After I hung up the phone, Martin had reappeared, noticeably wary and watchful but still adamant that I should sit on the couch, his voice quiet yet insistent. He seemed distracted, neither fussing over me as he usually would, with pursed lips and a ferocious scowl, nor fixing me with that particular thoughtful stare he assumes when he's intent on a diagnosis. Instead, he'd disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a bowl of thick, delicious chicken soup, made with real chicken, and a comforting plate of warm and buttery toast. I ate slowly, in a slightly awkward silence, conscious of him moving briskly backwards and forward between the rooms, saddened at the way he seemed intent on avoiding my eye, and pained by his silence.

Things had gone pear-shaped again in an instant but, as I thought about it, I realised I didn't have a clue about what I could do or, especially, what I should say. Having had the wind well and truly taken from my sails, I'd barely had time to make sense of Martin's job news, never mind his confession that, as usual, he planned to work over Christmas, before I was to be crushed again. As I took the phone from him and exclaimed a breathless hello, I'd already convinced myself that it must be Libby, ecstatic that she'd finally found a moment to call me. My need to hear her familiar breezy greeting was actually intense, recalling with a flash of happiness how her telephone voice always seemed languid and faintly amused, as she invariably held the receiver under her chin, flipping casually through a magazine, or absently painting her nails as she spoke.

I had an impossible amount to tell her, honestly so much had happened in a relatively short space of time that the words bubbled up and wrestled like ferrets fighting in my throat. I wanted to shriek with joy and, suddenly, I was a hope-filled little girl again, waking up with such eager anticipation on a cold and blustery Christmas morning. But, just like it had been so often in that draughty cottage, my father hungover and my mother comatose, the house littered with cigarette butts and empties, and stinking, bearded strangers asleep on the couch, I crashed back to earth with an emphatic thud. I should have known there was never going to be any over-flowing Christmas stockings, there was no turkey, no bread sauce and no tree.

Even before she'd uttered that nickname I so detested, my heart had literally sunk to the bottom of my chest. When I'd heard the accent and, more especially, the tone, I knew immediately who it was.

"Oh god, I can't believe it. After all this time. I've finally tracked you down…" she'd cried, as emphatic as if she'd just run Lord Lucan to ground herself. "The trouble I've had to go to…honestly, Lou Lou, you wouldn't believe it…I was almost starting to think, oh she really doesn't want me to know where she is, but pay no mind to me…the important thing is I've found you now, isn't it?…so how are you? I mean, really, how are you? It's been so long…"

"Isobel." I'd replied hoarsely, my voice dulled by disappointment. "Umm…I'm fine, how are you?"

She answered in excruciating detail of course and it was almost funny how instantly familiar her dreary lament actually was; honestly she'd always been prone to misfortune so I don't know why I was surprised but the truth is I felt exhausted just listening to her. I tried hard to be positive, though, I really did, especially since it appeared that she had gone to such trouble to locate me, and we'd known each other for such a long time. Besides, it really isn't her fault that she's not Libby, and she wasn't to know how bad her timing actually was; how I was still reeling from disappointment, blown away by the admissions of the man who was moving stealthily around the room behind me. Poor Isobel, she couldn't possibly realise that I was feeling more unwell by the minute, and even more despondent; my little fantasy of sharing Christmas with Martin, by a large open fire, somewhere romantic and secluded, effectively now dead in the water. So I forced myself to make appreciative noises as she recounted all the obstacles she'd encountered in her search for me, because it was the right thing to do, wasn't it? She'd taken the trouble and now I had to respond, that's how it always works with friends.

As I listened, of course, I could barely get a word in edgeways but, eventually, she did sort of get to the point. I could have guessed that, yet again, a cruelly broken heart had seen her abandon what she said was a totally brilliant job in the laundry at the Bristol Royal Infirmary. On a whim, she had hitchhiked her way to London and was staying with a cousin of her mothers, in a share flat in Bethnal Green. As I listened to her dismal tale of thwarted romance, I tried to be supportive, inserting that's a shame and I'm sorry whenever she paused for breath. But it was just like deja vu really, she'd always had a knack of making terrible decisions, of choosing the wrong boys, at the wrong time, for all the wrong reasons. I recalled her so clearly, all those years ago, sitting on the end of her sagging bed, surrounded by tattered teenage magazines and a mountain of cassette tapes. As usual, she would be distracted by everything except her homework, picking at her crocheted bedspread and winding a long strand of curly hair around her finger as she talked, devastated that she was invisible to the eyes of her latest crush.

"Honestly, the hours I spent on that icky payphone downstairs, just trying to find someone who knew where you were." She said with a mirthless laugh, her tone vaguely accusatory. "Old Mrs. Steele wasn't best pleased to hear from me either, let me tell you."

"Moo?" I'd gasped, laughing with disbelief. "Why on earth did you contact her?"

"Well…I'd sort of heard you and Danny got back together…" she replied, as if she were somehow wounded, as if we'd done it on purpose, just to spite her. "So I started with his mum, didn't I? Truth is…I did kind of assume you'd be married to him by now. I mean, honestly Lou Lou, he never shut up talking about you when we were going out…"

"Oh, god no!" I'd cried vehemently, as a random recollection made me shiver helplessly. Danny, with his pale, spindly legs and his skinny, flat bum, strutting around his bedroom, in his Calvin Klein underpants, as arrogant as a little bantam cock. "Honestly, Isobel, call it youthful inexperience or whatever, but just no…"

"Well, anyway, it doesn't matter now, anyway, though I hate to think how much it's cost to track you down…endlessly feeding the coins into this blimmin' payphone, day after day…I mean…and everything's so much more expensive in London, isn't it? Compared to Bristol anyway. But I don't suppose that's a worry for you, is it, living in a posh flat, and with Joan Norton's brother, of all people? And him a doctor by all accounts too…"

I'd rolled my eyes and sighed with frustration then, reminded once again how the Portwenn grapevine could be relied upon to distort absolutely everything. I could see it now, Pauline Lamb sweeping her doorstep, gossiping with every single passerby; the story spreading like wildfire around the plat, amongst the pub patrons, between the parents waiting outside the school. Good grief, Joan Norton must be at least fifty too, what were they all thinking?

"Honestly, that village… Martin's her nephew actually, Isobel…" I'd told her, impatiently. "For god's sake….I mean, how old do they think he is?"

She'd laughed.

"Oh I don't know…honestly, I thought Bert Large was pulling my leg when he told me. But, then again, you did always say that you wanted to marry a doctor, even from when we were little kids, you dreamed about it, didn't you, Lou Lou…so it just sounded like all your plans had come together…and, once you're married to a doctor, you won't have to worry about anything…"

"Umm…no actually, Isobel, marrying a doctor was never my plan!" I'd replied, my voice suddenly a bit shrill and defensive. "And, for your information, I'm at college, doing a degree so I can have a career…that's my plan, that's always been my plan."

"Oh…really? I'm sorry. My apologies. I must have got the wrong end of the stick…Moo told me you'd chucked in college to sell vintage clothes on a second hand stall, so it sounded to me…."

"What?" I'd interrupted, no longer caring if I sounded annoyed. "I don't know where she got that idea from…it's just casual… a bit of fun, you know, and mainly to help me save some money. It was never going to be for the rest of my life…College is still my priority."

"Well it doesn't matter now, does it? I mean, everything has just fallen into place for you, hasn't it?" she replied, sighing almost dreamily. "You're so so lucky, Lou, your life just sounds so so perfect."

"Isobel, I'm not that lucky and my life is far from perfect." I'd snapped, my frustration with her now boiling over. I mean, she had always been a bit flakey but, honestly, now she was just coming across as a complete airhead.

"That's easy for you to say, isn't it? I mean you've got a boyfriend…I think my life would be so much better if I had someone…just a nice boyfriend. That's all I want. I'd be happy. I know I would."

"Just having a boyfriend doesn't make you happy, Isobel.."

"Well, I'd like to find that out for myself, Lou Lou. I mean, I'm twenty three next birthday. I'm almost on the shelf."

"Umm…Hello?" I'd laughed, incredulous that she would admit to having such ridiculously outdated ideas. "This is London! Lots and lots of fish in the sea!"

"Yeah, I 'spose so…though…umm…just for old time's sake I thought I might…well, I might try and look up Danny. See what he's up to."

She'd paused then, as if the past had suddenly come to life for her. Perhaps she'd finally remembered how she'd broken that unwritten rule of friendship, and got off with Danny completely behind my back, my supposed best friend shagging my freshly ex-boyfriend and, then I'd had to hear it from Caroline's thin and disapproving lips. Not that I cared a jot about any of that now of course, I'd forgiven Danny, hadn't I, when we'd started seeing each other again? I'd even come to London with him, for all that that was worth. So, as I listened, it was good to know I held no bitterness toward them, and the truth is I've totally and utterly moved on. I have a different life now, a better, more complete one, and I simply never gave either of them a second thought, and hadn't for ages.

But it was obvious that Isobel still carried something of a torch for Danny, and it dawned on me that perhaps she had even come to London in the hope of rekindling their romance. As inexplicable and possibly deluded as that dream was, and as much as I wanted to shriek a warning at her, like a furious old banshee, I realised that, in one way, it might actually get me out of a bind. It wasn't a nice thing to admit, but I knew that I had outgrown my old friend. I also understood what she was like, if she had no one else, she would latch on to me like a limpet. But she was still a nice person and she really deserved some happiness so, perhaps, as much as I believed the odds were stacked against her, I shouldn't attempt to discourage her from pursuing Danny, if that's what she wanted.

"Gosh. Danny. Wow. Okay. Do you know where he is though? I mean, do you know if he's seeing anyone?" I'd asked her, feigning enthusiasm. "Do you think Moo would give out his phone number?"

I noticed a change in her tone then, from verging on bitter and hard-done-by to a sort of cheerful expectation, and almost confidence, I suppose. To be honest, I was already having misgivings had but if she did start seeing him again, who knows, they might actually make a go of it. Isobel had always been attractive and bubbly and, with her fear of being left an old maid, she'd probably wouldn't even mind his complete self-absorption. As for Danny, with his need to have the whole world revolve around him, and to see himself as universally admired, perhaps he might just fancy her again too, if she was fawning and adoring enough, especially if nothing better was currently on offer.

I shuddered at the memory of him, recalling his fumbling hands upon me, wincing all over again at the way he'd clumsily leant on my hair or dug his watch into my flesh, recalling my muffled protest as, in his haste, he'd once again kneed me in the thigh or elbowed me in the chest. Just thinking about it not only made me cringe in horror but I almost felt sorry for Isobel too. To be fair though, they'd been a couple before so she knew what to expect, didn't she, really? Perhaps, in her eyes, Danny's foibles were outweighed by his strengths, and surely that was a healthy approach, and a sensible one? After all, there was someone out there for everyone, wasn't there, and if she saw something in Danny that I never did, then that was a good thing, and I wished them both all the luck in the world.

Apparently, Isobel's interest was once again piqued. It seemed like she was now on a mission and, as we ran out of conversation, out of politeness I wrote down the number she gave me. I assured her I'd call when I could, telling her I hoped we could catch up soon, muttering it all through my teeth like the miserable untruth that it was. I could ignore it no longer. My ears ached, my throat was on fire, and my breath caught in my lungs every time I inhaled so, when I finally hung up, I felt a strange and overwhelming relief. I went to the loo and when I returned, Martin appeared almost instantly, presenting me with a mug of tea, ushering me insistently to the couch, and clearing his throat as he pressed two white tablets into the palm of my hand.

"You need to keep warm and drink plenty of fluids. The paracetamol will help reduce your fever." He'd said, without looking at me. "So…perhaps when you've eaten, you should think about going to bed…."

"It's not even seven o'clock, though." I'd protested pointlessly, muttering my thanks as he passed me my tea.

"Nevertheless, that it is my advice." He'd replied firmly, and he'd seemed oddly remote, despite the fact that again he pressed the back of his fingers to my forehead, his face expressionless as he gazed solemnly over the top of my head.

He was right of course, after dinner I felt suddenly knackered, my limbs heavy and my head really beginning to throb. More than anything though, I needed a cuddle, I wanted the reassurance of his arms around me, his slow steady heart beat comforting as I rested my cheek against his lapel. I'd come to appreciate the peaceful mood of our evenings at home, I'd begun to revel in the calmness of the flat at night, a contrast to the hectic world outside; usually I was stretched out on the sofa, my feet on his lap, mutually acceptable music tinkling softly in the background. Martin would sit upright, his posture perfect of course, frowning intently at whatever he was reading, looking over at me occasionally if he spoke, or when he thinks I'm not looking. Intermittently, he will rub my ankles or, in those rare moments of light-heartedness, he might even tickle my instep lightly, glancing at me appraisingly from the corner of his eye.

But tonight, despite the fact I feel as needy as an feverish toddler, whatever he is doing in his study preoccupies him completely now. I stand in the doorway and watch him, wanting so badly to interrupt him, but not knowing quite where to begin, what to do, where to put myself.

"Well, goodnight then." I say, tentatively, flashing him an awkward smile as our eyes meet and he draws himself up to his full height, pushing his chest out and dropping his arms to his sides.

"Yes. Goodnight." He replies, with a formality that is almost uncomfortable, and we stand and stare at each other like strangers for a few awkward seconds, until I find the self possession to wander away.

I haven't taken more than three steps though when he calls out my name, in that velvety way that melts my heart, and I turn to face him expectantly, hoping that he's going to explain, desperate to hear that I've misunderstood him, that Christmas together somewhere special is all that he ever wanted, too. Perhaps I am confused, maybe he's made an error, it's probably all just an inadvertent mistake. Say something Martin, please say something that puts us back together again, I think as I stand and stare. He looks so immaculate, so composed, so under control but I can see in his eyes that nothing has changed. He simply lifts his chin and looks squarely at me, with not an ounce of remorse or contrition in his coolly contemplative gaze.

"Louisa, the next period of time will be especially demanding for me and, as I have explained, I will have considerably more responsibility and I expect to be exceptionally busy. Therefore, it seems only expedient to do what I can to avoid infection from the virus you appear to be suffering from. The most sensible solution is for me to move into the spare room for the duration of your illness. That way we can limit transmission, and my sleep will be undisturbed should the infection spread to your chest."

"Oh, right." I reply slowly, as a strange and painful wave of humiliation passes over me, and it's all I can do to nod my head.

"In the meantime, hygiene and infection control is of the utmost importance, coughing and sneezing into a handkerchief, frequent and thorough washing of the hands, arms and face, sanitising of all surfaces, ensuring all dishes and cutlery are washed in the dishwasher at a high temperature setting, and of course, avoiding physical contact as much as possible."

I stare at him, helplessly. I know that he's right, of course, and that this is just his normal pragmatic approach to the obstacles life throws at him but, worse than usual, it seems to really hurt. I open my mouth to speak but nothing comes out and, once again we stare at each other in silence until, eventually, he tilts his head as if to seek my agreement, saying my name again; smooth and quiet and low.

"Louisa?"

"Yes, Martin." I reply quickly, lifting my chin and fixing him with the most coolly unaffected of gazes. "Of course. I'm sure that's the most sensible option."