When I was a small boy, visiting the Natural History Museum, I always had a tremendous desire to run up the steps. From my vantage point, three feet tall in my stocking feet, the massive stone edifice seemed enormous as it towered above me and, with the boundless energy that seems to be part of the natural childhood condition, I recall bouncing on the spot, desperate to escape the imprisoning hand of whichever particular nanny was superintending me that day. I would reef and struggle against my restraint, convinced that I would soar effortlessly to the top if only my supervising companion would relinquish their claw-like grip on my collar.
I recall the first time I wriggled free and raced ahead, so proudly counting each step, gleefully aloud, on the way up. From memory there were at least twenty and it was possibly the moment I first understood the concept of counting things rather than just reciting sequential numbers. I can barely have been four years old, and I felt such a great sense of achievement when I reached the top and turned back triumphantly, waiting with delight for the wheezing and agitated nanny. It was as if I were initiating myself into a new world, one which suddenly made sense; a fascinating, logical and exciting place full of endless possibilities. And then, out of nowhere, I remember the sting of the ferocious slap that caught me around the back of my thin underdeveloped calves; and the fierce reprimand that accompanied it. All of which left me bewildered, whimpering, and fearful that yet another punishment would certainly await me when we returned from our excursion.
"You ill-mannered, coarse little boy!" The new nanny had said, dropping her cigarette on the ground and grinding it angrily into the stonework with the heel of her shoe. "I've a good mind to take you straight home and tell your mother what a naughty, disobedient little show-off you are!"
I don't recall the Nanny's name, she was just one of a succession of cold and disinterested women that came and went in my young life. The more mean spirited and bitter they were, the longer they seemed to last, but all of them would eventually move on; a fact my mother was quick to blame on my propensity to misbehave, to be difficult, and, worst of all, needy. By the time I was sent away to school, I'd learned that silence, detachment and invisibility were my only defences against the violence that always seemed to threaten and so, when we were instructed to walk up the stairs in a neat crocodile of identically dressed small boys, I no longer felt any inclination to run; as if all my natural exuberance was finally suppressed, my childish excitement eliminated.
Now, I pause half way up the very same steps, on the little half-landing, and fight my irritation as my companions labour up behind me. With every stride since we disembarked from the taxi, my agitation has grown and I have become grim and impatient. It seems to me that, if Chris concentrated a bit less on his tomfoolery, he could have kept up easily but he prefers to saunter along with the women, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, spouting the unutterable rubbish that seems to be keeping them all entertained. I watch as they laugh in unison and I experience a familiar sensation of exclusion, of separateness and isolation, as if my own unease, my misgivings and my overwhelming sense of dread, have created some sort of insurmountable Perspex wall around me.
My eyes are drawn of course to Louisa and I puzzle at her slightly strange, sideways gait, as she focuses so intently on her footing that she almost topples into me. When she finally looks up, her eyes narrow threateningly and I feel her hand clutch at my forearm, holding on to me with a grip that would crush an HGS dynamometer.
"Martin, what are you doing?" She says, somewhat incredulously and I notice the set of the jaw, her beautiful face registering confusion and disappointment in equal measure.
My heart sinks and I realise how ill-prepared I am to deal with her expectations of me even under normal circumstances, never mind when I am feeling so fearful of what lies ahead. Ever since I alighted onto the pavement, beneath the dense canopy of the enormous London Planes that line the road, I have felt an horrendous lack of control, and, for me, in this place, under these circumstances, it is a truly terrifying sensation. As she looks at me with such uncertainty and disbelief, as hard as I try to find the words, I simply cannot explain the depth of my inner turmoil; a torment that sees me forget both my manners and my responsibilities and makes me feel as if I must charge forward alone and oblivious, headlong through a wall of flame.
Louisa turns slightly to watch as Chris and his girlfriend continue past us, self consciously, and slightly awkwardly, and I hear him remark, jovially, they will wait for us at the entrance. Without thinking, I attempt to follow but Louisa hangs on to me with a ferocity that surprises me. I take a deep breath and gaze back at her worried face, her eyes huge and green and bewildered. Despite all my longing for her, the depth of my desire for a proper relationship at last, it's clear that I have neither the skill nor the natural inclination to know how to behave in a manner that befits her, and I feel ashamed of my own ineptness. She deserves so much better but still I am silent and astringed, choking on my own self-loathing.
"What's going on? Are you alright?" She says after a moment, gazing at me. "I thought I was here as your guest which, to me, sort of assumes we might walk in together? Yes?"
Her eyes flash and I swallow hard, desperate to avoid this tsunami of anxiety that threatens to drown me. She frowns and cocks her head at me, waiting in vain for me to elaborate but I know that I have so clearly disappointed her already and my despair renders me mute. How ironic that I have not even seen my parents and yet they can already claim this as a victory.
"Yes?" She asks again, this time more forcefully, and I nod quickly as she fixes me with her penetrating stare.
"So, about now would actually be a really good time for you to offer me your arm, or even hold my hand if you're more comfortable with that, hmm?" She adds, and I notice her familiar parafunctional lateral jaw movements, usually indicative of her growing frustration. "Martin?"
"Yes." I mutter, and for a split second I close my eyes, attempting to calm myself. "Umm, Louisa..I...I'm sorry..."
I flex my fingers a few times and moisten my lips, making a conscious effort to breathe in and out slowly and deeply. I am making a total hash of the whole ruddy evening already, letting the ghosts of my past distract me from something so much more important, a fragile attempt at a new life, even potentially a future, with her. And yet, here I was, abandoning her as soon as my own fear became too much to cope with; like the undeserving idiot I am, I shut down, I flee from everything including the only person in the world who might possibly understand; I withdraw, moronically and thoughtlessly, from the woman I love.
As the realisation hits me like a snowball to the side of the head, I open my eyes and, as mercurial as ever, Louisa's expression has softened and I watch with relief as she takes my hand in hers, intertwining our fingers and stepping closer toward me. Suddenly, her voice is softer, hesitant and conciliatory and I feel myself gripping her hand fiercely.
"Oh god, Martin, I think I've been a bit insensitive...I haven't really paid enough attention to how worried you actually are." She says ruefully, placing her free hand gently onto my chest. "I just got a bit carried away, ummm, with the idea of the flash party really and it's nothing like that for you at all, is it?"
I shake my head as her eyes bore into me and her expression changes to one of gleaming eyed defiance. She is never more beautiful to me than when she is rising to a challenge and after a brief moment of staring at each other, I let go of her hand and proffer my arm instead. She smiles at me encouragingly, sliding her hand around the inside of my elbow, and warning me not to walk too fast, as we stride up the remaining few steps, holding my arm tightly as we climb, bumping against me accidentally. Laughing, she mutters under her breath, some utter rubbish about chronic inelegance and how ungainly she considers herself to be but, to me, at this moment, she is the most perfect creature under the heavens, everything about her is sating; she soothes and placates me.
"Remember that weekend in Port Wenn, Martin, when I made you come into that village meeting with me?" She says quietly, as we inch up the remaining stairs. "The one where I was so terrified they were going to send me to Spain to live with my mum?"
I cast my mind back, surprised that she can remember any detail at all, considering her intensely emotional state.
"Umm, yes. It was...umm...it was a difficult time for you." I reply cautiously, desperate to respond adequately, recalling a weekend I never could quite make sense of and one which I'd chosen, largely, to forget.
We fall into the short queue behind Chris and she looks up at me, her gaze intense and her tone emphatic.
"So, this is the same thing, Martin, isn't it? But this time it's my turn to make sure you're okay..."
"Mmm." I reply quietly as Chris turns around and nods encouragingly at me. I can't believe he still hasn't fastened the buttons on his jacket and I'm about to point out to him that he looks more like an unkempt schoolboy on his way to assembly than the influential career administrator he purports to be, when Louisa speaks again.
"Libby would say that we need to waltz in there as if we own the place." She says quietly, with soft chuckle, as she squeezes my arm and leans her head momentarily against my shoulder.
For a moment, we are in our own world, just she and I, and I experience a subtle feeling of connection between us such as I have never felt with anyone ever before. I'm reminded how infinitely reassuring her closeness is, and I curse myself for being such a colossal fool as to try and deny it. Isn't this what I always dreamed of? All those years of being invisible, then only too visible but, it seemed, just to all the wrong women; all the difficult years of self denial and now, finally, I stand here, amongst my colleagues and a veritable who's who of the medical fraternity, with Louisa on my arm. She is the absolute personification of everything I'd dared hope for, and I should feel bloody well invincible, favoured by good fortune, and prosperous beyond measure.
"Like we own it?" I repeat with what almost sounds like a snort of amusement. "Louisa, it will be wall-to-wall pomposity in there. Only the smuggest of the smug in attendance, mark my words."
"Okay then." She replies amiably. "P'raps no one will notice us and that's fine too."
I glance sideways at her lovely profile, her eyes so bright and eager, and I wonder if she truly believes that no one will notice her. We are about to dive into a veritable smorgasbord of appalling humans; an ocean of pampered and overdressed women and arrogant, self important men; of garishly made-up faces, bouffant hairstyles and puffy, oversized dresses; everyone competing, everyone attempting to out do one another, flaunting their incomes and endeavouring to triumph over their so-called friends. And into this gaudy lair, I must introduce Louisa, who will inevitably stand out, so incredibly graceful and elegant in a dress which hugs her like a second brilliant skin. A single ring graces her hand, and her skin glows; so radiant is she with natural, effortless beauty, lit by her warmth and her dazzling smile. Of course, everyone will notice her and I'm rather shocked that such a realisation makes me stand just that little bit taller.
We file through the Romanesque entrance, corralled and controlled now by lengths of velvet rope, into the antechamber where a short, balding official in some sort of faux military uniform glances indifferently at our tickets and waves us through. Suddenly, the enormous Hintze Hall opens up before us, a building I have long admired; architecturally, the symmetry, the craftsmanship, the exquisite detail are all intensely satisfying to me. When I visited as a child, I recall this space featuring a selection of stuffed animals, dominated by a rather moth-eaten elephant whose name, unsurprisingly, escapes me. But now the massive dinosaurs are on display, to scale with this enormous auditorium, the seventy foot long model of a Diplodocus carnegii skeleton being the key attraction. Like a pertinent reminder of the contrast between my former and current lives, I also notice the skeleton of a Triceratops, a creature I'd had a boyhood fascination with. In fact I'd even possibly felt an affinity with this plucky herbivore, I suppose, because, unlike the other dinosaurs that lived in herds, Triceratops appear to have existed as solitary individuals, spending much of their life alone. I may be an objective man of science but, as I glance across at Louisa, I confess that the the symbolism is not lost on me.
She looks around her, smiling broadly, wide-eyed with delight, pointing out with breathless excitement that, at the landing at the top of the staircase, there is even a string quartet performing.
"I wonder if they take requests?" She asks, and when I solemnly inform her that I very much doubt it, she pulls a face at me and points out to me that she is joking, squeezing hold of my hand with a endearingly childlike grin of excitement. In the soft ambient light, with the archways above us lit up brilliantly in red and blue, we trail along behind Chris, single file, as he pushes through the milling crowd, and endeavours to find us a hidden and anonymous table for four.
As I rightly predicted, we are surrounded by a sea of black and white, a congregation of men of all shapes and sizes, dressed identically in dinner jackets, as conservative and traditional as one would expect from a room full of middle aged medical professionals. We pause for a moment as our procession is impeded by an enthusiastic greeting between two thin, oblivious woman, ridiculous in garish frills. Without thinking, my hand goes to Louisa's upper arm as she stands in front of me, and I bend to whisper in her ear, stroking her soft warm skin absently as I make my point.
"I told you so. Every man in the place dressed identically, everyone exactly the same."
I hear her laugh and she leans back against my chest, grinning up at me, resting the back of her head on my lapel.
"No, Martin, definitely not the same at all..." she says dreamily and, before I can reply, I startle with alarm as I feel her hand run the length of my thigh. She laughs again at my clear discomfort as I swallow hard and growl her name, reprimandingly, between my teeth.
I recognise some faces around me; colleagues from St. Mary's, one or two fellow students from med school, several cronies of my father and a number of tutors I recall from my early surgical rotations. I notice that they are staring at me and, if I am honest, I expected nothing less by being in attendance tonight. I've always polarised people and I'm seldom surprised any longer when people detest me on sight because, really, I stopped caring about that years ago. But I'm also aware of my reputation as some sort of ascetic; an austere, joyless puritan, sacrificing everything in the pursuit of medical excellence. I've been universally mocked and derided for this by members of my own profession, even if my colleagues show respect to my face, I'm only too aware of what they say about me behind my back. Always the butt of jokes and too frequently an object of curiosity, I've also had years of dealing with the indignity of being seen as a challenge by a string of ensurient, acquisitive women.
Yet tonight, I am untroubled by the shocked stares, in fact I even feel slightly gratified; with Louisa's encouragement, the confidence I feel in my professional environment seems to have followed me here tonight. I'm aware of the attention that she will inevitably attract, is already garnering, if the length and intensity of the glances she receives as she passes by, is any indication. I say Chris' name loudly and, as he turns to look at me, I indicate an empty table to our right. He frowns at me quizzically and I nod. I know what he is thinking; it's relatively open and exposed, and exactly what he has assumed I want to avoid but, as Louisa so cheerfully alluded to, a little poise and self-assurance goes along way, so to hell with all the curtain-twitchers that snigger behind their hands. As Chris heads off in search of the drinks, I find myself pulling out chairs and holding wraps, while Louisa and Helen make themselves comfortable, before I sit down myself, choosing the position with my back to the wall and an excellent view around the venue and, most importantly, of the most beautiful woman in the room.
I listen as she converses happily to Chris' fiancée, a woman she has just met but has apparently no trouble finding a connection with. They briefly discuss their respective outfits and Louisa refers to her own as something called vintage semi couture, whatever on earth that might possibly be. Jobs, education, birthplace, families; all shared openly and with much jocularity, as if they have known each other for years. I envy their ease as I scan the crowd, keen to identify the whereabouts of my parents so that I can avoid any surprise contact, any unexpected encounters, until I am fully prepared. While there is no obvious sign of my father, a man who seeks out the limelight, my mother could be lurking anywhere, her preference for black attire meaning she blends perfectly into shadows and darkness.
Chris appears, expertly managing to carry two glasses in each hand and place them on the table without spilling a drop, no doubt a skill he perfected as a med student; usually three glasses for him and one for me.
"You look very serious." Louisa says suddenly to me, and I notice a look of concern on her face. Before I can reassure her of my complete composure, Chris interrupts with a knowing chuckle.
"Ah Louisa, yes of course, this will all be new to you I suppose?! The imperious air, the haughty demeanour...may I introduce you to Mr. Martin Ellingham, the greatest surgeon of his generation, as disdainful as ever of the mere mortals that surround him. You'd better get used to the arrogant expression, it's like he went outside when it was frosty..."
He barks with laughter and glances over at me, eyes twinkling, revelling in what he expects will be my discomfort but I stare back at him impassively. Louisa's hand is once again on my knee and, as she leans toward me slightly, she gives it a gentle reassuring squeeze.
"Oh, I don't know, Chris." She says slowly and deliberately, smiling at me. "I rather like it actually."
I feel a sudden intense heat in my abdomen and I'm appalled by the deep blush that spreads rapidly up my torso, as my other leg starts with an unfamiliar nervous jiggling. I glance across at Chris, fighting hard to retain my mask of aloof disdain.
"I wish I'd brought a box of paper clips with me Chris Parsons, I know you can't resist counting them for entertainment." I growl at him. "Perhaps there's a stationery cupboard somewhere that needs auditing, why don't you go and ask, hmm?"
He laughs loudly and Helen says something like "Touché", and pats his hand good humouredly. I reach for my glass of water, to soothe my suddenly dry throat, and Louisa catches my eye. She grins and her eyes are shining as she shakes her head at me. She is so lovely that I feel the hint of a smile on my own face as I gaze back at her.
"Mart, Louisa, let's have a toast, shall we?" Chris says, enthusiastically. "Helen, my darling, charge your glass..."
"The glasses are already full, Chris, no need to pointlessly mangle the English language..." I groan, and for the briefest moment, as everyone laughs, I'm almost enjoying myself.
"Here's to the storks that bring pretty babies...the crows that bring ugly babies...and the swallows that bring no babies!" He cries, gleefully, emptying his champagne flute in one voracious swig.
It takes me a second to process what he's just said and then I feel my jaw drop in disbelief. Opposite me, Helen buries her face in her hands and groans, muttering his name in some sort faux annoyance, as Chris continues to laugh uproariously. I daren't even glance directly at Louisa but, from the corner of my eye, I can see that, as she stares down at the table, biting her lip mercilessly, her cheeks are blazing red. I'm not sure, of the two of us, who is more uncomfortable but I do know that I'm rendered speechless and she steadfastly refuses to look at me.
"Now we know why you didn't take up obstetrics." I say disapprovingly, glaring at him; my expression incredulous, and his completely and utterly shameless.