For a long time afterwards, when I allowed my mind to wander, this was the Louisa I remembered; laughing and radiant, and completely unfettered, as if being amused was, for her, the ultimate aphrodisiac. I'd felt like a learner, trying out a few basic words of a newly acquired language on a native speaker, and finding myself rewarded with the sort of vehemence, the sort of passion that I would never have believed I might inspire in anyone. In the dull morning light, I could not have cared less about the pain in my shoulder, as the back of the chair dug mercilessly into me. The hour, the place, the pressing commitments, all irrelevant. None of it mattered, the only thing I was aware of was the free spirit that was Louisa, her legs wrapped around me, hoarse and imploring, as she murmurs my name. Unsurprisingly, ever after, when I recall her, it will be in this moment; sultry, her beauty ethereal as I gaze at her, my chest heaving, reaching up to stroke her hair gently back from her face.

It is always that indomitable spirit that gets under my skin, her refusal to be cowed, or intimidated or crushed. If, as they say, opposites attract then it is unsurprising that her spontaneity and her ability to not only live in the moment, but to wring every possible ounce of fun from it, is so engaging. As I came to know her, however, it was the joy she exuded that was my complete undoing, and the way that, despite her warmth, her kindheartedness, and the femininity that drew me to her like a moth to a flame, Louisa is nevertheless strong, and principled, and defiant. The thrill I feel is indescribable, the emphatic lurch inside me, the involuntary interruption to my respiratory processes I experience when she gives me that look; her smile enigmatic, her eyes glittering dangerously. Lord knows I've never been one to succumb to peer pressure, and the only zeitgeist I've ever knowingly allowed myself to be influenced by is lapel width or, perhaps, cuff style but from the moment I feel her fingers trailing down my abdomen, I forget who I am. In this, the sweetest of moments, I will do anything she asks of me and yet I, too, will become who I want to be; unselfconscious, impetuous, and fearlessly expressive, until we collapse into each other's arms, breathless and momentarily spent.

After a minute, I shift in the chair, as I can no longer ignore the discomfort of my position. Though she weighs almost nothing, lithe and slim as she is, I now feel an urgency to free my back from its impalement on the rails of the chair and, as I clear my throat, she takes the hint and pushes herself up to her feet, ruffling my hair as she turns and walks away. Once again, I find myself collecting our clothes from the floor, glancing up at her retreating figure, relishing each step as she exudes that ubiquitous Louisa effervescence, her hips swinging as she walks. As she reaches up to smooth back her hair, clasping it into an imaginary ponytail, she turns to glance back at me, catching me red handed as I stand there staring; smitten and, ever so slightly, dazed. Her smile is enigmatic, and I clear my throat, averting my gaze downwards, only to be reminded of my own nakedness. As momentarily liberated as Louisa makes me feel, I have not permanently escaped the shackles of modesty nor domesticity and, as she disappears into the bedroom, I pull on my boxers and begin to clear the table.

As I fill the dishwasher, I yawn, assailed by a pleasant physical tiredness, and soothed and sated by the effects of the oxytocin and the dopamine that has flooded my brain. Of course, I'm well aware of the function of the parasympathetic nervous system and I understand perfectly why I feel physically as I do. However, absolutely nothing I've ever read, or studied, or encountered personally, has prepared me for how cerebral an experience it is to make love to someone that you utterly adore. As much as I am completely cognisant of the anatomical importance of stimulated nerve endings, and of enhanced blood flow and the intensity of muscle contractions, I realise that, historically, I'd just been undertaking a kind of research project, a half-hearted investigation into the mechanics of rhythm and angles and friction that, eventually, just left me feeling rather disconnected.

Of course, it is now patently clear that which has always been missing, that it must be so much more for me than simply biological need. That it has taken me until I am nearly thirty to understand this is really not that surprising; I've suppressed so much, denied so much, convinced myself that temperance, of the four cardinal virtues, was the one that should find a stronghold in me. I see it so clearly now; how the physical and emotional experiences of making love are so integral to each other so ineffably entwined, just as beneficence and non-maleficence, two of the essential pillars in medical ethics, are also utterly inseparable. Yet how strange that I should be able to convince myself that I was above it all, that I was somehow different to every other man on the planet, sophrosyne and somehow superior.

I'm only too aware of the mind's capacity for deception; I see it all the time in my consulting rooms; the diabetics in denial, the smokers, the overweight men with arteriosclerosis who religiously start the day with a full English breakfast, all unable to face the harsh truths of their own respective conditions. And in a strange way, too, I've been equally guilty, and I now find myself so utterly challenged; my own carefully constructed narrative in tatters, dazedly pondering my own skill at self-deception. Everything is in disarray, my life turned on its head, and yet every time I make love to her, she seems to embed herself more deeply into my soul. That she wants me still seems completely miraculous, and her apparent desire for me does more to silence my inner critic than anything else I've ever achieved in my life.

Exhaling deeply, I fold and place the tea towel in its correct position. With the kitchen returned to its natural state, it's time to claim the shower for myself. I cough discretely before I enter the bedroom but I needn't have worried. Deep in thought and unselfconscious, Louisa is laying her clothes out on the unmade bed, her hair wrapped in a towel, clad only in her underwear. I don't even attempt discretion as I allow my glance to linger on her as I pass, her loveliness seems to demand it; softly fragrant, and utterly charming in her mismatched floral knickers and what I now know to be the undergarment mysteriously known as the 'good bra'. She smiles at me distractedly; lopsided and rather sweetly innocent, clasping her hands in front of her and gazing at the articles she has selected with deep concentration.

"What do you think?" She says vaguely. "Warm enough without a jacket?"

I pause for a moment, slowing my stride and glancing at her options. I don't profess an opinion on women's fashion but I do know that however Louisa dresses, to me she invariably looks perfect for the occasion, always so radiant, and so distinctively herself. She has selected a dress; floral and pretty, as seems to be her preference and short, which seems to be a requirement. Looking at it, even just thrown down on the bed, I know that I will inevitably spend the day sneaking glances at her, relishing any tantalising glimpse of thigh, or cleavage, and allowing myself the license to recall what lies beneath the softly draped fabric. It is indeed a privilege I fully intend to make the most of and, for the first time, I am unabashed and feel no shame.

"Yes, umm, that seems appropriate." I tell her, helpfully.

She glances at me, appearing slightly mystified about something as she removes the towel from her head and shakes out her hair. Without taking her eyes off me, she reaches down and, effortlessly, slips the dress over her head. It's one I don't think I've seen before and it's lovely on her; delicate, floaty and so utterly feminine. She smiles at me, hopefully, and I clear my throat.

"Mm." I tell her, hoping she can sense that my approval goes a lot further than merely agreeing it's a pretty outfit.

For a disconcerting minute, I am revisited by an vision of my mother, sweeping across the landing of the house we lived in, glowering at me over some imagined infraction, thin-lipped and cold, her demeanour in perfect synchronicity with her propensity for severe tailoring, her chosen fabric prickly, dull and unwieldy, the colour always black. I still have vague recollections, as a very small boy, of being brought downstairs to bid my parents goodnight, my arm in the vice-like grip of whatever particular Nanny was supervising me at the time. I'd been well trained, like a performing seal, to only give the appearance of kissing her cheek, lest I commit the cardinal sin of smudging her thickly applied make up or leaving sticky childish fingerprints on whatever she happened to be wearing. If there were guests, which there frequently were, sometimes she would smile at me but, though her mouth would curve, her eyes always remained so unwelcoming and cold.

"Goodnight Mummy." I'd recite, obediently, having long since abandoned any hope of maternal affection emanating from her heavy, taffeta-clad, pearl-draped bosom.

"Goodnight, sir." I would say to my father, shaking his hand, and forcing myself to look him in the eye, as I'd been schooled, or risk a severe reprimand later, usually out of nowhere, when he could contain his fury, and his disappointment in me, no longer.

As I climb under the jet of the shower, I'm forced to leap forward, as my back is almost blanched by the temperature of the water. While the heat explains the amount of steam and condensation that lingers in the ensuite, it does seem as if I may have to explore the option of a more powerful ventilation system or risk rivalling the humid environment of the Waterlily House at Kew. Judging by the plethora of bottles and tubes that have now appeared in the base of the shower, it seems that I should investigate some sort of caddy to house them all in, and a refreshment course for Louisa on how to replace lids and caps effectively.

Emerging, feeling cleansed and refreshed, I shave quickly, rolling my eyes at the rather smug and vaguely triumphant face that gazes back at me. Even the perfunctory act of dressing myself seems mildly entertaining, though my tie selection does seem suddenly rather limited in its colour range. Even my assortment of cuff links, which I had considered more than adequate, suddenly seems somehow lacking. I run the clothes brush over my shoulders and, judging myself fit and ready, I emerge to discover Louisa sitting on the still as-yet unmade bed, grimacing at me as, without even looking, she twists her hair up into a loose yet elegant arrangement on the top of her head and begins to secure it in place.

"You look nice." She says, through clenched teeth, her mouth full of hairpins. "That blue really suits you."

I pick up her damp towel from my side of the bed, self-consciously, and clear my throat. Another compliment from her and, again, as a result I feel impossibly shy and rather disconcerted. I don't know why I'm surprised that she notices my appearance, when she takes such care over her own, but it does make me feel odd to be the recipient of such positivity and encouragement, especially as it does seem to be genuine. I've never really thought of myself as being enhanced by a particular colour. Suits are blue, or grey or black, pinstriped, lightly checked or plain. Shoes and socks are black, shirts should be discrete, and ties tasteful and unobtrusive; if the fabrics are all of excellent quality, and ones tailor is proficient, then it is a relatively simple process to present oneself in the appropriate manner that befits ones profession.

"Shall we?" I ask briskly, tugging at the bedspread and glancing at her questioningly until it dawns on her what I'm asking.

"I've always found it expedient to make the bed as soon as I get out of it." I add, as she stands up and silently begins to smooth out her side, and straighten the pillows.

"What if there's still someone in it?" She asks, glancing up at me, carefully.

"I'd hope my preference for neatness and organisation was, ahh, self-evident...and...mutual." I reply, focusing intently on tucking the sheet in, determined to ignore what I rather suspect is a rather transparent foray into my past.

"Oh right." She says archly. "Good for you, Martin. On the other hand, I normally wait until I can't find the top sheet any longer before I redo everything and, you know what, I seem to get by."

I glance at her, but I say nothing, preferring that my expression speak for me, and holding on to a vague and rather optimistic hope that I might encourage her by example.

"Is boarding school like the army? I mean, do they make you line up in the mornings and inspect your kit? Make sure you've done hospital corners, and your shoes are all shiny?" She asks me, a hint of insolence in her tone.

"In my experience, a well made bed and well polished shoes are their own reward" I tell her, slightly superciliously. "And, if I'm honest, I've never had any difficulty with, umm, with maintaining a sense of orderliness. And I do like things to be tidy."

"Yes." She says, grinning at me ruefully. "I've noticed."

Of everything that mystifies me about Louisa it is the affect of her smile that surprises me the most. Sometimes it is so infinitely encouraging; other times, like now, so teasing, as if she means to challenge all of my principles, and question all of my reasoning. Yet, whatever form it takes, my guard seems to drop, my resolve to never reveal too much about myself to anyone evaporates, as if I feel not only a desire to explain myself but a tiny sense of relief in confessing to her some of the reasoning behind what she clearly views as my rather perplexing and deeply ingrained patterns of behaviour.

"In the dorms, items that were, ummm, inadvertently left out in plain sight tended to disappear." I find myself telling her quietly, as if we might be overheard. "The only way to secure ones belongings was to ensure that they were secured in ones locker. Everyone learned that the hard way; some, unfortunately, took longer than others. So, umm, I suppose that facilitated, ahh, encouraged what was already an obvious character trait...to always put things away."

As she gazes at me thoughtfully, I retrieve my wallet from beside the bed and I slip my pager into the inside breast pocket of my jacket. I'm still securing the buckle of my watch as she approaches me and slips her arms around my waist, sighing heavily as she does so.

"God, I love you." She whispers vehemently, squeezing me tightly as if she means by the intensity of her grip to reaffirm to me her sentiments.

I rest my chin on her head momentarily, as I struggle to know where to put my hands. I have no idea what has prompted this reaction and I'm not entirely sure how I'm supposed to respond. So rarely have I been interested in hugging anyone that I've obviously never mastered the art and, especially as lacking in spontaneity as I am, and with our difference in height now so obvious as she stands before me, barefoot, I realise that my technique is appalling. I feel wooden and awkward and horribly lacking in confidence, settling rather feebly for bending my knees slightly, and rubbing her shoulder as I inhale the intense, fruit-like scent of her freshly washed hair. The ridiculous thing is, when there's just the two of us, alone and unobserved, I relish the physical contact with her; the feeling of even her most platonic embrace is warming, and fortifying, and energising. I close my eyes briefly, and encourage her closer, recalling as I do that this is not Upper Fourth dance class and we are not required to keep a closely policed, textbook thickness gap between us.

"Martin?" Louisa says with just a hint of sharpness, and my eyes snap open, as I check my watch to see if I have snagged her hair.

"Sorry." I tell her apologetically, letting her go and glancing down at the floor to make sure that I'm not standing on her tiny unclad feet with one of my heavy black brogues.

"No, I mean haven't you got anything you want to say to me? Anything, you know, running through your mind...?"

I glance at her, mystified because it's clear that she's suddenly somewhat cross but I'm not sure what I've said to upset her. She's right though, there is something running through my mind, now that I've seen my watch, and it is quite important; the upshot is that I have six shirts and a suit that won't dry clean themselves. The realisation bothers me. I prefer to stick to my routine and trying to find time during the week to both drop off, and collect, my laundered clothing is another pressing demand on my time I just can't countenance in view of my already restrictive workload. It seems entirely logical to me, especially since the earlier I can get away from work during the week, the sooner I can be home, here, with Louisa, which only makes it even more imperative that we make haste now.

"Right. Come on." I tell her firmly. "We'll have to catch a taxi or we won't make it in time."

I retrieve my dry cleaning from the wardrobe and stride purposefully from the room.

"Wait!" She protests. "I haven't got my shoes on!"

I suspect that she doesn't know where she's left them and, since there are shoes randomly distributed throughout the flat, and I have no idea which pair she is in search of, I prefer instead to wait by the front door, frowning and finding myself frequently and with increasing frustration, checking my watch. Finally she staggers toward me, figuratively asking for a sprained ankle by trying to run and secure her shoes at the same time. I shake my head at her and sigh, attempting to indicate my disapproval but she merely pulls a face at me, coming to a stop at the door to my study, and leaning awkwardly against the frame. I observe her in silence, attempting to portray, outwardly, my disgruntlement, while inside I must admit to finding her equal parts both vexing and amusing. Finally, just as she resolves the issue of her footwear, and I open the door, the telephone rings. Of course, since Louisa is already here with me, and my pager has not gone off, I have absolutely no inclination to answer it but it does not seem to occur to her that a ringing phone can simply be ignored, and she stares at me in confusion.

"Aren't you gonna get that?" She asks, scowling at me as if my actions are those of a monster.

"No." I tell her. "It won't be the hospital and it definitely won't be you so whoever it is can wait. Now, come on, we need to get a move on."

For some reason, my reply seems to mollify her and her frown instantly disappears, replaced, somewhat bafflingly, by a shy smile and, as she runs her palm up my lapel, affectionately, as she pauses in front of me, I realise I'm witnessing mercurial Louisa in full flight. Before I can hurry her through the door, though, the sixth ring has come and gone, the answerphone clicks in and the crisply disapproving and slightly breathless voice we hear is one we both recognise instantly.

"For heaven's sake, Marty...you do understand how these things work, I assume? I leave a message and you telephone me back..its quite simple, even you should be able to manage it...and soon, please, if you don't mind, since we are rapidly running out of time..."

Beside me, Louisa reaches for my arm.

"Aren't you going to call her back?" She asks, somewhat earnestly. "She sounds a bit, well, cross with you."

"Ahh...no. Not now." I reply firmly attempting to reiterate my intentions by closing the front door behind us.

As much as I am dreading the conversation with Auntie Joan, having it in front of Louisa just seems beyond the pale. I am convinced that they will immediately take sides against me and having two stubborn and insistent women to argue with has absolutely no appeal whatsoever.

"Why not? I can't imagine that the two of you are going to chat for hours..." Louisa says. "Anyway how do you know it's not important?"

"It's not." I reassure her.

"She sounds a bit annoyed though, Martin, how many messages has she left?"

"A few." I admit. " But it can wait. I, umm, I do know what it's about..."

She stares at me and I watch as her eyes narrow and her gaze becomes penetrating; my heart sinking as she folds her arms across her chest, and she sets her jaw in that familiar resolute manner.

"Alright." I concede, resignedly. "But I really don't want a fuss. Every year, at this time, Auntie Joan invites me to the farm and, every year, I don't go. It's as simple as that."

"Umm, why? I mean, why does she ask you at this time of year?"

"Because she is nothing if not persistent."

"Martin..." She growls, her tone heavy with insinuated threat.

I sigh deeply, finding myself staring into the middle distance as my spirits instantly flag. This ridiculous preoccupation that people have, this determination to impose pointless and utterly excruciating cultural constructs onto unwilling and resentful wretches such as myself. I feel like Odysseus, trapped between Scylla and Charybdis, doomed inevitably, whatever choice I make. I clear my throat, endeavouring to assume some authority over my own affairs and I glance down at her, my attempts at irrefutability and hauteur evaporating hopelessly into the ether as she gazes back at me, her expression suddenly so expectant and hopeful. I moisten my lips, nervously, opening my mouth and waiting for the words to arrive; each second that passes is excruciating, each sound that emerges so tortured and reluctant.

"She..umm...despite knowing that I don't celebrate it, at all, ever, she...ummm...she invites me down...for...for my..."

"Your birthday?" Louisa interrupts, gently and rather sweetly, as I find myself unexpectedly faltering.

"Mm." I reply, glancing down at her nervously.

"Right..." She asks me, blinking as if in disbelief, and appearing suddenly as somewhat crestfallen. "So does that mean that I can't, you know, celebrate it with you either?"

"Umm, I would prefer it that way, certainly." I reply firmly, relieved to finally usher her out the door and down the stairs, hoping rather desperately that a change of scenery might induce a change of subject.

"I think we've got a bit to talk about then, Martin..." She says, thoughtfully and we descend in silence, as I watch her chew on her lip, wondering what she is thinking, with increasing dismay.

From my point of view, it doesn't seem such an outrageous demand, to have the one day simply pass as all others do. I undertake some quick mental arithmetic; if the world's population is five billion and there are three hundred and sixty five days in a year, by my reckoning there are nearly fourteen million people every day, across the Earth, pointlessly marking the occasion of their parturition, with total futility, as if they are somehow special. In London alone, there would be at least twenty thousand birthdays each day. Surely, Louisa and Auntie Joan could find one of the other nineteen thousand, nine hundred and ninety nine deluded egotists to make an embarrassing fuss of; forcing them to feel so horribly awkward by foisting some sort of horrendous confectionary upon them, and showering them with abysmal, unwanted gifts.

Yet, in the taxi, she tries again; a different angle but I know her too well to imagine that she will give up without an argument.

"I was thinking, I'm overdue for a call to Mrs. Norton. But, I've sort of been putting it off..." She says, gazing out the window, her hands chastely in her lap.

"Because?"

"Because, Martin, it's awkward! What if she asks me about you? I mean, even if she asks me what I've been up to, I'm going to feel a bit dishonest, aren't I, if I don't mention your name?"

I duck my chin to my chest as I try to make sense of what she has said.

"Would she normally ask you personal questions?" I reply, after a moment, frowning at her.

"It might surprise you to hear this, but for most people, being asked what they've been up to isn't considered, you know, overly intrusive. So, yes, she would ask me."

I push out my lower lip and make a sort of disapproving grunt, shrugging my shoulders resignedly. I know how I would respond to such an unwelcome line of questioning but I have an idea that Louisa won't find my suggestion particularly helpful.

"And, unlike you, I'm not really adept at fending off questions I don't particularly want to answer..." She says, a little tersely, as if she has read my mind.

"Am I adept? I don't seem to have much success fending off your questions..."

She lets out a strangled cry of indignation, staring at me with her mouth open for a few seconds, before she starts to laugh, shaking her head at me in disbelief.

"Asking you if you like something doesn't constitute the Spanish Inquisition, Martin." She says, as a sly smile spreads across her face.

I glance at the cabbie as I feel my face colour but, thankfully, he seems not to be interested in our conversation, seemingly intent rather on searching instead for a place to stop safely on the busy street. I still feel the residue of embarrassment as we stand on the pavement and Louisa hooks her arm through mine, smiling up at me innocently, and informing me, in no uncertain terms, that after we have have delivered my cargo to the dry-cleaners, there is a new compact disc that she must buy, having heard a song played last night at the pub that she apparently cannot live without. I'm happy to follow her lead, if finding this song, however puerile and tuneless it will no doubt turn out to be, makes her happy. The section that she searches is busy and she soon disappears into the throng of young people that jostle for position, standing shoulder to shoulder as they stare intently and flick their way through the empty cases, some transfixed, some clearly more intent in being seen than searching for anything themselves.

I am familiar with this establishment however I only ever frequent one gloomy corner of it, which is invariably unoccupied, allowing me to browse undisturbed. There's not much that tempts me but I do discover a digitally remastered copy of Elgar's Cello concerto in E minor, featuring Jacqueline du Pre and the London Symphony. It's an iconic version of one of my favourite pieces; beautiful but rather mournful and I wonder what Louisa will make of it when I play it for her. Previously, any revealing of my admittedly narrow musical taste has only resulted in derision; funeral music as Chris Parsons used to like to point out to me. That which I considered calming and soothing, with a depth and resonance that moved me, was to him, merely desolate and depressing, turning the blood in his veins to tar he'd alleged. And then there was my father, who favoured recordings in the comedic style, performers who whistled and, seemingly, anything with a cover that featured pouting half-naked women clad only in fruit, and had long poured scorn on my preferences.

The summer I finally returned, reluctantly, to my parent's house, having completed my schooling, I was thin and tall and gauche, avoiding as much interaction with them as I could, intent on burying myself in medical texts, fixated on success in a career that might finally bring me independence. At my mother's insistence though, I had found myself, self-conscious and unhappy, attempting to disappear into the background at one of her appalling cocktail parties, but it seemed as if at least one of the guests had taken pity on me; a young woman with a rather pleasant face, who was quick to inform me that she was my mother's Jazzercise instructor. I'd listened to her, initially frozen to the spot before I'd finally found the courage to introduce myself, and she'd smiled at me encouragingly, asking me about my plans for the summer. I was so shy around women, rendered mute by terror, but as I tentatively began to formulate my reply, and she'd seemed interested, my father had interrupted us, a derisive smile on his face, his determination to humiliate me immediately obvious. In hindsight, it seems ridiculous but, at the time, I'd been mortified as he offered me my late grandmother's portable gramophone and her collection of ancient 78's, his eyes glinting maliciously as he told the woman that I was antediluvian; old before my time, with geriatric tastes and obsolescent ideals. Afterwards, when I'd seen them together, his motives had finally made sense but, at the time, the acute shame and discomfort I'd experienced had sent me so far into my shell, I might never have emerged again.

The recollection jars me and I find myself seeking out Louisa, suddenly as in need of the reassurance that just the sight of her provides. I see her at the counter, queuing to pay, her head bowed, absorbed in the reading of a magazine.

"Did you find what you were looking for?" I ask her, slipping in beside her and finding myself compelled to touch her, even if it is just lightly on the shoulder.

"Yes, I did." She says smiling up at me, and I hold out my hand inviting her to pass them to me.

Neither the artist nor the album mean anything to me but Louisa seems happy and, to that end, I hand the cases over to the dreadlocked youth behind the cash register, and insist on paying, despite her over-vehement objections. It seems to me to be so pointless to argue; the difference in our relative financial situation is so vast, it's almost embarrassing to have her insist on paying her own way. It eats away at me for a few moments, as we walk towards the supermarket and, when we pause to cross the road, I can hold it in no longer.

"Louisa, as much as I respect your principles, I'm starting to feel that your determination to not ever let me pay for anything is now bordering on ludicrous." I tell her, firmly, transferring all of my bags into one hand so that I can hold hers with the other, if for no other reason than to prevent her from absconding, should the conversation end badly.

"Ludicrous, Martin, really?" She replies tartly. "And here was me, thinking you might have started to understand..."

"I'll tell you what I do understand..." I hear myself say, rather spiritedly. "I know that my job has, and always will, require a huge amount of personal sacrifice and, for that sacrifice, I am more than adequately remunerated. And, it seems to me that, since you are now also required to suffer a lot of the inconvenience, then you, too, should also have something of the reward."

She stops and glares at me; as usual, defiant and resolved to ignore me, as if allowing me to help her is somehow terribly demeaning. I watch as she attempts to compose herself before replying, a reaction that does seem rather a new and interesting strategy for her.

"And we've been through this. Thank you, again, but I've got my own money and I can buy my own things. I don't need you to, you know, keep me." She says, slowly and carefully, holding my gaze, her firmness and resolve so very obvious.

She starts walking again and I shake my head, in frustration and vague despair. I can't imagine that she earns more than three or four quid an hour so a fifteen pound CD, whilst loose change for me, is a significant purchase for her. Truthfully, though, I am unsure of my ground. I'm dealing with a plethora of new and unusual emotions, the most intense being an almost overwhelming need to take care of her. It feels grossly unfair that my intense desire to see her happy, and safe, and secure should be be construed as 'keeping her', a feeling compounded by what I know of her past, and what I've seen of the way she lives now. Loving her as much as I do, it feels only natural to help her in any way I can, to want to look after her, especially when I could do it so easily, if only she'd let me. If I'm truthful, her continued rejection of any offers of assistance seems both perplexing and more than a little hurtful. Whyis she so determined to prove she doesn't need me?

"Can I just say I think you are being unreasonable and, ahhh, even quite unnecessarily stubborn?" I hear myself say. "I'm sorry but I just don't see the harm."

"Really?" She replies, raising her eyebrows at me. "How ironic."

"Ironic?" I ask her, as I notice she is now walking even faster. "What do you mean?"

"What I mean, Martin, is that here we are, with me and your auntie both wanting to celebrate your birthday, to do something nice for you, and, without any explanation, you just say no. Absolutely not. End of discussion. So I'd say, from where I'm standing, you were being pretty bloody stubborn too, and unreasonable..."

"But, Louisa, it's my birthday...if I don't want to celebrate it, I shouldn't have to..."

"And it's my life and if I don't want to give up my independence, I shouldn't have to either. Why can't you understand that?"

I stop dead in my tracks and I watch her walk away, waiting for her to realise I'm no longer alongside her. I wish this wasn't so hard, I wish that I could make her understand how much I admire her defiance and her fierce, spirited independence; so much so that the last thing on earth I'd want to do would be to take that away from her. Her well-being, her comfort, her financial security, none of it is remotely comparable to the trivial matter of an inconsequential birthday. She pauses outside the supermarket, and I see her turn around, her expression concerned and momentarily confused as she realises I'm now several yards behind her. For a split second she looks so vulnerable, so guileless; a beautiful ingenue, and that's when it finally dawns on me, a resolution of sorts, a possible path through this ridiculous, self-inflicted quagmire.

"Louisa!" I say loudly, and she glances at me, coolly and somewhat cautiously as I approach.

"You're right." I tell her as I catch up to her. "This is a ridiculous situation."

"I don't actually need anything from here, I'm just going in because it's a habit." I add, quietly, glancing ruefully at the large, brightly lit shop behind her. "Just like detesting celebrations, such as my birthday, are just a habit."

She raises her eyebrows at me, and she's clearly taken aback, surprised by my apparent capitulation but, astute as she is, she waits for the inevitable addendum, the qualifying statement.

"Perhaps we could, umm, perhaps we could do something...quiet...just you and I, if you want to, if it's important to you..." I tell her, hesitantly.

She nods at me, thoughtfully, as I gaze helplessly back into her eyes, so huge, and green and persuasive.

"It is, Martin, actually. It really is..." She says in a soft, gently beseeching voice I've heard before; the one she uses to soothe and encourage comatose children and, very occasionally, on boyfriends who are particularly slow on the uptake. "I would really like to do something, you know, special for you."

I touch her upper arm, lightly, before I take her elbow and encourage her to accompany me in the direction of home. It's a good twenty five minute walk and I feel in desperate need of the exercise. The afternoon stretches out ahead of us; a late lunch perhaps, a drive in the country, maybe even a stroll in the grounds of some magnificent stately home and, as we dodge around tourists on the crowded footpath, I feel for her hand, and I take it in mine, squeezing it gently as if to reassure her how I feel. I have no doubt that I will, at some point, agree to phone my aunt, and I'll probably even consent, reluctantly, to take part in some sort of mawkish birthday celebration. And I will wait patiently for an opportunity to tell her what she might do if she wants to uphold her side of the bargain.