I'm not sure what I was expecting as I walked towards the door, my hands thrust deep into the pockets of my coat, the invitation clasped nervously between my fingers. Over the course of the day, I'd lost my nerve a bit, and I'd even blown hot and cold about coming until I'd finally bitten the bullet, thrown together an outfit and found myself tottering madly for the bus. My nerves were probably due to the whole book launch thing being a complete unknown really; the idea certainly sounded sophisticated but the reality of mixing in literary circles was suddenly just a little bit intimidating. I'd even noticed a slight tremble in my grip as I applied yet another reassuring layer of mascara, and I'd tried on almost every pair of shoes I owned before resorting to my current favourites, my fabulous, knee-high boots.

The only thing I had to guide me was an address in Bloomsbury, not far from college actually, plus a lot of bluff and bravado but, in the end, there were no velvet ropes and certainly no red carpets. There wasn't even a bouncer, just a severe looking, older woman in a knitted cap, who peered at me suspiciously over the top of her glasses. Ignoring the gilt-embossed card I was waving awkwardly, she simply requested my name in a crisp, nasal, headmistress-like voice, drawing an impatient line across a page on her clipboard when I answered, and ushering me unceremoniously into the building.

Once inside, I scanned the crowd, feeling a little flush of excitement as a waitress appeared next to me, wielding a tray of half full champagne flutes. As I thanked her, raising my voice to be heard above the discordant rattle of a hundred conversations, I was relieved to feel that I seemed totally to blend in. I appeared neither under nor overdressed, so I didn't stick out like a sore thumb, and I certainly didn't feel as horribly out of my depth as I'd feared. Actually, on closer inspection, the other attendees were rather a mixed bag, standing around in concentrated little clusters, as if someone had arranged them by age and stereotype. Tweedy intellectuals abounded of course, their heads bowed together in deep conversation. Middle-aged women with short, severe haircuts stood, hands on hip, their plain dark smocks augmented by enormous earrings or gaudy strings of tribal beads. A group of very glamorous types, their scarves flowing and every finger filled, knuckle to knuckle, with glittering gemstones, had placed themselves centre stage. Around them, close to a makeshift bar, were quite a few older blokes too, cigarettes in hand, ties askew, bulging notebooks protruding from the pockets of their dull, shapeless jackets. Their raucous laughter held my attention for a moment, and I watched on as they each threw back their champagne with practiced ease, appearing for all the world like the alcohol swilling version of a synchronised swimming team.

Seeing no one even vaguely familiar, I began to make a slightly uncomfortable circuit of the room, conscious that I was alone and feeling just a little bit conspicuous and adrift. A man winked at me as I passed, an off-putting smile half concealed by his droopy, damp moustache. Another nod from a stranger, this time a bloke old enough to be my grandad, resting his glass on his enormous pot belly, and smirking as he watched me go by. Feeling a bit leery, I wended my way through the tightly gathered patrons toward the far corner, where i'd noticed a group of young people about my own age loitering awkwardly together. Because they appeared painfully gauche, I guessed them to be students too, apparently as new to the glamorous world of publishing as I was. Tzippy's protégées, I presumed, smiling hopefully as I scanned their faces for some form of connection, a sense of sorority or any sort of kinship.

Despite our commonality of age and uncertainty though, I was met by a row of severe and unsmiling faces, and I recognised that this was clearly a clique of some sort, and one from which I was obviously excluded. I found myself catching the eye of a heavily bespectacled, greasy-haired boy, smiling at him hopefully, but he simply averted his stare, returning his attention pointedly to his gloomy, lifeless companions. Sucking in a deep, fortifying lungful of air, I told myself that it was their loss and that I didn't mind in the least, especially since, to be honest, they certainly didn't look like any fun. Too Worthy as Libby would say, rolling her eyes upward to the heavens and throwing in an extravagant, theatrical yawn as if to underscore her point. Smiling to myself at the recollection, and my pluck now somewhat restored, I'd looked confidently around the room, my chin up, as I sauntered past appearing utterly unaffected.

It was then I noticed Tzippy, poised resolutely behind a table, tranquil and calm despite it appearing as though she was bailed up by a Rottweiler in human form. An intense looking woman with rather mad, staring eyes was standing just that bit too close to her, like odd sorts do, gesticulating so intently that wild spirals of blonde hair were escaping her vividly-patterned turban. I'd giggled to myself, really wishing now that Libby was here to see this. She totally adored an eccentric, the more colourful the better, and it seemed as if there were more than just a few in residence tonight. For a moment, I experienced a pang of sadness, and I really felt the loss of her companionship quite painfully. She always could see the funny side of life, she always had such a healthy cynicism towards everything life chucked at her, and I really missed that. I'd been a bit in denial about the fact that she hadn't been in touch and it suddenly felt a bit rubbish of her really, a disappointing sort of let down, almost as if she'd forgotten me. Horrified to feel the prick of tears, I'd pushed her to the back of my mind hastily, but not before I'd once again pondered the idea of tracking her down, by finding a telephone directory, and phoning her mum.

I lingered by a display of pamphlets, fanned out on a table, pretending to be fascinated, as I stuffed them, one after another, into my little bag. Honestly though, they could have been written in Double Dutch for all the sense they made to me. The Royal Institute of Philosophy, The London Gnostic Institute, and even The London Society of Druids all seemed to be touting for membership, their professional looking brochures laid out a little bit inexplicably alongside a blotchy and crookedly printed pile of papers entitled: Scholastic Animalism and the Metaphysics of Human Nature, each page speckled and shadowy as if it had been photocopied many times over.

"Are you Louisa?" A pleasant voice behind me said unexpectedly and, startled, I turned around sharply.

He'd grinned at me then as if my surprise amused him, twinkly-eyed and oozing charm, his perfect, gleaming white teeth almost dazzling, and I'd found myself smiling too, and almost forced to take a backward step at sheer intensity of his charm offensive.

"Excuse me, but Tzippy sends her apologies, and she wanted me to tell you that she is looking forward to catching up as soon as she can…umm…escape."

He'd glanced in her direction, a mischievous twinkle in his mirth-filled eyes.

"Oh, right…" I replied, momentarily disoriented. "Thanks….umm…sorry, didn't catch your name?"

"Call me Johnny, please." He said with a friendly smile, pushing his hair out of his eyes with long, slim, well-manicured fingers. "Pardon me but….your accent, I don't think you're from around here, are you Louisa?"

"Umm…no." I explained reluctantly, grimacing with my usual feigned enthusiasm. "Cornwall actually…"

"Of course! One of my favourite places on earth!" He replied exuberantly. "Look…please don't go away…I'm just going to hunt down that serving wench and then I want to hear all about where you're from…Cornwall…yes of course…love the place!"

He'd darted away, and I watched him stride across the room to cajole a bottle of champagne from the overwhelmed waitress who giggled and blushed in the bright glare of his attention. I knew without a shadow of a doubt that, for a single girl, Johnny and a bottle of champagne would be a very dangerous combination indeed. But, isn't it funny how a sense of security, of contentment I suppose you'd call it, has given me enough confidence, enough self-possession, that I can talk comfortably and casually with the sort of blokes that would previously have left me tongue-tied and horribly self-conscious. Now, even when I suspect they are on the pull, I just feel amused and faintly smug, like watching kids on an Easter Egg hunt when you've already eaten all the chocolate.

To be honest though, I was getting just a bit sick of having this same conversation every time I met anyone new, having to explain myself, and listening to people's well meaning but often condescending opinion on the place of my birth. It used to be a good conversation starter but now it was tempting to lie and say I came from Guildford, or Basingstoke, or Milford Keynes, just to shut them up. But, on the other hand, if the alternative was standing here like a lemon, obviously alone, waiting for a boyfriend who might not arrive for ages, then I was happy to have a pointless conversation with a good looking stranger, especially as he is undoubtedly just endeavouring to be being polite, at Tzippy's behest too, probably. So, sighing patiently, I fixed a glassy, indulgent smile to my face and began to tell him a little bit about Portwenn.

"Yes! I think I know it! I had one or two brilliant surfing holidays in Polzeath back in the eighties." He replied eagerly, topping up my glass with a carelessness that caused an explosion of bubbles to overflow the rim. "It's like a different world down there…I loved it!"

I glanced up at him, feeling just a little bit chuffed actually, and I nodded, approvingly I suppose, before fishing vainly around in my pockets for a handkerchief to wipe the stickiness from my fingers.

"Good times." He added, a little wistfully, apparently lost in thought, clinking his glass against mine and catching me somewhat by surprise.

I smiled at him, a little bit sadly really, and took a careful sip, conscious that I must savour the champagne, and not chug it back like lolly water, as I tended to do when I was a little unsure of myself. I really hoped Martin wasn't far away either; the speeches were sure to start soon and it would be just like him, to arrive slap bang in the middle of them.

"Yeah…" I replied, my voice trailing off distractedly, flashing an awkward smile because I couldn't really think of anything else to say.

"In the land of pasties…" He blurted out suddenly. "And Cornish Cream Tea…Where the waves roll in…And the gulls fly free…Where this pleasant land ends…and green fields meet the sea…The beauty of Cornwall, is forever in me…."

"Gosh." I replied breathlessly, after what seemed like quite a long, uncomfortable silence. "Haven't heard that one in a while, Johnny. It used to be on all the souvenirs when I was a kid…"

He grinned at me roguishly.

"There goes my idea of convincing you it was my own work I suppose…" He said, with a short bark of laughter, emptying his glass with a dramatic flourish. "Now I'm quoting poetry that I must have seen on a tea-towels…not exactly John Betjeman, am I?"

"Well…anyway, it was nice that you remembered it…" I assured him, nodding in encouragement.

I must have been thoroughly unconvincing in my reassurances because he didn't seem to be listening, staring at me instead in really an odd sort of way, a frown of concern rippling across his unblemished forehead. To be honest, his expression seemed more distracted and thoughtful than anything else but it still made me feel a little bit too much under scrutiny than I thought was acceptable from some bloke I'd only just met.

"Umm, Johnny, what are you looking at?" I demanded, with just enough indignation that he returned to the present with a small, sudden jerk of his head.

"I'm sorry…it's just that you have…very…symmetrical features." He'd replied innocently, flashing me a pleasant and engaging smile. "That's quite unusual, you know…to have one side of the face almost the mirror image of the other…"

I found myself reaching up to touch my check, involuntarily, unsure exactly what to make of what he'd said. If this was some sort of weird attempt at flirtation then I felt suddenly inclined to escape his attention as fast as my legs would carry me but, just as I was about to excuse myself politely and move away, I noted the stealthy approach of the fellow with the moist, unkempt moustache. For a moment my skin literally crawled and I made a snap decision: at this point Johnny was definitely the lesser of two evils. Besides, I reminded myself, Tzippy had sent him to talk to me so he must be alright, surely? Meanwhile, apparently oblivious to my discomfort, my new friend simply slopped more champagne into his flute; imprecise, nonchalant and wasteful, with what appeared to be the careless arrogance of a man who knows there will always be another bottle on hand.

"So, Johnny, you're a surfer then?" I asked, in an attempt to change the subject, raising my eyebrows at him.

"Surfing, water-skiing, yachting, swimming. Anything that gets me wet and salty really." He said, with a vague smirk. "I adore the sea."

From nowhere, a waitress appeared at my elbow, proffering a choice of delicious-looking canapés and I waited my turn, watching on as Johnny gathered himself a generous selection, using the paper napkin she'd given him as a plate.

"God, I love hors d'oeuvres!" He said vehemently. "Have one, Louisa, go on. Have two! They're chicken, I think."

"Are they hot?" I asked him, incredulously, as he devoured a crumbling vol-u-vent in one enthusiastic bite, and then another, and another, smacking his lips appreciatively when he'd finished.

"No, just pleasantly warm." He replied eventually, discarding his greasy napkin carelessly onto the table beside us. "I bloody love them, don't you?"

Six months ago, I hadn't even heard of something called E coli or campylobacter, and even salmonella was only a vaguely threatening concept I'd occasionally heard mentioned, but now I found myself hesitating before shaking my head at her politely,

"Umm, no thanks.."

I noted that his napkin was now on the floor, like a blue polka-dot island among a sea of shiny pastry flakes. As the waitress glanced at us sourly, I had to fight my instinct to pick it up but Johnny seemed as oblivious as ever, preoccupied with emptying his glass and, just as promptly, refilling it.

"This champagne isn't up to much though, is it?" He added, frowning vaguely as he stared at the label. "I'm sorry about that. Rather poor show actually…I'm going to mention it to Mummy. I hope she hasn't been fleeced…"

"It's fine, honestly!" I said hurriedly, horrified that he might be about to make a scene. "No one cares, do they? Everyone's just having a great time! and that's the most important thing…"

He'd glanced at me, his expression almost one of pity, and I'd felt suddenly irritated. I'd managed to bite my tongue, but I'd felt my eyes narrowing my eyes as I glared back at him, observing with some satisfaction that his face soon softened into a chastised smile. Still, I was just gobsmacked really by how out of touch some people are. I mean the cheapest champagne I'd ever seen in the offie was still fifteen quid a bottle on special, not an insignificant amount to those of us who'd had to survive on a weekly income barely twice that. And yet, here he was, a guest at this function, moaning about the quality of the free plonk he was knocking back like there was no tomorrow

"My apologies, I thought everyone knew 1980 wasn't a good year." He explained amicably. "Sadly, this is fairly typical of the vintage, thin and acidic as you would have noticed."

"Actually, Johnny, it tastes just fine to me." I'd replied cooly, fixing my jaw and gazing at him with intent. "But, you know, I certainly don't profess to be an expert…I'm just grateful to be invited I suppose."

He'd stared at me again, with that same air of concentration, and it almost felt as if he were attempting to commit my face to memory.

"You're doing it again." I said tersely, and his response was to laugh, and lean in toward me conspiratorially.

"I'm going to give you the tip, Louisa, 1990 will be a vintage year so you can impress your friends when you tell them that. The ripest grapes since 1959, and I have that on great authority. Every year I make a point of visiting at harvest, and a Champenois told me that all three varieties have ripened evenly…that's a brilliant indicator of quality if you weren't already aware…"

"Great." I replied, unenthusiastically, resigned to the fact that this was to be my second tedious encounter with a wine snob, the first being Danny Steele when he decided that beer was too unsophisticated for a man with the career potential he had totally convinced himself he had.

As I gritted my teeth and listened, glassy-eyed, as Johnny banged on, I wondered why some people become so tedious about their hobbies? And why do so many men, especially, feel obliged to show-off? Wielding their knowledge like it gives them some sort of power and superiority, when most of the rest of us simply don't give a toss. I mean, who really cares about how many ounces per gallon the acidity is, or how complex the aromas are? Isn't it what it tastes like that matters; the fun you have with your friends, drinking it as a treat on very special occasions? All I need to know is that consuming it in any volume makes me feel lovely, sort of light headed and giddy and, really, aren't they all far more important than boring people half to death about whether there was a late frost, or a hot summer, or sodding thunderstorms in August? Despite my best attempts, my attention wandered. I glanced at the door and then about the room but, still, he seemed intent on talking my ear off, and even my barely stifled yawns did not seem to discourage him in the slightest.

By then, the little auditorium was now almost full, but there was still no sign of Martin, and the crowd noise was making it almost impossible to hear well. As I looked around, I noticed that everyone seemed to be turning their attention to the front of the room.

"Goody bags." Johnny said knowingly, nodding at me.

"Sorry?"

"Goody bags." He repeated, this time more loudly. "Make sure you take a couple, if you can…"

"I can't do that." I protested, grimacing at him. "What if there aren't enough to go round?"

"Then you can have mine." He shouted, smiling back at me lazily, reaching over to touch my arm as if to reinforce his point.

Now, I've got to admit that Johnny is a very good looking young man, with a brilliant smile, fine features, and wide set eyes the colour of sapphires, yet his hand brushed against my bare skin and I felt only a faint annoyance. Funnier still, I was aware that, by now, Holly would be clinging desperately to his lower leg if he tried to walk away, that is if he hadn't already left the premises arm in arm with Libby. Disarmingly, I had never seen such perfect skin on the face of a bloke; I'd estimated him to be in his early thirties, yet his complexion is still boyish, bronzed and smooth, without a wrinkle or even the barest blemish that I could see. I suppose I should have been flattered really, that such an attractive sort was making an effort to talk to me but, even so, I couldn't help but feel that there was something just a bit off about him, something I just couldn't put my finger on. His suit was obviously expensive but, if I'm honest, his shirt was just a touch too shiny, and his tie rather gaudy too, made flashier still by the diamond studded tie pin that fixed them both together. I suspected that the bulge in his chest pocket was an expensive pair of designer sunglasses, Clubmasters or Aviators, and I couldn't help but judge him as a bit of a show pony from the way he presented himself. I came to the conclusion that wealth and success, and the admiration that garners, meant an awful lot to Johnny and, sadly, I'd say that he tries just a little too hard to make people notice him.

Once again, he excused himself, turning to force his way through the crowd in search of more, undrinkable bubbly; bantering pleasantly with those he collides with. I briefly contemplated escape but there seemed nowhere to go; I couldn't pretend I'd seen someone else I must catch up with, so I stood there, resignedly, watching on as he returned with yet another bottle, pulling a fastidious face at me as he filled up our glasses. Somewhat vexatiously, I decided not to ask him anything more about his interests because it was clear he had a rather high opinion of himself and he certainly didn't need any more encouragement from me. Besides, most blokes only ever want to talk about themselves, don't they? Once they get started, you usually can't shut them up; I learned that from Libby who told me that leading questions were almost a guaranteed option for flirting success. Then again I think, smiling to myself, when she gave me that advice, she clearly hadn't encountered anyone like Martin.

Again, I found myself wondering where on earth he had got to, willing him to materialise at my side. Whenever we're apart, the distance seems to give me a different perspective and, as Johnny banged on about Chamonix, I thought about what an unusual person Martin really was; a quiet, private, self-effacing man in a world that seems to worship flashiness and conceit. Still, his uniqueness aside, I wished he would hurry up and get here. I was getting a bit tired of listening to anecdotes about someone Johnny plays squash with, a mate that he goes jogging with, and a cousin who owns a night club. I'd stopped even attempting to feign interest and I just stared with glazed eyes in the direction of the stage.

In the corner, a string quartet struck up and it was not only a relief, it felt serendipitous somehow. I felt a flash of happiness not least because there would now definitely be something about the evening that my serious-minded boyfriend, if he ever turned up, might find worth his agreement to attend. The opening notes left me in no doubt that it was La Primavera and I'd stood on my tiptoes, reassuring myself that Holly isn't the one playing the cello. As I glanced across at Johnny, smiling now with a bit more enthusiasm, I was surprised to see his face contort into a pained sort of grimace.

"Oh god." He muttered darkly, and I'm forced to read his lips.

"What?" I said loudly in disbelief. "Don't tell me you don't like Vivaldi?"

"Not really my cup of tea, Louisa, dear girl." He explained, with a rather rakish grin. "More of a electronic fan actually…New Order, Underworld, Depeche Mode…that sort of thing…"

Helplessly, I felt my face split in half by a delighted grin. It seemed ages since I'd had anyone to talk about bands, and I've been listening to 'Violator' every single day for months now.

"Oh, god! I'm a little bit obsessed with Depeche Mode!" I told him breathlessly. "I've got everything that Dave Gahan has ever recorded…I probably shouldn't tell you this actually but there's this stall down the Portobello Rd flogging brilliant bootleg concert CDs and, for a while, I was down there every weekend…."

"Really, Louisa?" He said, laughing at me like I was a disobedient puppy. "So, can I ask, what stopped you? Do you really have everything he's ever done?"

"Close…" I replied, grimacing at the recollection. "But, umm…someone pointed out to me that, in effect, bootlegs and pirated CDs were actually still theft…illegal in other words…not just a cheeky form of collecting…"

"They were right." Johnny answered, folding his arms and tilting his head at me in mock reprimand. "That was a bit naughty of you, still, I suppose everyone does it..."

"Do you go to many live gigs then?" I shout, laughing too, as I endeavour to change the subject.

"I do, as it happens." He replied with a superior sort of smirk, refilling his glass to the brim before topping up mine. "My younger brother, believe it or not, is actually a music promoter and he can usually be relied on to slide a few tickets my way, gratis you understand."

"Oh, right…wow…amazing!"

"Yes…so, let's see…Backstage at Live Aid, that was huge, but..ahh… recently, umm, well I went to the Nelson Mandela Benefit Concert in April. Simeon always gets me free tickets to all the big charity gigs...And, umm, I saw Madonna at Wembley, too, in the summer…Elton John… Phil Collins….I had backstage passes for Tina Turner too, but I didn't go…but I've seen just about everyone really. Loads of bands….."

I feel my nose wrinkle, and I stare back at him thoughtfully, just a little bit disappointed in him and a bit unimpressed actually by the fact that anyone would cadge free tickets for a charity concert, never mind boasting about it to a virtual stranger. He's really quite shameless about it too but isn't that just like most rich people, to spend heaps of cash on the right champagne vintages but be a bit mean and tight-fisted when it comes to helping the less-fortunate? And, as for his choice of which live performances to attend, Phil Collins does seem a bit of an embarrassing one to admit to. It's the sort of concert your Nan would go to, and I stifle a giggle at the thought. Funnier still, Johnny is taking the opportunity to name-drop, oblivious to the fact his street cred is now non-existent. At least that's another thing I don't have to worry about with Martin. Even though he operates on some of the rich and famous, he never tries to impress me and I know for a fact he wouldn't be seen dead at any sort of pop concert, embarrassing or otherwise; in fact he treats all popular music with equal rudeness and disdain, like he's above it all somehow.

I'd felt a hand on my shoulder then and, startled, I'd spun around really eagerly, hoping he might finally have arrived. But before me stands only Tzippy, her expression even more steady and unflinching than I remember, and I tried not to look too disappointed.

"So glad you could join us, Louisa." She said calmly, her voice clear and amplified in that way of lecturers and public speakers. "I see Johnny is keeping you entertained. But, you're on your own?"

"Oh, hi Tzippy, lovely to see you again, and thanks so much for the invitation!" I heard myself garble breathlessly. " And, no…well, yes, I am actually but.. I mean…Martin is coming. He's just…not here at the moment."

"Good…good…." She replied, gazing at me thoughtfully. "Perhaps he and my husband will coordinate their late arrival. I'm sure their alibis will be impeccable, though in Martin's defence, it does sound as if it's been quite the week…Don't rush off afterwards, I'd be delighted if you would join me for a drink."

I'd nodded encouragingly as the corners of her mouth contracted into what I assumed was a smile, but, if I'm honest, not much of what she said made much sense to me and I stared after her, perplexed, as she glided away into the welcoming arms of the crowd.

When I turned back to face Johnny, he was staring again, but the confident smile had disappeared, his childlike skin was furrowed across his brow, and his mouth was now small and almost petulant.

"Umm..this Martin that Tzippy refers to, it wouldn't be Martin Ellingham, would it?" I heard him ask, at some volume, the levity in his voice replaced by a sudden noticeable irritation.

"That's right." I replied, raising my eyebrows and staring back at him, as my heart sped up just a little bit.

"So you know him then?" He said, and I thought I could detect a hint of sourness, one I didn't really appreciate at all.

"I do, actually."

"Hmph…I was under the impression he never went anywhere, ever. He's certainly never struck me as the sociable type…though I heard he'd gone to Imperial. Sholto must have put the hard word on him…"

"Martin's my boyfriend." I interrupted coldly. "I asked him to come."

In that moment, his face was an absolute picture, frozen in place, the embodiment of cartoonish shock and surprise. And, actually, it would even have been quite funny if it weren't so bloody aggravating, as if the idea of Martin and I being a couple just jarred people to their core. As I watched his face, it was all a bit too familiar really: Johnny putting two and two together and apparently not that keen on the answer he arrived at. I watched on in silence, grinding my teeth in irritation as he made a massive effort to compose himself but, in the end, his smile was obviously fixed, and fake, and mirthless.

I've often wondered if it's the age difference that makes people find us so inexplicable as a couple. Whenever we are out and about, and we bump into someone he knows, it's always so evident. Usually, after they've had a moment to process the idea, people are polite but I can't help but wonder what they're thinking. I've always had this niggling fear that perhaps it is because they were used to seeing Martin with high achieving, career-driven types; willowy blondes with posh accents and Oxbridge Firsts. I suppose I can understand their surprise if that is the case, I mean I know my accent does see me often pigeonholed as a yokel, and I suppose I do appear a bit of a lightweight compared to the intellectual types Martin might seem naturally more attracted to. But, whatever the reason Johnny has for his reaction, I was suddenly on the defensive and I felt my hackles go skyrocketing upwards.

As we stood together in an awkward silence, there was a noticeable draught and I glanced across as the door swung open, hoping desperately that was Martin arriving at last. I felt suddenly in need of his reassuring presence, and the sense of calm control he always seems to emanate. And, frankly, I was tired of Johnny, who was starting to feel a bit like a barnacle that needed scraping away. But my disappointment and frustration grew as I realised that it was just another anonymous couple, he in a silvery grey suit and his companion in a sweeping, red velvet, floor length coat, as wide shouldered and dramatic as the entrance they seemed intent on making.

"And how is he finding the move to Imperial?" Johnny shouted, and I turn back to face him, reluctant to engage.

"Good." I told him quickly. "Busy, you know, because it's his first week and Martin always takes his responsibilities very seriously."

He smiled.

"That sounds like the Ellingham I remember. But, I wonder, how do you feel about that?"'

"It's fine. I've got plenty to keep me busy." I replied crisply, half turning my back on him and scanning the crowd again, in the vain hope he would get the message and leave me alone.

"Well that's very magnanimous of you, Louisa. I'm not sure many other women would be so understanding….their boyfriends working late every single night…"

There was something about his tone that struck me as not very nice and I narrowed my eyes, but said nothing, noting with increasing discomfort that his gaze seemed to be drifting down below my throat again. Without thinking, I put my hand on my neck defensively and, as if was brought suddenly back to reality, he flashed me that broad, dazzling grin again.

"Lot's of impressionable young students looking for feedback…" He drawled slowly, leaning in toward me and lowering his voice to a stage whisper. "I don't suppose he's let on to you the extent that some of these perky, ambitious little boilers will go to get themselves to the top of the class…"

I shook my head at him in disbelief, a brittle glassy smile plastered across my face. He was definitely barking up the wrong tree now, I was confident of that, only because I trust Martin implicitly. Like all mean spirited insinuations though, it worked it's way into my head and I found myself fighting to push it, frantically and desperately, to the back of my mind. I reminded myself that I know, I just know absolutely that Martin wouldn't do anything like that but, the more I thought about it, the more upset I became. That there are other people who assume that he would take advantage of his position sickens me.

"Perhaps you just don't know him very well." I replied shakily, in a feeble attempt at condescension. I feel as if I am trembling but if it's from fear or from fury, I can't really tell.

"Good point." He agreed affably, reaching up to push his fringe from his forehead again. "I don't know him well at all, but then again he is known to be very secretive about his personal life and I suppose, like many others, I've always been rather curious as to why…"

My jaw twisted into an angry grimace but, again, I said nothing, turning my head and looking away, focusing on trying to calm my breathing which felt quick and far too shallow. The music had stopped and there was a lull in the loud buzz of conversation around us, a calming of the atmosphere somehow. Despite that, I was suddenly too hot, and I tore off a layer, clumsy with irritation, catching my thumb in the lining and pulling the sleeve inside out as I removed it. I swore under my breath as I struggled to free myself from my jacket, fumbling as I folded it, and letting it fall from my grip to the floor. Snatching at it hastily, when I stood up, I staggered on my heels just slightly and I felt his hand curve around my elbow, sliding his fingers up lightly to grasp the bare exposed skin of my upper arm quite firmly, his gaze fixed on my neck and cleavage. He was talking at me again, his words indistinct, but his tone unmistakably oily with charm.

"Pardon?" I demanded, glaring at his hand where it clasped my arm.

He responded by leaning in, so close to me that I could smell his aftershave; heavy, cloying and expensive.

"I said: Have you ever thought of having that excised?" He repeated calmly, and he pointed at the mole at the base of my throat. "It's probably just a compound melanocytic nevus but it wouldn't hurt to send it off to the lab anyway. That, and a breast augmentation, would really enhance your decolletage, Louisa, and I think you'd be extremely happy with the results."

For a moment, I couldn't quite make sense of what I've heard and I stood, motionless and disbelieving, as he continued to gaze thoughtfully at my chest from uncomfortably close proximity. As his meaning became clear, I was actually speechless with indignation and I felt the slow burn of humiliation ignite in every cell of my body. As my face glowed and my jaw tightened, the only response I was apparently capable of was to jerk my elbow away, in a feeble attempt to secure its release.

"I'll give it some thought." I said haltingly, my voice dazed and disoriented as he as he smiled at me encouragingly.

"You'll give what some thought?" A voice behind me asked, and I recognise that distinctive, low, velvety growl in an instant.

Reefing my arm away, I turned to face him; six foot three of icy disapproval, his eyes narrowed, his teeth partly exposed by a fearsome sneer; exuding the potential of threat like the snarl of a huge, intimidating dog.

"Martin!" I said breathlessly, taking an involuntary step towards him.

"Louisa." He replied curtly, but there was such disappointment in his tone that I was disorientated; it was almost as if I wasn't even there.

He'd really only glanced at me briefly before returning his attention on my new companion, his whole demeanour toward Johnny expressing a powerful and quite menacing sense of dislike, an enmity that was palpable.

"Ellingham, old man…" Johnny replied cheerfully, a hint of insolence in the way he sounded out Martin's surname. "Long time, no see! We've just been talking about you, haven't we Louisa?"

Martin stared at him for what seemed like ages, his disgust obvious, before replying and, when he finally spoke, his voice was a harsh and frozen snarl, spitting out Johnny's name as if it were an insult.

"Bamford."

He looked at me again then and, this time, I could only gaze back at him, feeling helpless and bewildered. He seemed somehow wounded as our eyes meet, his face flickering almost as if he was wincing and I realised that, whatever it was he thought he saw, it has clearly angered and upset him behond what seems like reason. I've never even heard him mention anyone called Johnny Bamford before but it was clear they have some sort of shared history and, on Martin's side particularly, a rather intense and bitter dislike.

"You're the last person I'd expect to see at one of these things? Trying to impress the new boss?" Johnny said, with a slightly cocky air, smiling at as both, his eyes darting from one to the other.

"You suffering from Alzheimer's, Johnny?" I snapped at him, suddenly feeling a strong sense of umbrage myself. "Cos, I'm sure I just told you five minutes ago that Martin was coming 'cos I'd asked him to…"

His smug expression darkened almost imperceptibly as I glared at him. Insulting me was one thing but a mean-spirited winding up of a tired and unhappy Martin was another thing entirely. I knew then that he was a troublemaker and quite possibly a bully, and I had no time for either.

"And you, Bamford?" Martin interrupted, curling his lip in disgust as Johnny absently drained the dregs of the bottle into his glass. "Are you here to offer your own personal insight into the diseases of the mind? Or, as ever, to flambé yourself in alcohol?"

"Wrong on both counts actually." Johnny replied cheerfully. "My mother owns the publishers of Tzippy's little book, as it happens. She encourages me to attend the medical themed launches, just to raise the tone she says…"

I could feel the antipathy radiating from Martin in intense waves and, as the attention of the room seems to be moving toward the front of the room, I took my opportunity, slipping my hand into his and giving it an encouraging squeeze, a gesture that received no response and certainly no reciprocation. I could only imagine the expression on my face as I turned back to face Johnny Bamford's smirking face.

"Yeah, well, lovely that your mum still organises your social life, otherwise we probably would never have met…" I said quickly, furious that the occasion seemed now to be so tainted. "Enjoy the rest of your evening and, Johnny, make sure you get a taxi home soon eh? You've done a tragic amount of drinking for so early on a week night…"

Before he could reply, there was a horrible squeal of feedback and the muffled booming of the inevitable microphone testing. Martin glanced at me, warily, his eyes suddenly wide with surprise. Sod bloody everybody, I'd thought unhappily, as the audience turned in unison toward the source of the sound. Sliding my hand up around my boyfriend's neck, I pulled his head toward me, desperate to kiss him properly, like a normal couple would comfortably greet each other in public. His body felt rigid though and, for a split second, he resisted until I leant against him and breathed a few garbled words of thanks in his ear, expressing my relief that he was finally here. It was only then that he relented slightly, inclining his head and allowing me to brush his lips with mine. I felt his hand lightly touch my waist and the way it lingered felt infinitely reassuring. As the speeches began, and as smattering of polite laughter rippled across the room, I pulled away and smiled up at him, a nervous, hopeful sort of expression that was not improved by the line of questioning he started up with.

"Louisa, what exactly was it you said you'd think about?" He demanded in a loud whisper.

"Shhh!" I told him, narrowing my eyes and shooting him a look of warning so severe that he ducked his chin at me and looked away.

Later, I will tell him that it was nothing because what choice do I have? Growing up with friends like Caroline and Isobel, who seemed to develop voluptuous curves in their early teens, I'd always been a little self conscious when it came to bust size, and hadn't Johnny just gone and confirmed my deepest fears? When Martin disclosed that he was a Plastic Surgeon of all things, I felt horribly awkward and even vaguely ashamed, as if I was somehow not feminine enough, a hopeless B cup when everyone knew that the ideal was a double D. And the truth was I'd never ever bothered about my freckle before, it had always been there and to now discover that, all this time, it had been unsightly had made me feel just really unhappy.

A woman took to the stage and introduced herself as the Publisher's representative, gesturing extravagantly at the row of people seated behind her and encouraging Tzippy, with feverish excitement, to come up to the plinth. I'm ashamed to admit that I'd stopped paying attention by then, mainly because every woman in the room now appeared to be supremely well endowed and almost blemish-free. I'd tugged at my neckline nervously, wishing I'd worn a scarf, feeling exposed and less than ample as I cast surreptitious glances downward at my cleavage. I noticed that Martin was restless too; tugging at his cuffs, smoothing his tie and flexing his fists open and closed as if he was still irritated and quite upset.

It seemed as if the evening were set to become another one of my terrible ideas, a triumph of hope over reality. I'd known the risk I took by asking him to join me but I'd invited him along anyway, because I was always keen to meet new people and expand my horizons beyond the places I seemed to frequent. But whatever I did, and this was probably just a bit selfish of me, I usually felt happier if he was with me. I still had this vague hope that he might learn to enjoy events like this, if we could just go to them together. Of course, I wasn't so deluded that I didn't already know what Martin would think of the subject matter tonight. I was more than familiar with his air of superiority, the faint expression of disapproval he assumed whenever the subject of my psychology studies arose.

i'They're all quite mad, you know that, don't you?" He'd said loftily. "Once you start spending any time with them, you'll soon acknowledge I am correct. They only enrol in these sorts of courses in the first place to try and diagnose themselves…"

"Oh Martin, that's rubbish!" I'd laughed, shaking my head at him in disbelief. "How can you even say that?"

"Half-baked theories and unscientific claptrap…" He'd continued haughtily. "Case studies based on narrow sample groups pulled from the lecture halls of the same American universities. Simplistic theorising on the whole, with absolutely no rigour to the peer review process…"

I'd narrowed my eyes and stared at him, threateningly.

"Yeah, well, please tell me you're not going to say any of that to Tzippy." I'd told him rather pointedly. "Because, you know, I'm actually really looking forward to going to this, and I don't want to be kicked out of my first ever book launch because you heckled the author…"

But he had agreed to accompany me, regardless of his own misgivings, and wasn't that just Martin to a T really. Now as I stood beside him, struggling to concentrate as Tzippy introduced her book, briefly outlined the contents, and thanked the inordinate number of people who seemed to have contributed, I reached for his arm and, covertly, pulled it to my chest, leaning my head lightly on his bicep as I tried in vain to pay attention. Perhaps this wasn't my world after all, or perhaps I was just caught in a weird no man's land between unfettered youth and serious maturity. Whatever it was, I knew that, just now, it wasn't quite right for me and, as the author returned to her seat, to the sound of applause, I heard Martin sigh deeply, the undeniable response of a very relieved man. I'd been unable to suppress a giggle as I'd squeezed hard on his arm, and he'd surprised me then, because he'd bent to press his lips to my hair, a spontaneous sort of gesture that had left me almost bursting with happiness.

"Home?" He'd asked hopefully, as the crowd appeared to split in two.

Half had seemed to throng toward the bar and the rest had pushed forward in the direction of the stage, throwing up their hands and calling out questions, and we'd been left standing in space, gazing hopefully at one another. I'd nodded and, instantly, there was a brightness, an irrepressible relief that was obvious in his eyes.

"Quickly." He'd instructed me firmly, taking my elbow and steering me toward the exit. "Before Zalman wants one of his infernal chats."

I'd glanced back as we left but not with regret. The cold air of the street had been rather a shock though and he had helped me wrestle my jacket back on as my teeth had chattered almost uncontrollably. And then there'd been another moment of serendipity, when we'd walked off in search of a taxi to hail, Martin striding along purposefully as he always did, and me tottering alongside him in my heels, my arm through his, my hand buried deep within the warmth of my pocket. But, when we got to the main road and we'd stood at the taxi rank, he'd slipped his arm around my shoulders and drawn me toward him, all of his own accord. I'd shivered then, but not from the cold, and he'd sighed impatiently, launching into a lecture on the superior insulation qualities of wool over leather. But as I'd pressed myself against him, basking like a lizard in the heat he always seemed to radiate, I'd been able, blissfully, to ignore his suggestion that I had made a poor job of choosing my outfit and focus on how lovely it felt when he touched me in public. Before I even realised, my shaking had stopped.

But none of it had mattered in the end, as I cradled a steaming mug of tea between my hands, my legs folded up beside me on the sofa. I'd heard him turn on the shower and I knew his routine only too well, so I sat in contemplation of what had turned out to be quite an exhausting day. People who you'd thought were your friends turned out to be nothing of the sort. Parents, who you'd expect to show some interest in how your life had turned out since they absconded from it, turned out not to care at all. And then there are handsome young men, ones you seem to have so much in common with, ones who on the surface seem like they should be a lot of fun to spend time with but turn out to not only bore you silly but to strip you instantly of your joy and leave you reluctant to even look at yourself in the mirror.

And all the time, the person who on paper seems like the least likely logical match; a serious, silent intellectual with whom I share little in the way of interests, seems to be the only one who actually really loves me, the one who really knows and trusts me, and the one who goes out of his way to take care of me the best way he knows how. The thought of it, the intensity of the realisation makes me feel a bit guilty about sitting here, flicking idly through Tzippy's book and chewing covertly on the last of a packet of Jammy Dodgers I had hidden in the back of the wardrobe. In the distance I hear the water stop, and the faint squeak of the shower door as Martin bookends his day as predictably as ever. Yawning, I glance at the clock and smile to myself: nine o'clock and I'm ready for bed; I really am turning into a total OAP since I absconded from the student lifestyle and that grotty bloody flat.

I hear footsteps in the hall, and I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth as I'm alerted to Martin's light-footed, cat-like approach. Anxious that there might be crumbs in evidence, I glance up at him, expecting a scowl of reproach but he simply stands there, with only a towel around his waist, his skin glistening from the shower, his hair standing damply on end.

"Louisa?" He says quietly, and immediately I notice the wrinkling around his eyes, his expression tentative and unsure.

I want to tell him how madly hot he looks standing there; damp but definitely not salty, just a beautiful, fit, golden-skinned man, everything about him so deliciously smooth and firm and inviting that I can't help but stare at him approvingly. His display of self-consciousness is so endearing as his hands dart to the fabric tucked neatly at his hip; coy and diffident even when there is just the two of us. I smile at him the because, to be honest, that's just so like Martin; to be so earnestly modest, as if I'm not already very well acquainted with what lies beneath that provocative length of soft Egyptian cotton. I wait for him to speak but he hesitates, so sweet and so irresistible that I want desperately to tease him, to say something that makes him blush, something suggestive enough to make his Adam's Apple appear to leap in his throat as he swallows so raw and breathlessly.

But there's something stopping me; an apprehensive knotting of his eyebrows, an imploring sort of dimple in the curve of his cheeks, and there's a look in his eye I haven't seen before. A wistfulness, a sorrow, and such a beseeching sort of need that I scramble to my feet and gaze across at him, almost transfixed by the tiny beads of water that sparkle on his chest.

"Please Louisa" He says, after a moment, his voice a strange, hoarse, despairing whisper. "Will you come to bed?"