I'd been so happy to see Mrs. Norton that I'd actually given a little involuntary squeal of delight. Beaming with pleasure, she'd pulled me into a long, all-enveloping cuddle and her signature fragrance of Lentheric Tweed, combined with notes of liniment and just a hint of lanolin, immediately took me back to her farm kitchen in Port Wenn. After squeezing me tightly and uttering some indistinct and happy little noises, she'd pulled away and held me at arm's length, apparently so that she could regard me, with the hint of a welling tear in her eyes

"Just look at you." She'd said affectionately

I felt no impending waterworks; I just couldn't believe how glad I was to see her and I actually couldn't help myself from grinning like a Cheshire Cat. Everything about Mrs. Norton was so familiar and reassuring, from her rosy cheeks to her twinkling, bright blue eyes. She hadn't changed a bit really, which was just lovely and she still seemed so genuinely interested in my well-being which was as comforting as it had always been. When she'd phoned me earlier in the week to see if I was free for lunch, I'd just been really touched that she would make time for us to catch-up, especially when she mentioned it was her birthday.

She motioned that I should sit down and, as I slid across the narrow bench seat, I realised that the vigour of her embrace had caused a lock of my hair to come adrift. I was absently trying to reaffix it into place, while listening to her and thinking how lovely it was that she seemed so pleased to see me when, suddenly, I had the most disarming sensation. It was oddly as if the air around me was suddenly under some sort of electrical charge. The atmosphere in the room seemed to hum at a frequency I couldn't quite hear but one which was tangible, in a highly disconcerting, extra-sensory sort of way. The weird feeling was gone in a split second but I was quite unnerved.

Instinctively, I looked up and that's when I saw him, looming like an Easter Island statue and, honestly, about as ominous and remote. I heard my breath catch in my throat and I was suddenly struck by the oddest sensation, as if I were freezing cold and boiling hot, all at the same time. Suddenly Mrs. Norton stopped talking and all I was aware of was his commanding presence and the piercing intensity of his stare. Of course I recognised him but he had changed so significantly that I must admit the man he had become, in an instant had totally and utterly intimidated me.

I remembered that he'd been tall but now he was broad as well; strong and physically imposing, his bearing displayed to perfection by what looked to be his continued fondness for expensively tailored suits. Clearly, he was now a man of impressive stature and importance, and he had enough arrogance about him for me to think that he was fully aware of it. His short hair, almost imperceptible sneer and haughty manner completed the image of the highly successful city professional that I'd had the tiniest glimpse of in that long, impersonal corridor at St Mary's. This time though, there was nowhere for me to hide.

I recalled that I'd been comfortable enough to tease him all those years ago but any thoughts of picking up where we left off quickly evaporated. Honestly, I was barely brave enough to speak to him now, such was his air of authority. It crossed my mind that he might not remember me or, that if he did, he was not particularly pleased to see me again. On reflection, that was a distinct possibility, considering the drama that I had caused the last time we met. It was then that the pharmacy account flashed into my head and I felt such an overpowering wave of humiliation and discomfort that I felt myself blush to the roots of my hair. For a brief moment, our eyes met and, as the uncomfortable recipient of his penetrating gaze, my nerve did not hold.

"Hello Martin." I said meekly, with an nervous, embarrassed smile.

There was an awkward silence and I noticed that Mrs. Norton looked up at him cautiously.

"Marty, you remember Louisa? Louisa Glasson."

He walked guardedly towards us and glared at his aunt, who admittedly looked a bit guilty and busied herself with making space so that he could fit into the space next to her.

His face was expressionless as he gave me a brief nod of acknowledgement.

"Miss Glasson." Was all he said, in a low, cold voice, and then he hesitated for a moment, before he slipped into the seat opposite me.

For some reason, I was quite saddened by the formality of his greeting and I shifted my knees to one side and tried not to look as he managed to accomodate himself in the admittedly rather limited space within the booth. When I was brave enough to eventually look at him, Martin was staring at the wall behind me so intently that I involuntarily turned myself to see what was so fascinating but all I could see was a funny little, wobbly-armed cat statue and a yellowish zebra plant, sitting on the wall of the cubicle. Looking back, his face was a mask of studied neutrality; I concluded that he must be finding this scenario quite an unpleasant ordeal and I had another pang of guilt that, yet again, I'd spoiled his time with his aunt. Clearly though, it seemed, neither of us knew the other would be attending, which probably accounted for Mrs. Norton's sheepish expression, and her rather breathless monologue as she attempted to fill in the obviously uncomfortable silence.

Martin shifted in his seat, his discomfort now palpable. I picked up my menu and, as I stared at it in complete confusion, I had another, even more disconcerting, feeling. Was I imagining it, or could I feel the heat emanating from his long legs, such were their proximity to mine. I moved slightly along on my seat and attempted a subtle yet unsuccessful glance downwards. All I could ascertain was that his highly polished shoes, with their perfectly knotted laces, looked hand made and incredibly expensive, and I could see that he'd placed them, and the rest of his legs, about as far away from me as he could while still actually sitting at the same table.

Like me, it appeared that Mrs. Norton had never eaten at a Japanese restaurant before and she clearly found the menu bewildering; entertaining herself by reading parts of the selection out loud, in a sort of incredulous, amused way. I wasn't listening, to be honest, the temperature in the restaurant seemed stifling and I felt myself becoming uncomfortable. I glanced across at Mrs. Norton who appeared at ease in her heavy woollen cardy, and Martin was showing no signs of overheating in his suit and tie but was, once more, staring fixedly at the waving cat. Before I could shed my jacket, the young waiter glided alongside our table and began handing out what I discovered to be steaming hot, rolled up hand towels; passing them to us solemnly with wooden tongs.

I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it but, luckily, Martin did, so I just followed his lead and wiped my hands with it before setting it down beside me.

"That was lovely!" I said, and smiled at them both. "Surprisingly refreshing!"

Mrs Norton agreed but Martin didn't say anything, and we all went back to studying our menus. I didn't have a clue what to order and I would have loved him to offer to help me because I daren't ask. But, he was apparently so absorbed in choosing for himself that he had failed to notice that his aunt and I were both floundering. I allowed myself a surreptitious glance at him and I noticed his brow was creased in a deep frown of concentration. Mrs. Norton asked him a question and he was momentarily distracted, his face softening as he turned toward her to answer. As he returned to his study, he glanced at me and again our eyes met, and this time I decided not to avoid his stare, how ever disconcerting it might be. Though it did take longer than I'd anticipated, he did eventually lower his eyes and look away but not before the temperature in the restaurant had suddenly become unbearable again.

I was suddenly reminded of a Jane Austen quote that Karen Freethy had stuck on our fridge door, not long after I'd gone to live with her. She'd told me that it was a much more important maxim to pay attention to than the one about how rich blokes in possession of a fortune must be in want of a wife.

There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.

As I recited it to myself in my head, I realised how much someone like Libby would be relishing this situation, unlike hopeless, discomfited me, who seemingly hadn't learned a thing in two years despite living in a household of confident, dare I say it, occasionally outrageously flirty young women. If my time with them had taught me anything, it was to never be a victim. I felt myself rally.

"Martin." I said sweetly. "How about you order for me, since you seem to have eaten Japanese before hmm?"

He looked up at me and his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. I flashed him a brilliant smile.

"Umm, yes, if you want." He said, staring at me as if he was waiting for me to say something else.

I nodded at him almost imperceptibly and I noticed that he swallowed hard.

I stood up and, with some difficulty in the confined space, I removed my jacket, tossing it down on the bench beside me. It was a relief to feel the cool air on my bare arms and I immediately felt more comfortable. When I turned back around to face them both, I noticed that Martin was once again staring at the waving cat. I sat down and watched as he reached for his water glass.

"You probably know what I'd like better even than I do." I added encouragingly and it wasn't till I noticed his face his turn to the colour of beetroot, that I realised what I'd said.

After a few more moments of deliberation, and as Joan filled me in on the depressing news that Jimmy Millinger had somehow convinced poor, put-upon Jenny to marry him, Martin said that he was ready to order, gesturing discretely to the waiter who was immediately at our table. Showing an impressive memory and his ability to get his tongue around the Japanese language, Martin ordered for all of us and then, as the waiter collected the menus, I suddenly recalled that it was Joan's birthday.

"Is there a wine list?" I said suddenly, to no one in particular.

Wordlessly, Martin reached into the middle of the table, retrieved the list, flipped it open, and passed it to me. It was hard for him to avoid looking at me in the eye when he was sitting directly opposite but he managed it. His silence left me feeling chastised but if Joan had noticed, she didn't show it.

"Anyone going to join me? Mrs. Norton? Birthday celebration? Ummm, Martin?" I said, my bright tone belying how awkward I felt

"Oh yes, blow the expense!"Joan said, her voice tinkling and merry. "I'd prefer red, to hell with my indigestion!"

Martin looked across at her and scowled.

"Really, Auntie Joan?"

"Marty, you really are becoming quite a misery in your old age. Louisa will be wondering why on earth I invited you. Buck up for goodness sake." She said tersely.

I looked at both of them sitting with their arms folded across their chests; Martin glowering and Joan, defiant and thin-lipped.

He spoke without taking his eyes from her face. His voice was low and silky but it dripped with sarcasm.

"Well, Auntie Joan, Louisa may very well be questioning why indeed I am here but, when your acid reflux has become adenocarcinoma of the oesophagus, and she's sitting at your bedside in the palliative care ward, watching you be fed via an NG tube, maybe she'll realise I had a point!"

There was a long uncomfortable silence. I seemed to have really put my foot in it this time and I had an overwhelming desire to grab my jacket and bag, and flee the restaurant. I was just contemplating what excuse I could use when finally Mrs. Norton spoke. The waiter stood like a statue, his face inscrutable.

"You must excuse what we Ellinghams consider table manners, Louisa. And Martin never was one to beat around the bush."

"No, it's fine really" I said, and my hand went up to twirl my necklace, a habit I had when I was nervous or uncertain. "I'm sure he, aah Martin, just wants what's best for you."

I didn't need to look at Martin to know he was still glowering at us both. It had been quite an outburst. I suppose I did feel a bit guilty but I just wanted Mrs. Norton to have a nice time and I wasn't sure what I could do to remedy the situation. He seemed genuinely oblivious to my attempts to be friendly and, actually, smiling at him seemed to make him more annoyed than anything.

Reluctantly, I tried again.

"Can we compromise Martin, do you think? Would a glass of Chardonnay be ok? Just so your Auntie Joan could feel a little bit special on her birthday?"

He seemed to regather himself. "Yes,. Ummm. Fine. If that's what she wants."

He looked sharply at the waiter, who nodded and slipped away. Mrs. Norton gave me an encouraging smile and I hoped fervently that our lunch was back on track.

For the next hour, the time passed pleasantly. The waiter brought out an almost continuous supply of unusual dishes, all beautifully presented and mostly delicious. Mrs Norton was cautious but I was always keen to try new things and, after a while, I was thoroughly enjoying myself. Even Martin showed signs that he was relaxing a little and he seemed to enjoy explaining what everything was to me.

Mrs. Norton chatted away about Port Wenn, I laughed and asked a few questions, and Martin occasionally chimed in with an acerbic comment but mostly he stayed silent. It was a shame I thought, because he actually had a very nice speaking voice and quite a dry wit but he seemed more comfortable with being an observer and was very quick to go into his shell.

As we listened to yet another Bert Large Get Rich Quick scheme, I realised that my stray lock of hair once again had escaped from my top knot and, after unsuccessfully wrestling with it, I gave up and tucked it behind my ear. The second glass of wine was having an effect on me and, when I looked up and realised I was being observed, I couldn't help myself and returned his stare with a slow, lazy smile but his expression didn't alter, nor did he flinch. I suppose that being able to focus intensely is a pre-requisite for a career in surgery but when that searing, unblinking stare was focused on me, it was more than a bit disconcerting.

Martin put his hand up to his neck and gestured. I really didn't need him to draw attention to his Adam's Apple, because I recalled only too well how it had been one of the many things that had transfixed me over that weekend in Port Wenn, and I must have looked confused because he finally spoke and I realised that he was just asking me about my choker. I was flooded with relief.

"I don't know too much about it really, Dad gave it to me when I turned twelve." I said matter-of-factly, then I paused, wondering if I should go on. "I don't have any other keepsakes really. It's a pretty rubbish one too because it's never worked and I'm a bit nervous of where he got it from. Probably a card game...I hope a card game because I don't like to think about the alternatives."

I gave them both a rueful smile. Joan just sighed and said nothing. Martin's expression softened a little. He leaned towards me.

"May I have a closer look please, Louisa?"

I reached up to the back of my neck and started fumbling with the catch while Martin maintained his steady gaze at my throat. At least my hair was up and out of the way and eventually I managed to find the catch and hook the edge of my nail under the tiny clip. I caught it as it slid down my neck, and passed it to him. As he took it from me, I couldn't help but notice again how large his hands were, and I was surprised. I don't know why I thought a requirement to practice surgery would be small delicate fingers but clearly I was wrong. His fingers were long and thick and strong, his fingernails square and immaculate, and the back of his hands and his fingers were smooth and hairless. In Port Wenn, you were lucky to find an adult male that still had all of his fingers in tact. Fishing boat winches and farming implements saw to that.

I watched with interest as he held my necklace carefully and gently, turning it over, and examining it closely on both sides before finally looking back at me. For a moment, his expression was awkward, and almost shy.

"Ummm, it's a Victorian ladies pocket watch. Sterling silver. I'd have to check the hallmarks in my book when I have a magnifying glass with me. Umm. The dial is perfect. The covers close and open well. Which is good. Did you know that, aah, this little compartment at the back was for keeping your, ummm, postage stamps in?"

I wasn't sure why but I found that idea quite charming. I smiled at him. "No. I didn't know that. Even though it didn't work, I've always been a bit scared to fiddle around with those little doors in case I broke something."

"Aah, yes, it's ummm, it's quite rare, I suspect." He turned it over in his hands again, looked at it for a moment as if he were thinking, and then he raised his eyes to look at me. This time, they were soft and round and there was not even a hint of a scowl. "I could, ummm, I could have a look at it for you. See if I can get it working. If you like."

"Oh, Martin, really?" I was slightly incredulous but I couldn't stop a huge smile from appearing. "You can fix watches?"

"Ummm, yes. Clocks mainly. But sometimes watches."

I looked over at Joan, who had been sitting very quietly. I could see she had a very thoughtful look on her face but she said nothing.

I suddenly had a flash back to our weekend at Joan's, recalling his attention focused intently on repairing one of his childhood toys.

"Yes, Martin, that's right. I remember your little clockwork boat! Did you ever manage to repair it?"

He looked at me, surprised, and sat up straight, clearing his throat almost self consciously.

"Ummm, yes." He replied slowly. "Yes I did."

"That little rusty thing from the farm?" Joan interjected with interest.

"Ummm, yes." He repeated, before his expression softened a little and there was almost a twinkle in his eye. "Haven't, aaah, had it in the bath again but, ummm, yes, full working order."

"Hmmph." replied Joan, the funny little upside down smile forming on her face.

But Martin wasn't paying her any attention because he was looking at my watch again, deep in thought. He glanced up at me and, for a split second, my Martin was back; wide-eyed, softly spoken and endearingly hesitant. Oh god, I thought, as I felt years of hard fought resolve just evaporating into thin air, where is Libby when I need her?

"I won't ahhh, I won't know what I'm dealing with until I open it up. Hopefully, it be will a straightforward issue but it may be that I have to try and source parts. Ummm, do you mind if I, ahhh, hold on to it for a bit..if it umm, even if it takes some time?"

"Of course I don't mind, Martin!" I said softly, and, to my surprise, I was rewarded with a faint blush that spread across his face and disappeared behind his spotless collar and perfectly knotted tie.

"And, thank you" I said and held his gaze until he suddenly wrested his attention back to my locket, and placed it carefully in his inside breast pocket.

"Right then." Joan said loudly, "I'm for the loo and then I'm going to have to get back to Ruth's to pack."

Martin excused himself. The wine must have affected me because I leaned across from my bench and checked him out from behind as he walked away. I watched him until he completely disappeared from sight and, when I straightened up and leaned forward, I was surprised to see a waitress standing quietly, waiting to clear the table. She was about the same age as me and she gave me a conspiratorial smile.

"Sprung." I said and started to laugh.

I was still giggling when Martin returned. He sat down, reached into his pocket and pulled out something which I realised was a business card. He produced a pen and proceeded to write something very rapidly on the back. Then he slid it across the table to me.

"It dawned on me that I will need to find you in order to return your watch. Perhaps you could telephone in a week's time, and I could provide an update on progress."

I looked at the card. The thought of telephoning him made me feel very uncomfortable.

"Can I just grab that for a tick?" I replied, and I removed his pen from his fingers and scribbled my phone number quickly across the edge of a paper napkin. "Then, there's no pressure on you Martin. You call me when you're ready."

I handed him his pen, and my number, and smiled.

"Ummm, yes. Fine." He replied, returning the pen to his pocket, and sliding the torn off napkin segment into his wallet, all without looking at me.

I looked down at his card, and quietly pocketed it too. It wasn't much, but it definitely wasn't nothing.