I am face to face with a stranger; a striking looking, older woman who stands deliberately in my way. Once, I suspect, she would have been considered very beautiful, with dark, dramatic eyes that scrutinise me from beneath black, perfectly sculptured brows and, not for the first time tonight, I feel as if I am being inspected. Politely, I try to step around her but her commanding voice stops me in my tracks, and I turn sideways, glancing at her warily.
"Louise?" She says somewhat sweetly, as her lips form the vague semblance of a reluctant smile.
I swallow. She has the sort of skin that has never seen sunlight, the hands of a woman has never done a day's work in her life. Perfectly manicured, not an age spot in sight, the obligatory enormous diamonds bedecking her pale, smooth fingers.
"It's Louisa actually." I say, endeavouring to sound as pleasant and patient as is humanly possible. I've spent most of my life correcting people, mildly insulted by what strikes me as rude indifference to my actual name.
But I smile widely back at her, expectantly, and though she doesn't reciprocate; there's a discernible contraction of her prominent cheek muscles and the merest flicker of movement around her lips. If the expression is vaguely familiar, the words she says next make everything crystal clear.
"Margaret Ellingham." She says, lifting her chin and gazing at me down her nose, enunciating slowly and precisely, wielding each syllable like a Samurai sweeping elegantly yet dangerously through the air with a razor-sharp sword.
I'm instantly anxious, supremely cautious and utterly taken aback and, as I gape at her, I'm puzzled that she would choose to come and find me; waiting for me here, of all places, outside the loo. It seems surprising and, momentarily, a little bit unnerving as I fight to regain my composure. Dressed in a long, sleeveless, black ensemble that seems to somehow incorporate a cape and a stand-up collar, she appears pitiless and severe and I'm ashamed to admit that I am actually a bit intimidated.
"Oh, hi." I hear myself say, my heart sinking at how childlike and unsophisticated I sound. "Are you Martin's mum then?"
I notice a slightest flaring of her nostrils and, as her face takes on a disapproving cast, her rather large bosom heaves, setting off a rippling flash of diamantés in the heavily embossed black fabric.
"I am Martin's mother, yes." She says, and her unblinking gaze doesn't waver, even as she sighs. "Though it clearly means nothing to him. I always hope that Martin might behave properly; that he would do the right thing and formally introduce us, but I waited in vain, as usual. Only to, once again, be disappointed."
As I watch her speak, I'm struck by not only how regular her features are, and what a very handsome woman she is, but just how much her rigid self control and precise speech resemble that of Martin's. Everything about her is expensive and immaculate but she exhibits not one shred of warmth or encouragement, and I start to feel even more uncomfortable.
"I'm sorry about that." I offer, smiling at her with as much authenticity as I can muster. "We'd only just arrived and Martin was caught up with a gentleman...called...umm...his name escapes me actually but he whisked Martin away and he'd only just come back when I had to...you know...go..."
I stop for a breath and her eyes become slightly hooded as she regards me, her tone seeming suddenly slightly petulant.
"Of course, as soon as you were seen alighting from the same taxi, word reached me of my son's attendance. With a girl in tow, that's what I was told."
Referring to me as a girl in tow doesn't seem particularly respectful and I wonder if that's the reason she has sought me out in such a strange place; cornered me in the prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of my lawn, so to speak. I find myself disconcerted, and just a bit annoyed, wishing that Martin had been more forthcoming about his family circumstances, feeling as I do at such a huge disadvantage when confronted by his clearly unhappy mother.
"Umm, but...umm, I did meet ahhh...Martin's dad. Your husband? Yes?" I stammer awkwardly, hating myself for letting her cold stare eat into my confidence so effectively.
Worse still, I'd now had my lack of understanding, when it comes to the way society people introduce each other, exposed, and I realised that his mother was also judging me harshly, immune as she was to any personal charm that may have softened and influenced her husband's impressions. I take a deep breath and try and get my wits together. As I look at her, I'm struggling to understand how the genes of her and her lecherous husband could possibly combine to create my brilliant, shy, self-effacing Martin.
While I'm trying to be pleasant to her though, out of respect for him, I'm actually finding her, especially, to be quite unlikeable. It suddenly dawns on me why Martin was so aggravated by my insistence on going to the loo alone. He feared what would happen and yet I ignored him. Mostly, I quite like the way he is about taking care of things. After the uncertainty created by a couple of irresponsible, lightweight boyfriends, his sense of responsibility for me is quite reassuring. But, sometimes, he crosses the line between caring about me and insulting my capability for self-preservation, and that's when I inevitably get a bit cross with him; reacting like I did five minutes ago, glaring at him and flouncing off. I'd pointed my finger at Helen, somewhat jokingly, and told her to stay where she was and now, as a result, I was starting to feel a bit like a butterfly in a spider's web.
"I seem to detect a West Country accent." She says tonelessly. "What brings you to London, Louise?"
"Yes, that's right, I'm from Cornwall, here studying." I reply brightly but succinctly and, as my gut suddenly tells me to batten the hatches, I feel a growing unwillingness to offer this strangely disconcerting woman anything personal.
"And it's Louisa. Louis-errr..." I add coldly.
"Come and sit with me over here." She interrupts, commandingly, indicating a small collection of tables in a corner a short distance away.
As she turns to walk away, her cape swirls dramatically and I'm immediately assailed by a strong waft of Chanel No.5. It briefly crosses my mind that I could just walk away but, instead, I follow her almost obediently, trailing along in her wake feeling vaguely ridiculous. Her deportment is something to behold actually, as she sweeps across the floor quite majestically, and lowers herself elegantly into a chair, sitting demurely sideways,before turning to stare at me again, her cold expression and her veil of disapproval unchanged. She gestures to me to sit down and I attempt to maintain my dignity as best I can in my gravity-defying dress and Libby's uncomfortable shoes. Though I still feel impossibly glamorous in them, they are starting to draw on my feet horribly.
"Have you and Martin been friends long?" She asks, staring at me artfully as I tug at my skirt, endeavouring to retain my modesty.
It strikes me that every question is loaded, and there can be no correct answer on my part. Of course, she has no interest in me or my responses to her interrogation, except to ascertain how she herself can benefit. She doesn't want to get to know me as her son's girlfriend, she wants to find a way to be rid of me. It's a really horrible thought but now that I understand, I am suddenly galvanised. I'm just glad that I have just touched up my makeup and I can gaze back at her, equally unaffected, equally determined.
"We've known each other for a few years, if that's what you mean." I reply in a voice that is suddenly not so deferential.
"So he will have told you about his family?"
"Umm, a little bit, not much." I reply in a non-committal tone.
She clasps her hands in her lap and glances down briefly at them before raising her head and staring at me pointedly.
"When Martin was born both his father and I, and his grandparents, we all had such high hopes for him. He'd follow the family tradition of course, go into surgery, keep the Ellingham name at the forefront of medicine, where it ought to be."
"You must be very proud of him then." I reply quickly, gazing at her equally as pointedly.
She stares at me and, for the first time she smiles; a cruel, condescending twist of her face that is followed by one of the most callous, mean laughs I've ever heard, chilling in its menace.
"Proud of him?" She stares back at me as she spits out every word, coldly and bitterly. "Proud of him? What possible reason would we have to be proud of him? For the most part Martin is, as he has always been, a disappointing non-entity. Invisible, reclusive, socially inept. He has achieved little career-wise, pathetically unable to fill the shoes of his father or grandfather, he stands in their shadow."
I stare back at her, aghast, desperate to defend him. I think of the certificates on his study wall, the things I've heard Chris say about Martin's career, snippets of Joan's conversation, Holly's envious remarks, and I try desperately to think of a rebuke but nothing is immediately forthcoming. If Martin can't defend himself to her, whatever can I think of to say that won't just make things worse.
Her expression becomes slightly more animated and, before I can respond, she begins another horrible tirade, so appallingly lacking in understanding about her own son that it actually takes my breath away.
"So you understand, Louise, in every way, he's been a terrible disappointment to his family. Martin seems to think being a surgeon is just tucked away anonymously in theatre, day in, day out. Locking himself away with broken clocks and medical texts every night. He simply cannot grasp that being a surgeon is becoming a part of a prestigious society. It's a way of life that brings with it public expectations of standards and appearances. Being a surgeon elevates one to a wholly different level, a class of ones own. There are commitments and obligations, and one must be seen and admired in order to reach the very top echelons."
I'm breathing heavily now as I watch her face twist into self righteous anger, turning pink with resentment. I want to challenge her but, if this conversation proves anything, it's that I have a lot to learn about Martin, and that his mother is currently hell bent on giving me a crash course. I bite my lip and realise that the hair is standing up on the back of my neck. As I give an involuntary shiver, she launches into another invective.
"It's just too galling, it reflects so badly on both his father and me. We had such ambition that he would marry well, but it seems, Louise, that he is determined to crush our hopes for both his future, and ours. Can you imagine how it feels to have dedicated ones life to charity, and the continuation of the Ellingham legacy, only to have our son, our only child, treat our achievements with what amounts frankly to scorn and disrespect."
I can't quite believe what I am hearing and, as she speaks, I feel like I am choking, suddenly both quite defensive of him and rather incensed at her unbelievably abhorrent attitude towards her son. It seems that, in her view, he has no valuable qualities at all. Worse still, she has no qualms about publicly discussing his failures with a virtual stranger and, for someone as private as Martin, it would devastate him. Who else does she say these horrible things to, I wonder?
"He has let us down." She says, gazing up at me, her tone now somewhat winsome and full of guile. "Just as he lets everyone down. Just as he will let you down, Louise. And, trust me, no one will blame you if save yourself and walk away before he can crush your hopes and dreams, as he has done to his father's, as he has done to mine."
I taste bile. It's insulting that she thinks that I can be so easily manipulated, and that a few vicious remarks will force me to change my mind about him. Being treated like an idiot ignites a bit of a fuse underneath me to be honest. I take a deep breath and stand up.
"Really? You honestly think Martin is a failure?" I say and my heated tone sees her eyes narrow as she continues to stare at me. I fight hard to control myself as I feel myself begin to tremble; putting my hands on my hips in the vain hope she won't notice how badly they are shaking.
"I'm not sure what constitutes a success where you come from, my dear." She says serenely. "What girls like you look for in a husband, I cannot profess to know. I suppose it is all relative though...for some, a husband with his own teeth and the ability to read and write may be viewed as a triumph."
I stare back at her but, momentarily, I can't speak. Instead, I feel myself giving a tiny, shocked, shake of my head.
"I think that's really sad for you actually...that you can't see your son as others see him." I say quietly, glaring back at her, so angry at myself for not knowing enough about Martin's achievements that I can defend him adequately. "He's just...starting out on his career. He has a brilliant flat..."
His mother gives a short, mirthless laugh, turning her face away and smiling disbelievingly, before she launches once again into a diatribe on another of Martin's perceived weaknesses.
"A flat he has never once invited us to! A flat purchased with a legacy from his grandfather; foolishly, pig-headedly against our expressed wishes! Christopher, his father, came up with an excellent financial plan to help him manage the inheritance but, of course, Martin completely refused our help. Decided he wanted to play at investing, foolishly buying pictures that look like the work of feeble-minded children. Do you know what the first thing he bought when he received his medical degree? He went to an auction and bought an old statue. A Buddha! I ask you, why on earth would you want to decorate your flat like a nasty, common, little Chinese restaurant?"
Disbelief now transcends my anger. I think about his artworks and the beautiful gilded Buddha that I saw in his study, and my breath catches in my throat. I love Martin's eye for interesting and beautiful things, it made me realise that he had a sensitive artistic soul beneath his stern, scientific demeanour. And, of course, I love Martin too and hearing this woman, his actual mother, belittling him so throughly, sickens to my core.
"Yeah, I'm familiar with it actually. And, to be honest, I really like it." I say, as calmly as I can. "Martin's flat is ..."
"I'm surprised he's managed to hang on to any of it, quite frankly." She interrupts. "He's never had any idea of how to manage money. I won't tell you how hard we tried to drum some sense into him when he was growing up. But would he ever listen? The amount of times his father had to punish him as a boy for losing his pocket money, yet he never learned."
She glances around her tranquilly, as if she is a librarian, merely reading from a story book, and she is checking to see whether the children are still listening, still engaged. There's no one near to overhear us which I suppose I should be grateful for. She opens her mouth to speak and this time it's my turn to interrupt.
"I think it's a bit sad actually. Sad for you that can't find anything good to say about him when..."
"Please, he was a disappointing and disagreeable child and he's grown into a difficult and unpleasant adult." His mother says matter-of-factly. "Quite frankly Louise, his father and I have more or less washed our hands of him. He won't see a penny from us. Not a penny."
This happens to me occasionally, people assuming that because I've got a country accent that I'm as thick as two short planks, that they have to spell things out, in this case, because she clearly sees me as a gold digger. It's certainly a shot across my bows if ever there was one, even if it does say more about her moral compass than it does mine. If she thinks I'm going to put off by inheritances, or lack of them, she really hasn't got me pegged at all.
"Sounds like it's better for everyone then, that you're moving away." I say, in one last vain attempt to be vaguely conciliatory. "One career ends, another is just beginning. Perhaps it's Martin's time to shine?"
"Time to shine!? He'll never even come close to the man his father is. Professionally or personally." She says, tersely.
I stare at her, and I realise that her one dimensional character is now laid out in front of me. I'm not even surprised, just saddened really, I suppose because I realise that I've been a bit curious about Martin's mum, and even quite interested to meet her. On reflection, I'd wanted to meet the woman who raised such a capable son and not having a proper mother myself has always made me just a bit fascinated by other people's mothers actually. Yet, within minutes of meeting her, I just have a strange, hollow feeling of disappointment; a depressing realisation that things are never ever what they seem, and that you just never know what goes on behind the facade of an apparently respectable woman like Margaret Ellingham.
It's the last straw; I have decided that I can't stand her now, and that Martin is who is he despite her not because of her. I ache for him as I think about the hurt little boy I have glimpsed occasionally, and it is as if I have been given some sort of horrific portal into his childhood, as I witness Margaret Ellingham blithely disparaging her son, seeing no reason to even pretend she feels anything at all for him other than disgust.
I fold my arms and I glare at her, searingly, as if I can somehow cauterise her, stem the flow of her vile onslaught. I just need to silence her, even momentarily, to say anything really. I just need to fire my own salvo in her direction to let her know in no uncertain terms that she has no power over me, no influence and, definitely, no way she can make me think less of Martin. I lift my chin and take a step closer toward her.
"Martin will never come close to his father? Hah! And yet here I am, just come out of the loo where I had to wash half a pint of your husband's drool off my arm." I tell her, trembling and breathless, and struggling for composure. "If that's what you consider personal success, well I for one am glad, frankly, that Martin doesn't measure up to your pathetic standards!"
She glares back at me, her expression unchanged. If I've struck a blow in return, she's not letting on but I can't imagine that a lifetime of marriage to a lecherous man like that has left her unaffected. I really don't want to be horrible but I have this desperate need to strike a blow, if only for Martin's sake. I turn away, before glancing back at her over my shoulder, and calling out loudly enough that at least one passing waitress glances at us with interest.
"And, by the way, he's old enough to be my grandfather." I bark, as I stride away. "Enjoy your bus pass!"
Perhaps it's the adrenalin, perhaps it's the champagne but I find myself covering the ground back to our table rapidly, without even noticing the intense discomfort of my shoes. Muttering apologetically as I force my way through the crowd, my heart races and my emotions are tumultuous; I feel incensed by Martin's parents, I want to shield and protect him from them forever, I want to reassure him, console him and nurture him. I want to shout his achievements from the rooftops, I want to do anything I can to cancel out the noise of his parents and make up for the horrors they have inflicted on him. And, just as this torrent of desperate emotion threatens to suffocate me, as the blisters bite and my heart beat thunders in my ears, I feel a soft hand gently envelop my upper arm and I hear the relief in his voice as Martin says my name.
"Louisa." He says, gazing down at me, his eyes wrinkled and his brows knotted in that familiar concerned way. "I was...umm...I was just coming to look for you."
I smile at him, and reach for his hand. It is as if everything is different now, somehow. Both clearer and, somehow darker. As if, suddenly, I've changed and things will never be the same again.
"Sorry." I tell him breathlessly, pulling him toward the table. "There was quite a queue."