No heart-shaped dot above her name, no joyful flourish, no hastily scrawled kisses. Gripped between my finger and thumb, her note trembles as I read it for the hundredth time, so eloquent in its brevity, so spirited and tempestuous, yet so decisive and absolute. Her sentiments are both a shock, and entirely predictable; she cannot do this any more and, once more, I am man alone, marooned on an ice shelf with no hope of rescue, floating upon a dark and ominous sea.

This new silence could not be more oppressive, the encroaching walls less sympathetic, as the room is bathed in an insipid light that casts odd shadows across the floor. Everything is in ruins, and I am crushed by the weight of the rubble, bewildered at what mindset, what philosophy, what sort of armour might have have mitigated this degree of pain. Around me, everything is cold, and bare, and colourless; the dull flat grey of schoolboy socks and army ambulances. And in this frozen void, this futile cavern, I commit her bleak couplet to memory, knowing that I will, forever, wear her words like a hair shirt. I stare at my name, in her extravagant hand, until my eyes swim with unshed tears, unglued as I am by jealousy, regret and disbelief.

Beyond the rain-streaked glass, the outside world is wintery and drab. Mist becomes showers, and sporadic angry downpours ease to an even more dispiriting drizzle. In the emptiness, I move around the flat; an automaton, a dazed and witless footman attempting to reimpose some sort of order. Solitary once more, I sanitise, I straighten, and I wind innumerable clocks. But each twist of my wrist is a rhythm, the song a dispiriting dirge. Each chime is a lamentable chorus, the lyrics a reprimanding refrain. Always the scavenger, scenting blood, my mother returns, her scorn abrading my resolve, so coldly superior, so arch, so matter-of-fact:

This is why you can't have nice things, Martin. So careless and so clumsy, such a strange, unpleasant sort of boy.

Evening arrives but darkness offers no relief. There is no pattern to sleep, the night merely a series of despondent hours interrupted by short bouts of fretful, uneasy unconsciousness. Attempting to read is pointless, indeed any degree of concentration becomes futile, and I wake with a start, stiff and cold and fully dressed, laid out like a cadaver atop the bed, the Lancet folded on my chest. Even the most well-practiced of rituals are utterly ineffectual; the more I exhort myself to buck up, the more debilitated I feel. I have neither appetite nor energy, this miserable truth has rendered me dispirited and lethargic. I will sit in contemplation for hours yet never make sense of it. but, however challenging, however burdensome the truth is, the fact remains: Louisa has gone and, somehow, I must be resilient. I must adjust, and carry on.

Nothing could have prepared me for a pain this ferocious, this inescapable. I do not know where to put myself. I do not know what to do.

The day stagnates, too many minutes to a morning, too much empty space to fill. I take another shower, and it is utterly unrefreshing, the ensuite as funereal as a burial vault. Without her parephanalia, there is no colour, no sparkle, no shine. I select a grey suit, intent on walking, but with no destination determined upon. The air is bracing, fine droplets of water stinging my cheeks as I move hurriedly, yet without purpose or enthusiasm, around the streets of Kensington. Past the embassies, and the High Commissions, the shuttered restaurants and the empty pubs, past Kynance Mews and Cornwall Gardens, along streets lined bumper to bumper with luxury cars, along the avenues where I recall, with a sinking heart, the reluctance I'd felt to hold her hand, in case we were observed.

"Martin!? What's the matter?"

She would laugh then, incredulously, fixing me with that emerald-eyed stare. The recollection of my discomfort only adds to the utter cheerlessness of even these affluent streets, the atmosphere dreary and damp, my senses numbed by the bleakness of it all. I have failed. I was clearly not the man she needed and I will never be enough. All around me, sodden foliage droops despondently, in the distance sirens bellow and, with every step I take, my expression becomes a more deeply embedded grimace, a fastidious disapproval of the air that fills my lungs. Winter tightens her grip, the year draws to a close, and I recognise grimly what is surely the smell of the end; the mouldering leaves, the tired earth, the natural conclusion of things.

"I don't think either of us have huge expectations, actually, we're just happy to go along for the ride and see what happens…"

I pull my scarf up around my ears against the cold, plunging my hands deep into the pockets of my coat as I wait to cross the road. Was going along for a ride her true intention? Was it always inevitable that we would part? Common sense tells me that, of course, it must end this way. Car tyres slosh across the shiny wet tarmac, known carcinogens vaporising from their exhaust pipes as they pass. Burying my nose in damp plaid cashmere, I hear laughter bedside me, a couple huddled together under an umbrella, his arm around her shoulder, smiling at her approvingly as she reaches up to wipe the rain from his face. Shamelessly, he stoops to kiss her, and I stand as an uncomfortable witness, less than a yard away, averting my glance hurriedly, embarrassed on their behalf, though nobody else in the vicinity seems to take any notice, no one else appears even to care.

"People kiss in the street all the time, Martin, they hold hands, it's called being normal."

But I am not normal, am I, and I never will be. The way I feel today is bitter evidence of that. Crossing the road, the rain intensifies and, though my pace increases, my keenness begins to wane. I would walk for hours if she were beside me but now, like almost everything else, it feels like a pointless endeavour. Cold, and beset by a dismal and unidentifiable heaviness, I turn left instinctively, elbowing my way through the Saturday afternoon crowds assembling outside the Natural History Museum. Thoughtless, inconsiderate people, blocking the footpaths, looking at me aghast as I claim the right of way. Despite my weariness, despite my leaden limbs, I fend off umbrellas vigorously, and manhandle small children out of my path. I keep walking, I keep turning left until I find myself standing inside the familiar somber foyer, reaching into my pocket for my office keys, intent on my inevitable retreat into science, the outside world now even more miserably unfathomable.

Why were you not eager to claim an association with her, when most of the time you were out together, you were incredulous at your good fortune? Why could you not just hold her hand, especially when you loved the way it felt in yours?

I recall her soft words, in the dark, explaining why demonstrative behaviour was so important, her head on my chest, my body relaxed and thoroughly spent; in those tranquil interludes, those moments of utter contentment, I would have agreed to almost anything she asked of me. But, as much as it had helped me understand her in theory, it was the actual practice of it that proved the greater challenge. I sigh through gritted teeth, frustrated by my own inadequacy, angered by the unidentifiable shackles that seem to hold me back. But, as usual, when my mind strays from science and enters the realm of the esoteric, my thoughts become rather random and unpredictable. Would have made any difference in the long run, or was our parting as inevitable as I always believed to be? Why did she want me to act in way she knew made me feel so bloody uncomfortable?

I loved you more than I ever believed myself capable of, why wasn't it enough that I showed you in private?

Dispirited and damp, I seek out the familiar, eschewing the sort of locations others might turn for distraction, seeking solace instead in order and clarity, in the solitude of Imperial College's silent hallways and deserted offices. Among the scholarly and the anomic, the introverts and the forsaken, I take refuge in the quietude, the emptiness, the sanctuary of an institution abandoned on a weekend. The reality is, it does not feel like any sort of safe haven, as most of my time here has passed in a haze of anger and exhaustion, but perhaps my sense of control might be salvaged from some productive professional time alone. I have so much reading to catch up on, so many papers to be studied, a backlog of paperwork to complete, and it bears down on me heavily. Without complications, diversions or distractions, perhaps order, efficiency and, not least, a hint of my professional demeanour, might somehow be reclaimed? I must force myself to try. It's all that I have. It's all that she's left me with.

Focus on something that makes perfect sense. Immerse yourself in logic. Don't think about her. Shelter behind acumen and expertise. Fend off emotions, deny your feelings if you can. Don't think about the way she made you feel, Ellingham, don't allow yourself to think about her at all.

But even a determination to concentrate on medicine cannot paper over my obvious ineptitude, and it's almost too painful to recall the haste with which I departed this room yesterday. Unwashed in the sink, my empty cup is a scathing reminder of how completely I misread her, how deluded I was to assume that someone as desirable as Louisa would be content to wait around for someone as roundly unsatisfactory as me. The state of my desk alone is testament to how fixated I was on being with her, feeling her warm, bare skin against my own, anticipating a peace that only she has ever provided, that sense of comfort and the blessed calm. Scattered files and folders, haphazard papers; all bear further humiliating witness to my delusion, and I feel a hot flush of shame excoriating that same, weak flesh as I recall my fierce and febrile urgency, my overwhelming need.

This is what desire gets you, Ellingham, this is what it only ever got you, this is what happens when, shamefully, you relinquish self-control.

The light on the telephone flashes insistently but I ignore it, exhaling deeply, and closing my eyes. Order must be restored, that must be the priority; I must at least have command of my professional environment. Look at where distraction got me! Witness the chaos that ensued from yesterday's inattention! God god, I'd left used coffee grounds in the filter, I'd even left the grinder connected, and switched on at the wall. So, it is only when I have imposed a perfunctory organisational standard on the room that I permit myself to sit down, opening my diary and reaching into my pocket to retrieve my pen. I stab at the speaker button, tapping impatiently at the numbers, even though now, I realise with grim irony, I have actually all the time in the world. As I wait, I stare absently at the bookshelves, bored by the droning voice that instructs me, tediously, what numbers to press, as if I didn't know, as if I hadn't retrieved my messages a thousand times before.

"Please, Martin, it's me, Louisa. Sorry but, umm, if there's any chance you could come home for a bit, could you? Please?"

In an instant, I am filled with ridiculous hope, my spirit soaring as I hear her voice, as she whispers my name with her usual feverish insistence. And then, as if in slow motion, her meaning begins to register and suddenly I am in a lift, plunging downward through the floors, out of control, my skin prickling and my entire circulatory system turned to ice. Fear renders her a child again, anxious and uncertain, imploring me for help. And, when her voice trails off hopelessly, and the air around me crackles with the deafening hiss of silence, I play it again, gazing at the phone in abject horror as her barely-concealed desperation once more fills the room.

"Someone's turned up..umm…and I can't get rid of them. And I'm a bit worried, they're acting a bit weird and a bit unpredictable. Please Martin, can you come home as soon as you get this message?"

In the far distance, a door slams, the panelling creaks and the heating pipes groan. But I do not move, I cannot move. Mortification paralyses me, shame pins my arms to my sides, self-reproach flails at my skin like the cane of a frenzied and vengeful housemaster. The enormity of my ill-judgement is too much to comprehend, the magnitude of my misconception appalling, but what rips me to shreds, what tears the flesh from my bones, is the fear in her voice as she implores me to help. Listening to her, I can only imagine what she thinks of me now; I have failed her completely, irrefutably, I have completely and utterly let her down.

"What? Did we what? Do drugs…is that what you think? That we did drugs?"

Remorse has always been a foreign concept to me, and regret an uncharted, unfathomable sea. But how quickly I learn that such feelings taint everything, flavouring my tastebuds with soap, stinging my eyes, and weighing so heavily in my abdomen it is as if I have swallowed a bucket of barium meal. To love her as much as I do, and to understand that, at the moment when she really needed me, I was not there to help her, is crippling. That my only response was an accusation so heinous and hurtful that she could no longer bear to be anywhere near me, is nothing short of devastating. I listen to the sound of her breathing, realising how tightly she held the phone, how she pressed the mouthpiece to her lips in fear of being overheard, and I cannot face myself. I have behaved appallingly and, if she is gone forever, I have no one to blame but myself.

"Did you sleep with him?"

I wince at the recollection, writhing in agony at my clumsy assumptions, recalling her face, and the last, blistering look she gave me before I finally turned my back. She did not leave out of guilt, she had no choice, resoundingly, I drove her away. And that it should be I that so maligned her, I that wronged her; me, who knows only too well the pain and resentment that festers in the heart of the falsely accused. I close my eyes, the only sound now that of my carotid pulse, pounding in my ears. What else is there to do but to bury my face in my hands, shattered that I should have been so unbelievably myopic, so mediocre, so insufficient. What else is there to feel but the most appalling shame; I have revealed myself as crass and insecure, a destructive individual, a man not to be trusted with finer feelings and delicate emotions.

Oh Louisa, dear god, what on earth have I done to you? Is it true, each man kills the thing he loves?

Stunned, I replace the receiver and, for some time, I sit motionless, eyes squeezed shut, suffocated by the unbearable weight of my own abject failure. Then, as my mind processes all possible permutations, I feel a stab of fear, not knowing if, when she fled into the night, she even had somewhere safe to go. Does she have college friends that might provide a bed for the night, or has she gone further afield? For the life of me, I cannot believe she would return to her previous flat; that nest of vipers, that foul, malodorous swamp and, for now at least, concern for her well-being provides me with a renewed and welcome purpose. I wrack my brain in an attempt to recall any names she ever mentioned, any places she might have frequented but, to my eternal shame, I realise that I have taken little interest in her course, I know nothing of her friends, in fact I have shown little concern for her life other than where it has intersected with mine.

Where are you, Louisa? Where have you gone?

I swear then, under my breath, as I remember a postcard with a discomforting image; bulging biceps, dazzling smiles, and swimming trunks that left nothing to the imagination. The sender is an indistinct figure now, her name long forgotten but, plainly, Louisa was fond of her; clearly, she provided Louisa with conviviality, excitement and mirth. In fact, she seems just the sort of ally an aggrieved young woman might seek out when she been unfairly forced from her home, the exact sort of camaraderie someone naturally joyous would long for, after escaping months of dull, dreary and cantankerous company.

And though I understand why she felt she must escape me, what of her studies, what of her examinations, especially with the end of term so fast approaching? Would she simply abandon her course to fly to the other side of the world? Would she give up on her degree because I had let her down? And what of her career plans, and the opportunities London offered, would she walk away from that? With some chagrin, I admit to never having discussed the future with her in any detail, I'd simply been too busy, or too cautious, terrified that an implication of commitment could possibly drive her away. I think about her half-drunk mugs of tea, and her compulsive biscuit consumption. I recall the mountains of discarded paper that accumulated at her feet as she pored over essays in her inevitable last minute rush to complete them, and the ever-present ache in my chest intensifies, funnelling my breath into a agonised gasp. In that moment, the pain of my longing is unbearable, the loneliness as fierce as I've ever known and, when I finally allow myself to think about the diamond ring concealed in my sock drawer, it's as if I am self-immolating with regret and humiliation.

I don't blame you. I have failed you. You always deserved so much better than I could ever be.

I make my way home in the half light, barely cognisant of how quickly the nights are drawing in, how bright the street lights are at such an early evening hour. Any idea I had of locating her has now withered, any thought of reconciliation has volatilised into the ether. Louisa's first instinct has always been to flee, and having pondered every possibility of finding her, it seems the only realistic expectation of seeing her again is if, one day, she returns, voluntarily, to the flat. With every step I take, further hope seems to abandon me, I know I have done too much damage, I know I have proven myself utterly unworthy. But what of her remaining possessions, surely she will want to reclaim her music collection, the clothing that hangs in the spare bedroom wardrobe, the lingerie she left drying in the utility room? Surely, at some point she will come back for her books and her pictures, she'll have to come back, won't she, even if it is just to return her keys?

For the rest of my life I will look for you, Louisa. I will scan every crowd, scrutinise every assemblage. I will watch for your walk and listen for your accent. Hair that gleams like polished mahogany will see me stare in forlorn hope, desperate that one day I will catch a glimpse of you again.

A week passes and the initial shock begins to fade, only to replaced by dismal resignation. I know that I am to blame. I know that I failed her, just as I'm brutally aware that I never really deserved her. But I am analytical by nature, trained to evaluate outcomes and, in the case of errors, identify where in the process was flawed. Sleepless nights and cold grey dawns give me far too much time for reflection. They provide ample opportunity for self examination, for disillusionment and regret. Difficult circumstances lead to worse decisions, and I must acknowledge the errors that I made. I considered myself almost invincible, indomitable, until my career consumed itself and the ashes of it are all I have left.

It is in this harsh reality, this grim moment of cognisance, that I begin to exist within two entirely separate dimensions. Ostensibly, I maintain the facade of the confident consultant, albeit it an even more aloof and unapproachable version of my former self. However, even I am aware that my manner is colder, my patience thinner, and yet this new found detachment, this feeling of having nothing left to lose, seems actually to embolden me. I march into Bernard Newton's office, interrupting one of his cosy little tête-à-têtes, growling at him in a crisp tone that absolutely defies rebuttal. Perhaps I am too numb now to be angry, too exhausted to show caution or restraint; one passion has surely cost me the other, and St. Mary's is about to bear the brunt of my grief.

"I will see the week out. But, after that, you will make other arrangements. This has gone on long enough."

The prospect of a return to more reasonable hours seems to have no effect on my temper however, it is as if there is simply no satisfaction to be taken from life. I seem just to exist; my flat a maze, the floor a morass, a quicksand that sucks me into its glutinous empty misery. Reminders of her are everywhere but I cannot bring myself to lay a finger on any of her possessions, to tidy away her things, so I find myself avoiding rooms and closing doors, averting my eyes in the hope of denying my anguish. And everywhere, her soft, delicate fragrance lingers, the only colour in an otherwise painful, monochromatic world, and I breathe it in, clinging to whatever vestiges of her remain. Lying in the dark, I recall those places the scent was at its most intense, where I could almost taste it, aching to once more press my lips to her warm, soft skin, the smoothness of her neck, the delicate translucence of her wrists, the firm curves of her breast.

Be thankful for the time you were together. Be grateful that she allowed you even to touch her at all.

Rationalisation is utterly ineffective. As the week wears on, sleep is still elusive, days and nights indistinguishable. I grit my teeth and steel myself, determined not to falter, hell bent on simply surviving. Strait spine, shoulders back, stiff upper lip, and carry on. Miraculously, by Thursday, a locum is found and, by the following week, two senior registrars have been recruited. I raise a cynical eyebrow at Robert, though of course he insists the wheels were in motion well before my ultimatum was delivered. As reluctant as I am to speak to anyone, I agree to attend a handover meeting, and I stand in the corner of the consultants room at St. Mary's, arms folded, chin raised, gazing on icily as introductions are performed. Amidst the handshakes and the back-slapping, the flattery and the one-upmanship, I maintain my distance, glowering down my nose at the little mutual admiration society that is forming before me, a coterie of which I want no part. Robert and Bernard, both old enough to be her father, preening and oily in the face of the young female registrar who postures, and ingratiates before them.

"I don't have time for this." I mutter to my surprised mentor, glancing at him disapprovingly as I push my way past. "When you require me to attend in a professional capacity, let me know."

"Excuse me, Mr. Ellingham…" the woman interrupts confidently, in perfect, yet heavily accented English. "Before you go…my father asked to be remembered to you…"

I pause, and glance at her coldly, having neither the time nor the inclination for any form of social pleasantry. Whatever hierarchy she is used to, whatever the protocols where she comes from, even who her damn father is, I could not care less. My mouth curves into a snarl, and I am intent only on ensuring some important details are made crystal clear to her, and quickly. She, like every other member of staff, needs to be aware that I may be approached within the hospital environs for consultations, and discussions of a medical nature. Otherwise, no one is to speak to me, no one is to attempt to engage me in conversation of a pointless or personal nature. My private concerns are exactly that; trespass, and be prepared to face my wrath.

Don't ask me how she is, Bernard, don't dare enquire if she is looking forward to having me to herself again. Don't smile, don't nudge, don't wink. Don't suggest that she's forgotten what I look like after all those nights apart.

"My father said I would have the honour of working under you. You remember him I think? Anders Falk from Inleda Falk in Stockholm?"

I turn, jarred from my angry reverie, and I consider whether to reward her impertinence with the most cutting rejoinder, or the most blatant of snubs. But, as I glance at her, a face appears in my minds eye, a slim, fit older man with a neat beard and the same bright blue eyes. Anders Falk, was that his name? I believe we both presented at the Edinburgh conference, and hadn't he spoken at length about the perceived need for a specialist vascular training school, garnering support from some of the most eminent figures in our field? It must surely be him, The Falk Institute, the first of its kind in Europe.

If I remember correctly, he'd even tried to recruit me, he'd attempted to lure me to Scandinavia with the promise of complete autonomy, and an eye-wateringly large salary. But, I'd rejected his offer out of hand, I hadn't needed to take even a moment to consider it because, the truth was, I was in the throes of discovering something else that tied me irrevocably to London. For a brief moment in time, I had no thought for my career, my research, or even being at the centre of the world's medico-scientific advancement. So, just as I was about to rebuff his daughter, I'd rebuffed him, and solely because of that transformative elixir, that talisman in the form of a Victorian Ladies pocket watch, secure inside the breast pocket of my suit.

To love you from the moment I first saw you again, in that tiny little restaurant, was not misguided but to imagine a lifetime together certainly was. What a ridiculous notion for a man of science, what a mawkish delusion; clearly the hapless sentiments of a misguided fool.

God, her effervescence had been so attractive though, such passion and fire hinted at in that steady appraising gaze. I hadn't been able to stop myself from staring, one glimpse of bare skin and I'd been a breathless, carnal mess. And from then on she'd hijacked my thoughts in every idle moment, I'd been consumed by wanting her entirely to myself. Even the recollection of it causes my diaphragm to spasm, and I clear my throat, in an attempt to banish her, to swaddle my pain at her loss, and to bury it so very deeply. God help me, I cannot think of Louisa when I am working, I must not permit her to pervade whatever dignity is left in my life. As for loving her at first sight, what on earth does it matter? It would make no difference to her now, so neither can it mean anything to me.

"I just tell Mr. Newton, you were biggest factor for my decision to go to St. Mary's." The new registrar gushes, pushing her white blonde hair back with both hands, the hint of a smirk on her well tanned face.

For a split-second I am startled, having forgotten where I was, only to be jolted back to the present yet again, furious at myself for my complete and utter lack of focus. I narrow my eyes, contemplating her icily; not only could I not care less what has brought her here, but it sounds suspiciously like she might also be sucking up.

"Miss Falk". I reply dismissively as I pass, my tone low and cold, feeling little triumph in her deflated expression, nor the way her hands clasp together behind her neck, with the despair of a golfer who has missed a four foot putt.

"Call me Lykke, please." She calls out, her words drifting back to me as I stride out into the corridor.

As I walk, I frown, momentarily perplexed that her name might actually be Licky Fork, before compartmentalising the meeting entirely and promptly forgetting all about her for what I assume to be forever. But later, lying alone in my bed, awake as usual at some ungodly hour, I allow myself to think about The Falk Institute again. I ask myself if I am prepared to walk away from the hospital environment, leave everything I know, and start again, afresh, somewhere new. After the disaster of Imperial, a teaching career is not as attractive as it was, but an anonymous city sounds almost appealing. I could seek temporary asylum in a place where the people are known to be quiet, unobtrusive, and to keep to themselves. And perhaps it could even assist my career; Anders Falk himself assured me that research was a priority, that both Government grants and private funding were assured, and that I would continue to research and publish, of that he would give me his word.

I slide my arms out from under the covers, suddenly too warm and too confined. Could I abandon London too? I could certainly let the flat easily enough, leave the furniture in situ if the tenant so required. The few items I have any attachment to could go easily into storage; it could be as simple as packing a bag, and booking a flight. I feel a rare moment of lightness, imagining leaving all of this sorry mess behind me; the scandalous behaviour of my parents, the resultant smear upon my reputation, not to mention my disastrous personal life, and the reminders of her that haunt my every waking hour. I could just lock the door and walk away, start afresh, rebuild my reputation, focus entirely on medicine and the resurrection of my career. My god, it sounds almost appealing, a lifeline, a reason to fight on. Turning on to my side, I inhale deeply, trying to recall if I kept the prospectus he gave me, wondering whether this could be exactly the thing that I need.

Having a renewed sense of purpose, though not exactly a salve for my spirits, is certainly a welcome distraction. For the first time in almost a fortnight, I manage more than a few hours sleep, and when the alarm rouses me at half past five, the dull throb behind my eyes has lessened, and the discomfort of this reflux has largely been subdued. I leave the flat in the dark, having two reasonably straight forward procedures to perform this morning, before the dismal prospect of an Imperial faculty meeting that runs for most of the afternoon. I sit in the taxi, and note the day's tasks in my diary, speaking to my solicitor firmly at the top of the list. But as we pass every bus stop, every crossing, every crowd, I glance out at the world. I survey the crowds, searching the faces, still hopeful that I might somehow locate her, all the time ashamed of my own unwavering need. But, like every previous morning, and every disappointing afternoon, there is no sign of her, no gleaming needle in a the most lacklustre of haystacks, no heart-stopping glimpse of her beautiful face. I pour salt into the gaping wound, imagining her excitement upon disembarking in Australia, her enthusiasm, undimmed despite that long haul flight.

Are you actually aware of how lovely you are, Louisa, how flawless from any angle, how divinely feminine? Did you ever notice that often, when you smile at me, I simply cannot catch my breath?

As I make my way down to theatre, however, I recognise another figure that I am rather keen to speak to. She is bent over a desk, paperwork spread before her, staring down at the myriad of forms as if she is thoroughly perplexed. All around her, staff bustle about their business, squeezing past her, reaching around her to answer telephones and to retrieve folders. I duck my chin, disgusted, pulling a face as I watch the end of the pen slide in and out of her her mouth. Filthy habit, absolutely deplorable in a hospital environment; as a surgeon, she should simply know better

"Miss Falk." I bark.

Clearly deep in thought, she turns her head slowly, her biro now resting on her lip and, for a split second, she peers at me blankly.

"A word, if you have a moment." I tell her, in a tone which defies her not to drop everything immediately and give me her full attention.

"Ah, Mr. Ellingham." She replies, and suddenly she is smiling, standing up straight and tossing her pen down carelessly onto the files she had been perusing. "I almost did not know you in your scrubs. Of course I have a moment for you…"

No one could accuse her of lacking confidence and I frown back at her disapprovingly, wondering what on earth it is about me that makes her stare so, why the frankness of her gaze seems suddenly so intrusive, and her attempts at conversation somehow so inappropriate. For goodness sake, they wear scrubs in Sweden, don't they? Rudimentary hospital attire, I should have thought, regardless of where you were trained. I grunt dismissively but not before I feel her hand touch the skin of my forearm, her fingers resting lightly as she takes a half step toward me.

"Have you come to check I am, as you say, settling in alright?" She asks, in an attempt at playfulness, in a tone that I think I recognise, despite her heavily accented English.

"No. Of course not." I reply icily, reefing my arm away and glowering at her with undisguised repugnance. "I have something I wish to discuss with your father. I assume you can provide me with his telephone number."

How I detest overfamiliarity, how I abhor those who disregard clear boundaries and think the tenements of heirarchal behaviour do not apply to them. So I will admit to obtaining a degree of satisfaction as I step backwards and watch the smile slide from her face, her buoyant self-assurance diminishing noticeably as I raise my chin, and glare impatiently over the top of her head. Oddly, she seems to forget what I have asked her, until she stammers out a series of numbers, confusing the area code, and adding too many noughts. I say nothing as she corrects herself, there is no need, I merely sigh and draw a line rather pointedly across the page of my notebook, as she reverses the numbers and I'm required to start all over again. After the third attempt, her cheeks flush noticeably, and suddenly she is as awkward as every other colleague who has broken my rules, and been forced rather rapidly to learn where they stand.

"Sorry…it's hard, yes, when you don't phone there so often from a different country?" She murmurs apologetically, but I ignore her studiously, slipping the tiny pencil into its slot and securing the notebook in the shallow pocket of my scrub trousers.

"The time difference…Sweden is one hour ahead…" she adds breathlessly, pushing her hands into the pocket of her lab coat uncomfortably.

"I'm aware of that." I reply, loftily, turning my back on her. "Thank you. Good day.

I eat my lunch in my office at Imperial, earlier than I always used to but nevertheless crucial to my plan of recreating some sort of predictability, a routine, I suppose, a reassuring return to order in my professional life at least. At twelve o'clock on the dot, I place a call to Alan Leslie, spurred on by grim resolve, to finalise outstanding issues that have not only been weighing heavily upon me but which have exacted a very heavy toll. I must take my share of the blame, however, for allowing myself to become distracted, for being neglectful of detail, for assuming a degree of family loyalty that clearly does not exist. Trustees have a duty to manage a trust in the best interests of a beneficiary and, as my solicitor mentioned in his usual understated fashion, clearly with my parents, this is not the case.

"Martin. How are you?" He asks genially, with the relaxed manners of a man who charges by the hour.

"Fine, thank you. Busy. Short of time."

"Yes, yes, of course. Let's not waste any of it then. Ahh, so you've read my letter?"

"Yes, I'm ready to push on toward a resolution."

"Very well. So, firstly, as I mentioned, on your next birthday the terms of the trust are complete, which means all of the assets should become yours to do with what you please. However, it's clear that the trustees, in this case your parents, haven't instructed the trust's lawyers to prepare the necessary documentation for the assets to become legally yours…"

"Right."

"In fact, the wheels should have been in motion some time ago in order for settlement to be on that date and…"

"I think we can take it as read that my parents have behaved, if not fraudulently, then with a large degree of self-interest." I interrupt briskly. "What I want to know is how do we resolve this without further damage to the my reputation, without Henry's name being dragged roundly through the mud?"

"Yes, of course…"

I pull out my notebook as he starts to outline some possibilities; theoretically, I am in a position to sue them for not having acted in my best interests and, if they continue to procrastinate, the threat of a forensic accountant employed to search for hidden assets might prompt them into action. But as I listen, I realise I have no stomach for any kind of protracted legal battle, I have no raging inner fire, no fierce indignation, no will to win. Hauling them into court will only achieve what I was trying to avoid, Henry Ellingham's name stained and sullied forever, and the family reputation he worked so hard to build up, in tatters.

And it dawns on me then, that this really was the crux of it all, the small burr under the saddle blanket that caused the weeping gall, the tiny thorn so seriously septic that the limb could not be spared. It really was my fear of revealing my family's shame to Louisa, it was my desperation to somehow clear my name that had culminated in her loss. I rub my eyes, wearily, struggling to take in the details as I listen. The truth is, I don't care about the money, not one red cent of it, I want simply to ensure they have no further claim on me, no access to any legal entity bearing my name.

"Let's start with the letter informing them you've been instructed." I tell him. "You were confident you'd found them of course? You've tracked down an actual address?"

I make a few brief notes as he continues, though later they will make very little sense; incomplete jottings in a pinched hand, underlining and exclamation marks, cautious and conservative recommendations, sensible and carefully considered advice; signing rights, bank details, tax implications, and the further utilisation of trusts. As I attempt to absorb it, I sense an accord, that he understands the path I've chosen, and he is even slightly reassuring in his own discreet and rather subdued way. So it seems logical then, to ask him, to make enquiries of this tactful and unobtrusive man. Whatever questions I pose to him will definitely stay between us, I need not fear rumours or false assumptions originating from this conversation, spreading like wildfire around the city.

"There is, ahh, another matter you might be able to assist me with." I say slowly, my thought process painfully slow and convoluted. "I was wondering if you could recommend a reliable estate agent…"

"Oh, are you thinking of selling then Martin?" He asks in a tone of mild surprise.

"Umm, letting actually." I mutter. "I might be looking for someone to take care of managing the rental of my flat…"

"Ah, I see, well, actually, we moved house just last weekend so I can give you the details of that crowd if you like. The agent was an inoffensive enough fellow, efficient and seemed to get the job done…which is all you can ask for really." He says, becoming instantly rather more relaxed. "In fact he took care of quite a few details that had completely slipped our minds…organised the locksmith to call, to change the code on the keypad…I certainly wouldn't have thought of that in all the chaos… and he had the glaziers in too, to remove the catflap at the back door since we didn't want it…foxes can learn to use them, did you know that? Terribly clever little blighters, foxes; then again, I almost would have one in the house in preference to a cat…"

I don't even hear the name of the agent, nor do I write down his number. In fact, as he flips through his Rolodex, searching for the vital information, I can think of nothing but getting him off the line, and so I bark out a swift farewell and drop the receiver into the cradle, as a renewed sense of horror envelops me. What if she comes back, and the house is let to someone else, what if she punches the numbers into the keypad and entry is refused My mouth is suddenly dry and salty, just thinking about her, standing in the street, knowing how bewildered she'd be, how confused. Of course, she could only assume I'd done it on purpose, changed the code deliberately to keep her out.

The feeling stays with me all afternoon; the contrition, the guilt, as if I have already absconded from London and, at this very minute, Louisa stands in the street outside the flat, scowling incredulously, her hands on her hips, her opinion of me sinking lower with every second that passes. She once confessed a childhood terror to me, that her father's continual failure to pay the rent on that abysmal Portwenn cottage would inevitably see them evicted. The neighbours, she told me, came home one day to find the locks changed, and their possessions out in the kerb. I imagine her confusion if she returns to de Vere Gardens, knowing how she would repeatedly press at the keys, and I am dismayed as I imagine how ashamed she would feel, how humiliated she would be at such an obvious snub. I picture her, pulling on her pony tail, tears welling in her eyes, as she attempts to maintain her dignity in the face of this thoughtless insult, the final indignity I have heaped upon her. And the illusion is so intense, the mirage so powerful that, that when I finally arrive home, realising that she's not here brings a lump to my throat.