and sleep right through to the alarm at a quarter to six. Five days to go.

Monday and Tuesday are when my elective surgeries are scheduled and I have a full couple of days, after complications and staff absences and incompetency are added to the factors that impinge on my job satisfaction. I attempt to phone Louisa again but, this time, the phone is engaged and, although I try several more times, eventually I give up, irritated and somewhat disappointed. On Wednesday, Chris Parsons is down again, and he leaves me a message that he would like to meet for lunch, so I agree to join him in the staff cafeteria at one o'clock. He's early, and rises to greet me enthusiastically as I walk in, grasping my hand and shaking it vigorously, his shiny face beaming, his eyes huge through the lenses of his glasses.

"Good to see you Mart! You're looking well!"

"Mm, yes, as are you. How is...umm?"

"Helen is...well she's wonderful actually, I can highly recommend being engaged, you know Mart, in case you're thinking about it."

I ignore his comment but he smirks at me regardless.

"Administration keeping you on your toes?" I retort. "Enjoying writing endless reports no one will ever read? Hmm?"

He chuckles benevolently. "And here was me thinking that Louisa might have mellowed you. How is she, by the way?"

I look around me, feeling furtive and self conscious about having her name mentioned in this cesspit of gossip and wild speculation. After I finish my reconnoitre, satisfied that amongst these bored looking radiographers and swathes of anonymous clerical staff, we are safe. I glance at him, as coolly as I can.

"She is very well, at least she was, the last time I saw her..."

"Which was...?"

"Eight days ago." I answer rather too quickly and somewhat crossly, immediately prompting a knowing smile from Chris, his chubby infant-like face glowing with apparent delight.

"Aah, like that is it? You poor bugger. No, what am I saying? You lucky bugger!" He says, chuckling warmly. "Things going well though, are they?"

I stare at him, and though it seems easier to fall into old habits, warning him tersely to mind his own business and clamming coldly shut, there's something that feels different. I presume it is mostly due to the upcoming function, and my acknowledgement that I need Chris's unflappable support to navigate safely through the evening. Besides, good or bad, it was his idea that I invite Louisa in the first place so I can't deny her existence and obfuscate the situation.

I clear my throat.

"Yes, ok." I say quietly but it won't be forthcoming enough. It never is. "Ahh, I am still concerned, umm, apprehensive about this bloody farewell though. You know how my parents can be."

Chris' smile fades and he pushes his glasses up his nose thoughtfully.

"What does Louisa think? Was she keen when you asked her?"

"Keen?" I repeat. "Chris, she seems to think that, umm, I don't know...that it's actually something to look forward to. Something exciting to get dressed up for, and drink champagne..."

"I think that would be most people's impression actually, Mart." He says drily, smiling again. "L'insouciance de la jeunesse."

I wince internally as he picks at the prickle in my skin; Louisa's youthfulness. The gap in age between us that he seems to take great pleasure in subtly reminding me of, now even using a second language as if merely one wasn't enough to adequately describe his amusement.

"Mmm." I reply. "To say I have had second thoughts is an understatement. Obviously, she doesn't know, she can't possibly know, what they are like. Their potential to do harm..."

I watch as he cuts a muffin in half, applying margarine liberally to each piece before offering one to me. I decline with a disapproving grimace; preservative-laden, over processed carbohydrates smeared with chemically-altered hydrogenated fats, no thank you Chris Parsons, and you should know better, I think to myself.

He chews thoughtfully, before dabbing at his lips with a paper napkin, and taking a swig from some sort of insipid, pale grey beverage that has left a rather alarming brown tide mark around the rim of his cup.

"We will just have to manage that as best we can." He says, removing his glasses and polishing them, frowning in concentration as he does so. "I think we should arrive together, and then, if you get sidetracked, Helen and I will just stick to Louisa like glue until it's time to leave. Have you explained any of this to her, by the way? Or are you keeping her in the dark?"

I sigh.

"No, umm, I tried to. I mean, I did but she, ahh, Louisa, as I mentioned, has a very, umm, positive view of the world. She...is a very much a wide-eyed optimist."

Chris snorts with laughter

"No disrespect Mart, but she's going to need to be a positive bloody ray of sunshine if she wants to be in a relationship with you. You're a cracking fellow, my friend but, how can I say this, ummm, you can occasionally be bloody hard work."

I glare at him, but offer neither reprimand nor debate.

"Thank you Chris." I reply coolly, watching his gleeful expression gradually fade as he instead focusses on licking the tip of his finger and dabbing at the crumbs on his plate.

"I've mentioned to Helen that, you know, your parents can be unnecessarily unpleasant, that you are estranged from them, so to speak, and that Louisa hasn't actually met them yet, so, you know, Helen's astute. She understands what needs to happen." He says casually.

I swallow hard, collecting my thoughts and trying to arrange them concisely. I inhale deeply before continuing, folding my hands on the table in front of me like a bank manager about to deliver bad news.

"What I am most concerned about is, umm, is keeping her away from my father, Chris." I say quietly. "I know what he's like and I don't want him pawing at her; he or any of his dreadful cronies. I don't want any of them near her."

"Aah, yes, the Golf Set. I'm assuming they will be there in force. When they finally do retire, their employment files will make interesting reading, don't you think. I wonder how many sexual harassment claims have been hushed up or made to disappear over the years? I can think of several just off the top of my head."

I wince again. My father's behaviour over the years has caused me so much shame and yet, by comparison, his lechery is nothing when compared to some of the rumours that abound about his friends; contemptible men, reeking of privilege and completely lacking in either morals or conscience, they sicken me. And the thought of them anywhere near Louisa horrifies me beyond belief. I've had the misfortune to have heard the things they say; locker room talk is locker room talk regardless of whether it's bone headed, testosterone-fuelled sportsmen or gin-soaked, lascivious surgeons; those who claim an education and achieve status and financial reward but who are, in truth, as base as any feral tomcat, marking its territory against the hubcap of their poorly parked Bentleys.

I shudder and I feel suddenly very apprehensive, as if I am placing Louisa in actual mortal peril. I recall the things I've actually heard them say to each other, these old school surgeons to whom every woman is fair game, and every conquest is aggrandised, and boasted about. I'm well aware that, not only will her looks single her out for attention, the fact that she is there with me will truly turn the spotlight upon her.

"Obviously, I can't prevent Dad talking to whomever he likes at his own Farewell." I say, somewhat regretfully. "But she can't be alone with him, or any of them for that matter. Once they twig to the fact she's there with me, it will become a contest."

"Mart, whether Louisa's there with you, or not, she walks into that room, she's going to be singled out for attention by any man with a pulse." He says, shaking his head at me and chuckling disbelief. "You'd better get used to it."

I try and stare back at him, coldly and impartially, but I am suddenly overcome with uncertainty and fear, and I wonder if it shows on my face as I can no longer maintain my composure and I have to look away.

"Ridiculous." I mutter at him, but I don't really know to what I refer. What I do know though, a fact I need no reminding of, that as well as very young, Louisa is also very beautiful. I detest it when I notice other men ogling her, their expressions so lewd and disrespectful. I snatch at my glass and empty it in one angry mouthful.

Chris folds his hands on the table in front of him, interlocking his fingers and staring at them thoughtfully.

"You know that old song, Mart?" He says after a moment, looking at me enquiringly, a hint of caution in his voice. "Who was it by? Dr Hook I think? You know the one...When You're In Love With A Beautiful Woman."

I glance at him blankly. I've never heard of it and he, of all people, should know that, aware as he is of my general disinterest in popular music. I pour myself another glass of water and take a self conscious sip, as I feel a sudden return of the irritating twitchiness that has overtaken my limbs.

"No, can't say I have." I say briskly.

He stares at me and I notice a broad smirk spreading across his shiny pink face.

"You might have to take more of an interest now, Mart." He says and there's something about his gaze that disarms me, something about his tone that seems knowing and presumptuous.

"What are you talking about?" I say, and I don't attempt to hide the annoyance in my voice.

"Come on, mate, hip young girlfriend, you'll need to keep up. She'll be dragging you off to concerts next and, believe me, I'm not talking about the London Chamber Orchestra either. You've probably never even been inside Wembley, have you?"

I glare at him and he starts to laugh, his rounded torso heaving up and down and his face growing pinker by the second. He takes off his glasses and rubs his eyes, letting out a good-natured groan and shaking his head in amusement.

"Don't fight it Mart, our women change us all, hopefully for the better. Just remember that when she's making you go out to dinner in jeans and pair of trainers."

I've had enough of this nonsense and I stand up abruptly, glaring at him reproachfully. Unusually though, I don't feel aggravated in the least by his teasing or bothered in the slightest by his ridiculous assertions. I still feel some niggling discomfort and a touch of anxiety but I will attempt to process all of that at a time yet to be designated. For now, I have a busy afternoon ahead of me and I need to go. I look down my nose at him, imperious and haughty, in an attempt to reclaim my sense of invulnerability.

"My flat. Half past six. Under no circumstances are you to be late, do you understand?" I growl at him and he nods vigorously, unbowed and still grinning maniacally at me.

I can still hear him chuckling as the lift doors open, before I am spirited away to the calm, scholastic tranquility of the research library, and the welcoming prospect of an afternoon dedicated to scientific, fact-based research, mercifully devoid of any type of debilitating and perplexing emotions.