When the article in The Times was published, I was horrified. Principally, because I found self promotion of any sort totally abhorrent, but also due to the fact I had thrown myself into my studies with absolute commitment and unwavering self discipline, and never once sought to leverage off the Ellingham family name.
Once again I became the butt of many jokes but I was unconcerned; I am well equipped to handle the the hectoring of my colleagues; I no longer feared physical retaliation so their jibes and insults were like water off a duck's back to me.
However, I did experience severe discomfiture in an area I had not anticipated. The shallowness and superficiality of London society repulsed me but I now had to deal with the fact that, in the space of a week, I had gone from social pariah to sought-after mondain. It was unsettling and embarrassing, and I wanted no part of it.
My first realisation that things had changed came when I was bailed up in the corridor of the hospital by some bleach blonde, who stunk of cigarette smoke and claimed to be a journalist wanting to interview me for her Women's Magazine. Mindful that I was at work, I attempted to demur respectfully but when she started babbling on about the Eligible Bachelor edition, I felt a wave of pure, cold fear pass over me. I backed away from her and, as fate would have it, an orderly came out of the lift with a patient in a wheelchair. When the awful woman stepped to one side, I excused myself and ducked through the doors of the nearest ward. I stood horrified, in an empty cubicle for several minutes, recovering from the adrenalin rush and, frankly, feeling like I'd been pursued for miles by rabid wolves. I only pulled myself together when the Ward Sister asked me who I was hiding from and offered me the key to the broom cupboard. I didn't even have the wherewithal to glare at her; I just checked the corridor was clear, and ducked meekly out the door.
Then, bafflingly, there was the change that came over Edith. What were we? Lovers I suppose, in a perfunctory and mechanical way. I will admit that my initial enthusiasm for sharing a bed with this woman was waning. God help me, I still did what I was told, whenever I was asked, but the initial elation and wonderment had gone. Everything was starting to feel a bit shabby.
I had long understood the tempo of our relationship. We studied together, debated endlessly, sniped constantly, argued over almost everything, and then we went to bed. She never stayed the night. I'd fill her needs and she'd go home and, to be perfectly honest, I'd felt that the situation was more than acceptable.
I could count on one hand the amount of times we actually went out together. Edith showed little enthusiasm for my company outside the realm of medicine or the bedroom and I had little interest in going out so, initially, I thought that we were well matched. It was only as the months passed, and I realised that she still had a very active social life that she was quite secretive about, that I began to feel a bit slighted. Once we had graduated, her contact with me became more and more infrequent. She would turn up, unannounced, during the week and, after insulting or criticising me for ten minutes, she would then demand that we go to bed. I would hesitate for a minute and then I'd follow her into the bedroom and do exactly what she asked. Each time I swore it would be the last but I am twenty two years old and, regrettably, my willpower is no match for my hormones.
So, when the barrage of invitations started and my name was seldom used without the prefix 'Eligible Bachelor' or 'One of The Catches of The Season', I began to feel very much out of my depth. I was even approached at meetings, in restaurants and, even once, in the supermarket. Unbelievable, women just coming up to me and introducing themselves; touching my arm, standing too close. I was just mortified. Until, in a cafe in Kensington, baled up by an intimidating woman with massive shoulder pads and a mountain of red curls, in desperation I shouted at her to leave me alone as I had a girlfriend. To my utter amazement, this stopped the harpy in her tracks. She looked at me quizzically but backed away nevertheless.
From then on, my standard answer became: "I'm sorry, madam, you have been regrettably misinformed. I have a steady girlfriend and she is not very happy about all of this."
And, for the most part, it worked. Except when Edith decided that there was some profit in the situation for her, and she began to visit more often and even to ask me to accompany her as her 'plus one'. I had no intention of advancing our relationship to more than it was. Luckily I knew how to fend off Edith in that way. I treated her invitations with contempt and derision, and she soon was bored with me again.
But the last straw of all was Mummy. If any of the recent attention had gone to my head, she would be sure to bring me down to earth with a thump. However, as a result of that embarrassing article, it seemed she saw me now as a draw card for her excruciating charity balls. She demanded that I have lunch with her and there was no avoiding it. At least I was successful in securing a neutral venue, rather than having to visit the monstrous pile that was my childhood home, and that held so many horrendous memories for me. I arranged to meet her at a restaurant near the hospital, so I could beat a quick retreat if necessary.
I arrived first, and sat in a state of disquiet. When she swept into the room, fifteen minutes late and dressed in her customary black-on-black ensemble, I swallowed hard, girded my loins and, slowly and cautiously, stood up. She appraised me in a single, cold, disappointed gaze.
"Buying your suits off the rack, Martin?" She said, with a derisive emphasis on the word rack.
I opened my mouth to protest but it was as if my tongue had realised that disagreement was futile.
"Mummy." Was all I could utter.
She held my gaze as she lowered herself elegantly into her chair, and gestured that I should sit down.
"I do pity the poor unfortunate who attempts to tailor a suit for you." She continued, after a moment's pause. "You really are the most awkward, wretched shape. I'd hoped that you would have grown out of the gangly phase by now but it seems not. You really do look like you sleep in your clothes."
And then I felt it. That familiar stab of pain. The sting of humiliation. The realisation that, unwittingly, I'd let her down once more. I clasped my hands in front of me at the edge of the table and willed myself to keep my composure. I was accustomed to her barbs and she knew unerringly how to target me. Today, however, I was determined not to give her the satisfaction.
My mother had bruised me though. I'd felt particularly smart in my new bespoke suit which was one of two I had collected from my tailor last week. Two suits, four handmade shirts and four Italian silk ties had not been easy on the wallet but I'd felt something when I put them on. A sense of invulnerability, control, perhaps even of authority. Despite how I might be feeling on the inside, that was the impression I was determined to make to the world. And here, now, today, especially with she: my mother.
The waiter approached and she ordered tea. Just one word. Tea. No acknowledgement, no pleasantries, no thanks. I ordered an espresso, and waited. I knew that we were not here for a genial chat. Mummy doesn't operate that way.
She fixed me with her most Arctic of stares and began to inform me of a charity ball she was organising for mid summer. It was clear that she expected me to attend, and my heart sank. I wanted to ask her, waspishly, why, when it was clear I would only fall short of her expectations? But I sat in silence, listening to her boast about her fundraising successes; as I willed the waiter to bring our refreshments so that I had something to do with my hands rather than dig my nails into my sweaty palms.
I had long since given up hope of her ever showing an interest in my life. In fact, since I had finished school, I had actively concealed as much about myself as was possible. Now that I had qualified, and was earning a salary, I was no longer receiving any financial support from my parents so, as far as I was concerned, there was no necessity for me to discuss anything about my private affairs with them ever again.
Unfortunately, my mother did not share my opinion that my life was now my own. I realised with horror that she had begun to lecture me about my personal life, more specifically my relationships. As I listened, It became clear that she wanted me at her ghastly event so she could find some hapless debutante that she could marry me off to. Knowing my mother as I did, I knew that the main beneficiary of a propitious marriage would and must be her; either by an alliance that would advance her social standing, or one that would diminish the status of one of her friends.
Then, she mentioned the inheritance from grandfather that I was due on my twenty-fifth birthday. Apparently, though no explanation was given, she and my father had decided that I should be married by that date. It was a fait accompli as far as they were concerned. I was appalled. I had listened to her narrative in silence, but with a growing horror that was now burgeoning on fury.
I tried to speak but she ignored me, and started to detail the daughters of minor royalty, of investment bankers and eminent industrialists, of so-called good breeding and trust funds and eligibility, all of which made me feel like I was asphyxiating. I battled to control my heart rate and my breathing. The names my mother was reeling off meant nothing to me but I was furious at her condescension and I could take it no more.
I banged my hands on the table, stood up straight and glared down at her. I enunciated the words coldly and deliberately.
"Thank you mother, but I'm quite capable of organising my own life."
She looked me in the eye, and laughed. At that moment, I was overwhelmed by resentment, by a lifetime of humiliation and unrelenting criticism, but mostly by the expression of contempt on her face.
"You?" She sneered. "Who would have you? Or are you planning on a mail order bride?"
My composure crumpled. All I could think about was silencing her.
"Edith!" I spat at her. "I'm going to marry Edith" and, with that, I strode angrily out of the restaurant.
As the cold air from the street hit my flushed and angry face, I realised with apprehension that that thought did not offer me any comfort at all.