(Mum passed away just before Christmas. Thank you to everyone who sent kind messages, and good wishes via reviews, I really appreciate your thoughtfulness and your concern. I hope this new year is a better one for everyone across the world and I wish you all health and happiness despite these trying times.)

I remember a similar conversation. It might have been months ago, or it could have been a hundred years. Regardless, I can't help but smile at the recollection. Back then, it felt as if we were in a tinder-dry forest and I'd been playing with matches; gauche, and exhilarated and, when I come to think of it, more than a little bit overwhelmed. But, just as it felt like I was about to consumed by the flames, the room was instantly still, and calm, and quiet. Then, like now, his voice had been soothing, his words logical and sensible, and his approach so cool that it was inevitable I would consent completely. My infatuation was so helpless, and Martin so sure and authoritative that I would have agreed to almost any condition he insisted upon. I was starstruck, and in awe of how extraordinary he was, and how unique that, so honestly, I would have committed to just about any proviso.

The difference tonight though is his face. There's a new expression of annoyance that is deeply etched into his brow and, though my common sense suggests it's the result of his job, there's always that insecure little voice, isn't there, niggling away inside that drives you mad. I take a deep breath and wait, as he collects his thoughts, reminding myself to be patient, conscious of the strange, distracted mood that seems to have enveloped him for days. I reflect that it was probably my fault that the weekend had got off on the wrong foot anyway. Far from being pleased at the prospect of lunch with Chris, his response had seemed closer to irritation actually and I'll admit I was more than a little bit put out by his distaste. As soon as I told him, he'd wanted to cancel and it had felt like an unnecessarily sharp rebuke, as if by agreeing to meet up with his friend, I'd somehow let him irrevocably down.

"It'll be fine." I'd assured him hopefully, as he glanced at me, clearly unconvinced. "Martin, it's really important to keep in touch with people. It's too easy just to drift apart when life gets busy."

"Hmmph." He'd muttered, making no attempt to hide his annoyance. "Less than a day's notice. I suppose that's fine too?"

"Chris is your friend." I'd pointed out. "So, for starters, usual rules don't apply."

I'd tried to placate him then, suggesting that we go somewhere new, afterwards, for a walk. I know that he's never been that interested in socialising but it's something I really enjoy, especially when I get to go out with him. It might seem shallow but I do secretly really like having a tall, well-dressed boyfriend who opens doors for me and is the most sophisticated man I've ever met. Agreeing to Chris' invitation had seemed a totally safe commitment and I was frustrated over Martin's degree of negativity, surprising even for him. In the end, I'd placed my hand over his, stretching my little finger out and hooking it around his in an attempt at playfulness, smiling at him encouragingly, willing him to acquiesce.

"How about Greenwich Park?" I added hopefully, only to find my proposal rejected gruffly and instantaneously, his brow knotted with obvious disapproval.

"Greenwich?" He'd repeated and he shook his head slowly as his expression changed to that of absolute horror.

"Yes, Martin, Greenwich. The lady at the bus stop said it's just beautiful at the moment, you know, with the autumn leaves and everything...wouldn't a walk be lovely, and perhaps look inside the museum if we have time…?"

But his expression remained one of absolute disgust and, for the life of me, I couldn't work out what I was doing wrong. Usually he seemed content to show me the parks and gardens of London, and if there was a stately home, stuffed full of clocks, to pop in to, so much the better. Sometimes he would tell me about the architecture of the house, sometimes it would be an anecdote about an eccentric owner or a famous visitor and, more often than not, there'd be a medical connection. Almost everywhere we went, he'd invariably been there before and it never seemed to bother him in the slightest. But this time, when I'd mentioned Greenwich, he didn't care that I'd never visited the place, that I obviously wanted to see it, he'd simply muttered with a sort of terse and unquestionable finality that he'd taken that trip too many times previously and had no plans to ever visit again.

With some reluctance, he'd eventually agreed to the lunch but, in the hours afterwards, he did seem unusually remote. Our supper was a quiet affair and, though he'd listened in what I assumed was sufferance as I blathered on about my day, his air was distracted and his answers ever so slightly offhand. Looking back, I should have left well alone; I should have recognised his mood but I'd careered clumsily on.

"So, are you pleased with how your first week turned out? Do you think you're going to be happy at Imperial?" I'd asked him, determined to be cheerful.

Instantly though, he'd sprung up from the table and begun filling the sink, pulling on his rubber gloves hastily, and crashing the dishes into the hot, soapy water as if his life depended on it.

"Martin," I repeated, more loudly. "Did you hear what I said?"

"I'm sorry?" He'd replied distractedly, after a moment.

"I asked you if you think you're going to be happy at Imperial?"

"Happy?"

I'd sighed heavily: "Martin, is this going to be one of those conversations where you just repeat everything I say?"

"No." He said keeping his back to me as he scrubbed furiously at the dishes. "But I…umm…well…I mean to say, it's very early on in the piece."

"It's been a week," I pointed out, with an incredulous bark of laughter. "You must have some idea of what it's going to be like."

It occurred to me straight away that this was just part of his usual reticence to talk about himself, or at least I hoped it was. Reaching for the tea towel, I wandered over beside him, the sight of him in his suit, apron and rubber gloves never failing to bring a smile to my face. I leaned against the countertop, idly drying the dishes, in anticipation of an answer, however brief, but he remained steadfastly silent, and totally intent on his task. I thought about what Chris had said earlier on the phone, how he'd used the words meteoric, and preeminent, and distinction in regards to Martin's career. I recognise this for what it is: his usual humility, his endearing sort of modesty really, a reserve that is intrinsic to his personality. While I admit that it's a part of him I do find especially attractive, it can also be, equally, as it is now, incredibly frustrating.

I watch as he holds a glass up to the light, glaring at it, his eyes steely and narrowed, his expression critical and severe. I wonder if that is how he looks when he is working, and for some reason I feel a silly sort of shivery, childish thrill. Without thinking, I toss the tea towel aside, and throw my arms around his chest, squeezing his ribs vehemently as I'm filled with a madly overpowering surge of ferocious love.

"Martin…"

"Yes…?"

"I haven't really said this enough…but I want you to know that I think what you've achieved is really amazing." I tell him fervently, resting my cheek against the broad expanse of his shoulders. "And…well…just that I'm really proud of you, that's all…"

I realise I'm probably gushing but it's hopeless to attempt to control myself in the face of such a surprising explosion of emotion. I feel impulsive and almost light-headed, like some silly, infatuated teenage girl meeting her pop-star crush, and I cling to him like I never want to let him go. Honestly, I don't find it always easy to verbalise how I feel but it really seems empowering now to have actually told him, it feels like it's one of the most important things I'll ever say. And, while I don't expect him to simper in response, or to appear smug or self-congratulatory in any way, it dawns on me that he isn't moving and he isn't speaking, he is just standing as rock solid and silent as a statue as he gradually lowers the glass onto the draining board. I lean against him, gradually relinquishing my grip until I hear him clear his throat and he reaches, slowly and purposefully, for the remaining dirty glass.

Afterwards, I can't help but wonder what I've said. Enquiries into his well being are met with the gruffest of confirmations; he bristles, and mutters that he is fine but there is no evidence of the peaceful, quiet evening he said he wanted. Instead of settling down to read, as he usually does he'd wandered around pre-occupied, adjusting ornaments and looking in cupboards until he'd totally got on my nerves and I'd lost what remained of my patience. When he'd produced a duster and started cleaning the shelves, I'd had enough, stomping off to bed, still nursing a faint hope he'd follow. But I'd fallen asleep alone, too tired to try and guess what it was that had upset him, feeling sad and disappointed about the enormous empty space beside me but too frustrated to think how to fill it.

It was still dark when I'd woken and I'd reached out to discover him, stretching my arm into the swathe of soft linen, searching for the warm familiarity of his smooth, solid frame. I could not see the clock but the sounds from the street below told me that Saturday morning had already arrived.

"You're a long way away…" I'd whispered as, tentatively, he took hold of my hand.

"I thought you were cross…"

Sighing, I'd intertwined my fingers in his, and we had lain silently, side by side, for a few moments, all dissent seeming to vanish, and all edginess dulled. Rolling over to wrap myself around him, craving all the comfort and reassurance he offered, I'd searched for his mouth, oddly aware of the sound of his breathing; fast and shallow, as it seemed to catch in his throat. His jaw was rough with stubble but rubbing my cheek against his seemed only to bewilder him, my laughter to confuse him as he stammered my name. I couldn't recall a time where he had failed to shave before coming to bed and I'd teased him, accusing him of allowing his standards to slip, of letting the romance die, and that he was clearly now taking me too much for granted.

"It won't take me a moment." He'd said, as he urged me to let him remedy the situation, as if I was every going to let him go, wound around him as I was, like a hungry tropical snake.

"Actually, I quite like it." I'd assured him, gently caressing his cheek, and grinning at him. "My own little bit of rough…"

And I honesty did like it. As fastidious as he is about personal grooming, I felt suddenly confident that I was seeing him as no other woman had ever done, with tousled hair, and the faintest of five o'clock shadows hugging his jaw. Any time Martin relinquished his rigid self control, and revealed that he was flesh and blood like the rest of us just seemed incredibly endearing and made him seem rather sweetly vulnerable.

"But…..Irritant…contact…dermatitis…" He'd muttered, fighting helplessly to free his mouth from mine. "Abraded skin…unnecessary…avoidable…Louisa…if you…would…just…"

I'd started laughing then, clasping my hands around his jaw and staring into his eyes, his expression like that of a little kid who just found out that Father Christmas doesn't exist. And I couldn't help myself, I needed him to be normal and fallible just as much as I wanted him to be clever, and talented, and exceptional. And, of course, I knew exactly how to make him writhe in mortified unease.

"Oh, I don't know, I actually can't think of anything more brilliant than turning up for lunch with Chris, and my face is purple with pash rash." I'd told him, unable to fight the smirk that enveloped me. "He'll probably even go so far as to shake your hand…"

With the early, insufficient light barely revealing his face, he'd gazed up at me, not saying a word, but I'd seen the flicker of something on his face all the same; a fleeting gleam in his eye, almost an amused resignation, as if he were finally convinced it was safe to surrender an inch of his ferocious grip. It was just the two of us once more, there was nothing else and there was no one else, just the man I adored at his sweetest; light and silent, and unhurried until his little game of seduction rendered me helpless, until that familiar intense euphoria overcame both of us once more. Afterwards, as I lay sprawled and helpless across his chest, he'd wrapped his arms around me, pressing his lips to my ear and whispering, unprompted, how much he loved me. And I felt so happy, so wanted, so trusted that I might easily have dissolved with utter joy.

Deliciously sated, I'd fallen asleep again, only to awake with the sickening recollection I'd made an appointment to have my hair cut. All of the tranquility that had enfolded me was gone, instantly, and I'd scampered about like a mad woman, showering and pulling whatever clothes were handy over my damp, resisting skin. A quick glance in the mirror revealed no evidence of facial chafing and for a moment I'd felt wryly disappointed, running some eyeliner hastily across my lids before grabbing my coat and bolting for the door.

I found Martin in the kitchen, staring out the window, his ridiculously tiny espresso cup clasped in his enormous hand, impossibly crisp and elegant in suit I hadn't seen before. Momentarily distracted, I bounced across the room toward him, tugging my boots on, hopping and staggering so clumsily that he'd rapidly placed his cup on the worktop and taken an alarmed step toward me.

"For goodness sake!" He'd barked disapprovingly as I'd stumbled into his grasp. "Louisa, you are a trimalleolar ankle fracture waiting to happen."

As I laughed, I'd kissed him goodbye, his cheeks as soft and smooth again beneath the palms of my hand, as his body was now taut and unyielding. But, as I ignored his reticence, stroking his hair and chewing playfully on his lower lip, I'd felt him exhale and, as his hands slipped down around my hips, and he'd encouraged me infinitesimally closer, I knew then that whatever the matter was, whatever it was that had been upsetting him, there was a very good chance it wasn't actually me.

"I'll see you at the restaurant," I called, over my shoulder, as he implored me not to run but, of course, I'd ignored him because what else can you do when you know that you're running horribly late?

And, as I sat in the chair and stared at my own reflection, pulling faces at myself self-consciously as the hairdresser chatted away, I couldn't imagine that it was possible to feel any happier. Despite the awful weather, everything was brilliant, all the stupid things I'd worried about for so long had just evaporated. I had everything I needed and I was blissfully and besottedly in love. Even when he was at his most haughty and detached, exactly as he was later when he turned his disapproving gaze at his friend, and the atmosphere in the restaurant turned to ice, I had almost come to quite like his arrogant surgical persona. In many ways it just reinforced that I might be somehow special, to know the real Martin in a way I suspected almost no one else had ever done.

Now, damp from my bath, my head heavy and my throat catchy and raw, I stand in the silence of his study, feeling slightly less sure of myself. He leans back and frowns at me gravely, taking both my hands in his, a solemn sort of gesture that causes my heart to beat a little faster.

"Louisa," he says, gesturing in the direction of his enormous desk chair, "Take a seat."

He folds his arms across his chest, waiting while i lower myself down before he begins to speak, his voice low and calm and matter-of-fact. The hot bath has made me a little light-headed though and I struggle to focus on the point that he tries so carefully to get across to me. At first, I feel obtuse, not quite understanding the relevance of what appears to be his old job's inability to replace him until Martin recognises something in my face, disinterest or bemusement, or a little of both. And so he begins a painstaking explanation of the impact of there being no vascular consultant on hand, especially for the cases he left behind, the long term patients and those with chronic and difficult-to-manage conditions.

"But what about your creepy colleague, Ben whatshisname?" I point out, inclining my head at him, confused. "I thought you said he was going to take over your list?"

"Umm, Dixon is no longer…available. And, being so late in the year, it's hard to find a replacement at short notice so, unfortunately, the only alternative becomes a potentially dangerous delay in treatment."

"Oh. So, what are you trying to say, Martin? That you're going to step in to help them out?"

"Yes…that's actually what I've done." He replies in a low voice, glancing at me cautiously. "I…umm…I've agreed to cover on call and emergencies until they can find a locum…and, also, all existing electives that cannot be postponed safely until a new appointment is made in the New Year."

"I see, so what about Imperial then?" I ask him, frowning as I try to understand how on earth this is all going to work.

"Umm, well I am due to start seeing my own patients from Monday. So, the new arrangement will take some juggling, ahh, in the short term but it is within the patients's best interests that we try and manage the caseload as best we can. We'll schedule all procedures with that in mind. Anything that can safely be postponed, will be…"

"So, how much more work will it be for you Martin? Obviously enough that you feel the need to prepare me?"

He clears his throat and gives a tiny reluctant nod.

"Electives are reasonably predictable and therefore manageable. Emergencies, on the other hand, are not. And, a lot depends on how quickly they can find a locum, or even a permanent replacement. But, in the interim, I expect…umm, I assume that, covering all of the vascular on call shifts will be…well…not to put too fine a point on it, it will be very demanding…"

"Okay" I reply slowly, fighting hard to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

He looks at me now, lifting his chin as if to bookend the conversation and my hands are released from his grip. But I know enough about Martin Ellingham now to realise what this scenario entails; weekends interrupted, early starts and long days. Being on call means never venturing far from the hospital, the buzzing of his pager shattering whatever moment we might be sharing together regardless of the time of day. But his commitment, his sense of responsibility for the lives of others, I love him for that, I honestly wouldn't want him to be any other way. Even though he has warned me, even though he has tried to make me understand, I still feel a flash of selfish disappointment though, a churlishness that I can't quite overcome. As we stare at each other, his confidence seems to diminish, his self assurance seems to waver and his eyes become more wrinkled with worry until he turns away awkwardly and begins to shuffle papers on his desk.

The irritation in my throat returns, the pressure in my sinuses causing my head to ache unpleasantly but, seeing him so uncharacteristically apprehensive, it seems imperative I reassure him that I'm absolutely fine. This is another test, isn't it, a measure of my commitment to the man I know he is. And so I smile at him, and I feel myself nodding with an encouragement that isn't completely genuine. Any idea of a weekend away, of popping down to Portwenn for a few days, it has suddenly all vanished into the ether. As my heart momentarily sinks, I have a moment of self pity and, with it, a rather blatant loss of self-control.

"What about Christmas, then?" I blurt out, sounding embarrassingly like a disappointed kid, the one whose parents always fought like cat and dog the entire month before.

He turns around to face me again, frowning, and he genuinely seems perplexed.

"I…umm…I don't really celebrate Christmas." He replies slowly after a moment and I realise, stupidly, that I'd never given it a moment's thought.

It hangs in the air between us then, like an enormous flashing neon sign in a dingy basement nightclub. I'd defied endless disappointment, and absent parents, and constant financial constraint to hang on to Christmas as my favourite time of year, only discover now that, to him, it was an occasion he found utterly irrelevant.

Without even realising it, I'd had a fantasy bubbling away in the back of my mind. I'd been unconsciously creating rituals; selecting a tree and sending out cards, joyously swinging off his arm, enchanted by the Oxford St lights. I'd even reasoned an argument, cajoling him into accepting the joys of bread sauce and brandy custard as a yuletide trial that he somehow must find a way to bear. But it's not going to happen, any of it and the realisation is as shocking to me as a sea swim in March. I shiver and pull my dressing gown tightly around me.

"So what do you normally do then?" I ask, and I can't even begin to mask my disappointment, to try and hide from him the way I really feel.

"Well...I…umm…I usually just work." He answers, clearing his throat in a way that seems quite defensive.

"Oh." I say and, ridiculously, my eyes prick with tears. "Is it always going to be like that, then? Are you always going to have to work?"

"I don't know, I really haven't given it any thought. It depends on a number of factors. People don't stop getting sick just because it's Christmas, Louisa. And, in fact, New Years Eve is the busiest shift of the year…"

Of course, it's all becoming clear to me now. His desire to keep busy at all times, his avoidance of celebrations and social events, his dislike of over-consumption and what he terms crass commercialism. And, in a way, I do sort of understand it. His mother certainly wouldn't inspire Christmas Cheer in anyone, neither did his aunt Ruth come across as the festive type. And Joan, who adores Christmas as much as I do, who bakes fruit cakes endlessly to supply to the village, right now, she and Portwenn seem a very long way away. I look up and discover that his eyes are upon me; his expression wary and perplexed. I smile awkwardly, a mirthless, resigned grimace which really sort of encapsulates exactly how I feel.

"Louisa," He says, with an odd note of deliberation in his voice. "I have always worked that week, made a point of covering for those colleagues for whom Christmas has some sort of religious significance, or those who have families they want to spend time with…"

"And what about me?" I interrupt, as his words seem to sting, biting my lip as I stare back at him, fighting this awful and overwhelming feeling of rejection. "Or do I not count as family?"

I watch his face as he listens, and he seems instantly hewn of stone. The mouth that covered mine so insistently just a few hours earlier, that called my name in a way that made it sound as if it was dipped in the richest of chocolate, those same lips are suddenly cold and apparently indifferent. The hand that caressed my breast, the arms that had drawn me to his chest, making me feel as safe and protected as I've ever been, I notice miserably as he simply folds them across his chest, impassive and utterly without emotion.

"Martin?" I demand, and my throat is suddenly so dry that I begin to cough, a horrible rasping noise that sees his ambivalent brow crease into a more concerned frown.

He takes a step toward me just as the phone rings directly beside us, a loud, long, insistent peel that sees us both startled by the intrusiveness of the sound. He purses his lips in irritation and I lift my chin defiantly as our eyes meet.

"Louisa…" he says firmly, but the bell sounds again, and he pauses for a moment, exasperated and annoyed, before snatching at the receiver.

"Ellingham!" He snarls, and it's like the pitiless sound of an attacking wolf; a booming, thunderous and terrifying growl that resonates around the silent flat.

I wince as I listen, but I don't say a word. I don't try to placate him with a reassuring touch, or improve his mood with an encouraging smile. An enormous gulf seems to have opened up between us, an aching desperate chasm, a void that seems impossible to breach. i can't seem to make sense of what I'm feeling, my head hurts and, for the second time today, I feel a desperate urge to turn tail and simply run away.

"Yes." He says, his voice crisp with irritation as he holds the receiver out in front of him at arms length.

"It's for you." He adds, staring coldly over the top of my head, refusing to meet my eye, sighing so heavily and impatiently that it feels like he's chastising me.

I feel a flash of indignation.

"Who is it?" I say in a stage whisper, my tone now equally as terse and disgruntled, flexing my jaw as I glare back at him pointedly.

"I don't know. Some girl." He hisses, avoiding my gaze, as he places the phone in my hand and, before I have even had the chance to speak to the caller, he has turned on his heel and is striding coldly and purposefully away.