Even now, quite sometime after he leaves, I'm still conscious of a certain warmth enveloping me. My face seems flushed, my skin is sultry and supersensitive as I lie on my bed, vague and dreamy, and rather deliciously contented. I search for an analogy to describe this particular sensation of satisfaction, the inordinate relief I am experiencing. It feels as if I've been standing in a queue forever; a long, unmoving line that runs like a serpentine through the streets, waiting endlessly for entry in to some legendary and exclusive nightclub, a place where everyone says you should be, yet it seems impossible to get any closer to that elusive front door. And suddenly, as if he's paid off the bouncers, Martin takes me by the arm, bypasses everyone, and guides me, competently and rather effortlessly, over the threshold.
Half-heartedly, I glance at my bedside clock and the realisation hits me; the weekend is almost over and the adult world of employment and responsibility beckons once more. Not that I have any regrets, but my finances have taken rather a serious hit over the last week and so l really must put my hand up for any extra shifts that might be available locally until the new term starts again. Right now though, I should be pulling out my work plan and going over the week's lessons, preparing myself to engage with my ragtag assortment of detached and incurious kids, and the widely different educational challenges they present but, instead, I find myself craving a shower, and so, reluctantly, I raise myself from my languid, rather delicious stupor and wander out of my room.
I climb the stairs in search of Libby, initially, poking my head around her door only to find her room half empty and seemingly abandoned. What is left of her possessions are distributed around the room in uneven piles, in some sort of elaborate sorting system understood only by herself; the sediment of her life, the accumulated yet somehow pointless possessions that remain when everything useful and valuable has been uplifted and safely packed away. Looking around at how little is left makes me feel suddenly a bit deflated; I've been so focused on myself and my own life changing experiences that I've barely given a thought to the fact that Libby's departure to literally the other side of the world is now imminent. There's an envelope on the bedside table with my name on it, scrawled in her extravagant hand; an emphatic exclamation mark and a curly flourish indicative that this must be something important and I hesitate momentarily before deciding not to open it. Somehow it seems like something she should give to me in person, for who knows when I will see her again.
Sighing heavily, I make my way along to the bathroom, where I shed my clothes and peel back the clingy, grey shower curtain. The contrast with Martin's immaculate well-lit en suite, with its gleaming white tiles and German porcelain fixtures, seems depressingly pointed, and I look around me as if I am seeing the grim space for the first time. It's hard to imagine a time when this particular combination of tiny, garish tiles and over sized Paisley-pattern wallpaper was ever in vogue but, clearly, at some point, someone must have thought so. That's the danger, I suppose, of being exposed to really nice things; Martin's world of quality and elegance, and understated good taste just makes my own surroundings seem, sadly, really quite shabby.
Carefully, I open the ridiculously touchy taps, adjusting them by the most delicate of touches, as if I'm attempting to crack a safe, and waiting patiently for the water to spurt and splutter and, eventually, flow. Cautiously I step in under the shower head, adjusting the flimsy drapery in place behind me. Despite how many times I've taken the sodding thing down and soaked it in bleach, the mould refuses to be thwarted. The stitching around the bottom has turned black once more and I sigh in defeat as I assume the only stance that barely ensures that some of the water stays in the cubicle, without the curtain embracing me like some sort of cold, clammy, transparent shroud. I'm not even sure how long I stand there because I'm lost in a daydream again with the result that the water starts to go cold before I've rinsed my hair, and on exiting the shower, I realise I've unconsciously been responsible for the inch of water that now shimmers over the uneven mosaic of avocado-shaded floor tiles.
With my Wednesday night phone call to Martin now the focal point of my week, I've decided that three days without him will be completely manageable because I really need to start getting used to the fact that this is the blueprint for our relationship. I've already started trying to convince myself that the long periods we spend apart will only make our time together even better. Plus, if I'm realistic, when college starts again, I'm going to be in the thick of it too, floundering under my workload and battling interminably, with my limited work space and the endless distractions, to have my assignments in on time, and my notes written up and collated.
On the bus, in the mornings, I think about him a lot, trying to imagine what he looks like when he's operating, what he does and how he behaves but, to be honest, I do struggle a bit. I honestly can't picture him in anything else but a suit, and recalling what he looks like wearing nothing isn't very helpful at all and, somehow, I know that Martin would disapprove of that type of thought being imagined so vividly on public transport. As I arrive at my stop, it feels as if my lack of knowledge about what happens in his day to day work life is becoming more than a little embarrassing and I realise I must press him to talk more about himself, even if he's not very forthcoming.
Going home in the late afternoon, I can't help but wonder how his day went. I'm suddenly curious about who he has lunch with, whether he has his own office, even what sort of medical conditions he operates on. It's a bit humiliating to admit, and I'd never tell him, but before I met him again, I didn't even know there was such a thing as Vascular specialist in surgery, never mind that I still have almost no idea under what circumstances you'd need one. The realisation makes me grimace as I watch a red-haired nurse clamber wearily up the steps and onto my bus. I feel compelled to smile at her, as if she somehow provides some sort of odd, tenuous connection to Martin merely by her profession but, as she slips past me, I notice that her uniform is embroidered with the logo of a dentistry chain, and I can't help but giggle at my own ridiculous state of besottedness.
Once again, on Tuesday, the house is empty when I leave and still unoccupied when I arrive home. Some of Martin's sense of propriety seems to be rubbing off on me and I spend an hour or so attempting to tidy my room before I slip back into bad habits, making myself some curried noodles and falling asleep in front of the telly, watching 'A Bit of Fry and Laurie'. I wake up, thirsty and stiff, sometime in the early morning and I crawl into bed, fully clothed, barely even conscious of what I'm doing but cognisant enough to rejoice in the fact that I had finally made it to Wednesday before crashing heavily, and sleeping deeply, until my alarm awakes me.
Travelling this morning is frustrating; my first bus is arrives ten minutes behind schedule, so I miss my connection to Holland Park and then I have to run the length of the avenue to avoid being late, no easy task in tight-ish jeans and mid-heeled boots. When I finally get to little Piers Stanley's house, I'm out of breath and regretting both my choice of dinner last night, and the half bottle of Chardonnay I washed it down with. I press the buzzer and lean on the door frame, sucking heavy gasps of humid air into my burning lungs. An unfamiliar woman answers the door and she stares at me blankly, her small, lash-less eyes watering in the strong sunlight.
"Hi, sorry, I don't think we know each other. I'm Louisa. Louisa Glasson, Piers' tutor." I announce cheerfully, holding out my hand to her.
"Oh." She says flatly, ignoring my gesture. "Nobody told me you were coming..."
"Right, sorry. You're new?"
I take another step up towards her but she just stares at me, as if she's confused and just a bit annoyed, her arm across the doorway, barring my way.
"I'm the housekeeper." she says coolly.
"Oh right, you are new then. What happened to...never mind, obviously just a bit of a misunderstanding...perhaps I could just come in, you know, and get started? Is Piers in his room?" I reply, cheerfully.
"He's not well." She counters, briskly.
"Oh, I see. Well, umm, are his parents here? His mum? Is she home?"
The housekeeper shakes her head at me, her loose jowls wobbling disconcertingly, and I start to feel just the tiniest bit put out. Worse than that, probably, I am actually upset, and not just because I've had an early start and an apparently wasted journey. Whoever this woman is, she's been here less than a week and poor, timid Piers is somewhere in this enormous house, unwell, and with only a virtual stranger to take care of him. I clench my jaw and stare back at her.
"Anyway, I'd like to pop in and see him actually, you know, since I'm here." I say, determinedly, and I hope she recognises my change in tone.
"It's just a cold, goodness me, no need to fuss." She replies, almost derisively.
I'm starting not to like her very much, with her lifeless eyes and her martyr-ish air, and I take another step forward so that we are almost eyeballing each other. She looks down at my boots and my jeans, and back up at me, and I can tell by her expression that she is measuring me up, wondering how far I will go.
"I'm sure he won't mind if I just say hello." I reply, smiling at her mirthlessly, attempting to cover up my growing annoyance.
"He's been whining all morning, whinging and carrying on and suchlike. I've only this minute got him settled and now you want to disturb him..."
"I'll do my best not to." I reply coldly. "But, as I'm employed by his parents to tutor him, and I have received no advice to the contrary, I will be going up to see him..."
She stares at me for a moment and then it's as if, instantly, she abandons all pretence of caring.
"Suit yourself." She says crisply and her hand falls to her side.
As I push past her, I notice the nicotine stains on her fingers and the handkerchief wedged beneath her elasticated metal watch strap. I realise my heart is hammering with indignation and, as I fly up the grand internal staircase, I pause on the first landing to take a deep breath and compose myself. For a split second, the vulnerable child upstairs is Martin, alone and rejected by the very people who should care for him the most, and I feel a sudden surge of rage at his horrible parents, at Piers' parents too, though I've never even met them and, unsurprisingly, anger surfaces at my own callous rejection by my mum and dad. To be largely forsaken by the people who are supposed to love and care for you most is bad enough; it's as if you carry a massive weight of responsibility on your tiny shoulders and that can feel terrifying and exhausting at the best of times, but the sense of abandonment is only magnified when you're ill or you're frightened, or both, and that's when you feel the neglect most intensely.
I glance down the stairwell but the new housekeeper, whoever she is, does not appear to be following me. Piers' bedroom is on the third floor, along with a bathroom and a larger utility room that we'd used as a makeshift classroom. Everything up here is obviously expensive, carefully collected, and immaculate and, as I look around me at the styling, and the art work, it seems to me that an interior designer had created this space, perhaps on instruction to produce a charming traditional nursery wing. And, with the antique rocking horse and the pond yachts and the hand coloured Winnie-The-Pooh sketches, they might have succeeded but for the fact that the rooms all had a total and overriding lack of joy. A total absence of childhood spontaneity, of anything even vaguely resembling genuine vibrancy, the handmade crafts, the carefree element that should be the right of every child growing up. Everything looks like a prop from a movie set, a diorama featuring all the elements someone felt should be part and parcel of the apparently halcyon days of a comfortable upbringing, except if you're a small, shy, stuttering boy who occupies this floor alone, hiding from your own shadow. I cant imagine that Piers feels as if any of this is actually for him.
I knock gently and let myself into his room and I'm immediately struck by the stench of disinfectant and, rather unpleasantly, vomit. The curtains are closed and the room is rather dark and forbidding in it's unfamiliarity. I say his name gently and edge cautiously toward the window, slipping the heavy curtains along on the rails just enough to let a small amount of light into the room. Piers is on top of the bed but he doesn't reply, so I say his name again and walk slowly across toward him, anxious not to startle him. His bright blue pyjama top is open to the waist and to my horror I realise he is drenched in sweat, his usually pale face bright red as he looks at me through unblinking eyes.
The next few minutes are a blur really as it dawns on me that he is unable to sit up, and I realise his speech is also rather terrifyingly indistinct. I say his name again but he is now unresponsive and, when he vomits again, and bile dribbles from the corner of his mouth, I fight the urge to panic and I carefully turn his clammy, floppy body onto its side and fly down the stairs in search of a telephone. After I've dialled nine nine nine, I hear myself shouting for the housekeeper, demanding that she contact his parents immediately, screeching at her that Piers is seriously ill and that I've phoned for an ambulance. She comes to the door of the kitchen and stares at me blankly, her mouth opening and closing, slowly and silently, before she turns on her heel and disappears. At that point, I remember going into the bathroom and soaking a towel in cold water and, until the ambulance arrived, I busied myself with trying desperately to bring his temperature down, reassuring him that he would be fine, and imploring him in my head, fiercely, not to die.
It's like déjà Vu as I clamber into the back of the ambulance, accompanying another acquaintance on another rapid journey, this time from Holland Park to some Accident and Emergency Department. Unlike last time, though, I have no Libby to fortify me, to assuage the anger and fear that threatens to overwhelm me and I sit quietly and observe, sick with apprehension, as the paramedics attempt to stabilise him. It's only when we glide to a stop and the doors fly open, that I realise we are, once again, at the St. Mary's A&E and I watch in fear as Piers' tiny forlorn body disappears through the doors, propelled hastily by two burly young orderlies. The driver directs me to the admissions desk with a rueful smile, and I reply with a resigned nod of my head.
"Thanks." I say, only too aware of the drill and, without looking back, I trudge off to the reception area to tell them what little I know, only too aware that I will be told absolutely nothing in return.
To make matters worse, I have no confidence in the intentions of that wretched housekeeper to notify Piers' parents promptly of the apparent severity of his condition, especially as the woman actually seemed vaguely complicit in his neglect. I wait in the queue for quite some time before I get to the front of the desk, and the receptionist notes down everything I tell her, without interest or encouragement. I suppose she's just being professional but it all feels rather cold and dismissive really. She is quite attractive, not many years older than me perhaps, with a perfectly but rather heavily made-up face, an elaborate hairstyle and an ample bosom that threatens to burst from the desperate bonds of her shirt at any minute. I smile at her as I explain the situation but she merely stares back at me with a sort of disappointing remoteness; a vague suggestion of superiority that only serves to upset me even further as I trudge off in search of a pay phone.
However, I feel as if I should be here with Piers, for all the good it will do, but first I must cancel my afternoon appointment. I feed the last of the coins from my purse into the slot and I'm relieved when my call to the home of my eight year old Marylebone maths pupil is answered by machine and I can leave a brief, breathless, apologetic explanation, and quickly ring off. I glance up at the clock in reception. It's just after eleven and I'm suddenly feeling thirsty and a little bit shaky and, though I'm aware that I don't have much cash on me, I might be able to scrape enough together for a cup of tea and a something to eat. I did go a bit overboard at the salon on Saturday but, in hindsight, it was totally and utterly worth every penny. I might be back looking like an impoverished student today I think to myself, glancing across at the glamorous receptionist, but, on Saturday night, I felt fabulous. I carry my paper bag and styrofoam cup back into the waiting area and, as I attempt to nibble carefully on my egg sandwich, I deposit some of the filling down the front of my tee shirt. Cursing softly, I attempt to wipe it off with the edge of the paper bag but, sadly, that just smears it around a bit and I sigh in frustration. While I'm glad my shirt is black, I am a bit annoyed with myself because it's the Depeche Mode one that Libby bought me for my birthday and I've managed to keep it clean for less than half a day.
I watch as a group of young nurses wander through the waiting area, talking loudly, and laughing in that brash way that people supremely confident in their environment do, like they are members of an exclusive club and we are all just visitors to their complex and mysterious territory. Over the next hour or so, I amuse myself by observing all sorts of hospital staff, alone or in groups; enormous orderlies pushing tiny, folded-up, old people in wheelchairs, doctors in white coats, stethoscopes stuffed into their pockets; impatient-looking matrons with an unassailable air of authority, and swathes of people of indiscernible rank, clad in scrubs and hurrying importantly back and forth. It feels like a tiny glimpse into Martin's world, and I smile to myself when I recall sitting not fifty yards from this very spot and setting eyes on him again for the first time in years. Instantly, all my teenage feelings had erupted once again, yet I'd hidden from him, feeling oddly ashamed. I recall how utterly despondent I'd been afterwards, when he'd seemed even more exalted, so convinced was I that, if anything, time had only served to remove him even further from my league whilst rekindling all of my childish admiration.
Recalling how needlessly upset I'd been makes me wonder where he is right now, and the feeling that he might be close by is actually quite comforting. It could be more but, as I reach down and absently wipe the crumbs from the legs of my jeans, my urge to give in to fantasy is rapidly overwhelmed by my concern and fear for poor little Piers, and the miserable recollection of his limp, unresponsive body strapped into the gurney. Oddly, I haven't even met his parents, though I did initially speak to his father on the telephone at the beginning of the holidays. He'd seemed like a reasonable enough man, fitting the general pattern of a high achieving parent concerned by the failure of his or her offspring to thrive academically, no more brisk or impatient than usual, brief and to the point as they generally were, asking the usual questions, seeking the same impossible reassurances. And, though I didn't know either his face or that of his wife, I'd imagined that, shortly after my arrival, a well-dressed, affluent couple would fly through the front doors and I would recognise them, on type, instantly. Piers' father would be cool and unruffled, calmly seeking the facts, reassuring his wife who, showing far less composure, would probably be sobbing in terror, desperate to get to the bedside of her child. But, as time continues to tick by, there has been no one even resembling the image I have in my head, nothing but an endless stream of limping, spluttering, grim-faced victims and, as a result, I feel even more compelled to stay.
I remember that Martin said that Monday and Tuesday were designated for elective surgery but I haven't the foggiest notion of what he might be doing today, or any other day really. The thought crosses my mind that he might be free for lunch and I consider trying to find him but it feels like I would be letting Piers down as badly as everyone else around him apparently has. Sighing, I finish my tea and, after I've located the rubbish bin, I approach the admittance desk again, waiting in line for what seems like ages, before being informed by the icy receptionist that she is unable to assist me further at present. There's something about her tone that I really don't like and I feel myself becoming annoyed again, even if I do actually realise it's mostly due to the fact that I'm actually quite scared. It suddenly dawns on me that the little boy could even possibly die and I'm suddenly stricken, and I feel the tears begin to well. Only the absence of any sort of rash vaguely reassures me that he's not been struck down by meningitis or something equally as horrendous, but I feel myself shiver in fear of what might happen to him.
Reluctantly, I make my way back to my previous location in the waiting room only to discover that my seat has been taken by a rather cross looking, middle-aged man with a blotchy face and an enormous, pulpy, strawberry nose. I stand momentarily in front of him as I scan the room, unsuccessfully, for another spare seat but, as I glance down at him, the expression on his face makes me feel a bit uncomfortable and I move rapidly away. A woman, clutching a screaming baby, is walking up and down the aisles, in the vain attempt at calming the child down; her expression is harried and unhappy but, when I smile at her, endeavouring to seem empathetic, she just looks right through me, and keeps walking. Rather ridiculously, it feels like rather a blow, and, disheartened, I make my way to the toilets and wait in another long queue as a silent, grim-faced cleaning woman, methodically and unhurriedly, sluices out the cubicles with a tired grey mop and an overflowing bucket.
On my eventual return, there appears now to be standing room only in the waiting room, and the screaming baby continues on, unrelentingly, as the fidgeting, throat-clearing boredom of the assembled crowd becomes ever more noticeable. There are raised voices at the desk and I notice that the receptionist is now standing up, her chest heaving with indignation, as she points rather intimidatingly in the direction of the entry doors as a worried looking young man in a turban looks on, bewildered, from the ever present queue, his arm protectively around an stooped elderly lady, resplendent in a beautiful silk sari and matching trousers. Somewhat ridiculously, his apparent solicitude for the old woman deeply affects me and I feel breathless and rather teary again. I fight the urge to cry and, especially, to abandon my vigil, and run for the bus, escaping to the relative sanctuary of my tiny bedroom. Flashing the young man what I hope is a reassuring smile, I walk back to the crowded cafeteria and perch on an empty chair at cramped table, watching the clock make it's way around to a quarter past one and, with every sweeping circuit of the seconds hand, feeling ever more frustrated and upset. I glance up nervously at the couple who are sharing my table, as they begin to argue under their breath in some sort of foreign language that sounds very aggressive and threatening, even when spoken relatively quietly. The little girl that accompanies them shrinks into her seat, looking back at them with huge, worried eyes, and her expression almost breaks my heart.
I'm almost relieved when the man angrily jumps to his feet and stomps off in the direction of the bathroom but the force with which the woman grabs the arm of the child to apparently follow him is totally dismaying, and I stare after them in horror, which quickly seems to be turning into yet another threat of imminent tears. I don't even appear to have a hanky in my bag so I suck in some deep breaths and bite down hard on my lip in a desperate effort to retain my composure. I've just about pulled myself together when a large, grim-faced woman with a Lancashire accent, wearing a smock and a hairnet, curtly informs me that I can't sit at this table unless I've purchased food and beverages from the cafeteria. Its the last straw; I feel my eyes sting and, wordlessly, I stand up and flee back to the anonymity of the ladies toilets.
After a few deep breaths, once again, I have myself somewhat under control and I make my way back out to to the waiting room just as the clock nudges two. Every time I leave this area, I suppose there is the chance I miss the arrival of the Piers' parents and I'm not even that sure I can rely on the receptionist to tell me if they have finally been located. Suddenly everything just feels a bit pointless and, worse still, hopeless. I reach into my bag and pull out my purse. In the side pocket, I find what I am looking for, the business card he gave me in the restaurant, so many months ago now, and it seems like a lifetime. I look at the all letters after his name, the subtle embossing of the card, typically of exceptional quality, yet understated and reeking of superiority. I find what I am looking for; a phone number, a four digit extension number that I can only hope is still current. I will telephone Martin from the pay phone, if only to be reassured by hearing his voice because it suddenly seems imperative that I speak to him; after all, this is his world, and he will know what to do. The idea invigorates me, or perhaps it's just the realisation that he's here somewhere close, either way I reach into my pocket for my last remaining coins, only to remember that I have already spent them. Berating myself, once again I join the back of the queue to reception, eventually coming face to face, yet again, with the patently displeased, busty young woman.
She stares at me icily, her expression plainly stating how she feels, even if she doesn't come out and bark at me crossly: You again!
"Umm, Hi...I was wondering if there was any chance you could put me through to an internal number?" I ask hoarsely, glancing at the card in my hand, as my heart rate increases rapidly.
The receptionist shoots me a withering stare.
"I beg your pardon?" She says, tartly.
"Yeah, I'm sorry, but I, umm, I left my wallet at home or I'd use the pay phone..." I lie uncomfortably, glancing back at her awkwardly. "And...my, umm, a friend, works here and I wanted to try and get hold of him, you know, since I was here...please, if you don't mind."
I noticed her upper lip twitch as she suppresses a sneer. Before she has a chance to turn me down, I say his name, as clearly and coolly as I am capable of, under the circumstances, and it's almost satisfying to see the expression on her face change.
"Mr. Ellingham?" She says, incredulously, staring at me in obvious disbelief. "A friend of yours?"
"That's right." I reply sweetly, smiling pleasantly back at her. "So perhaps you could put me through if it's not too much trouble?"
She hesitates, as if she's wrestling with a whole battalion of qualms and misgivings, but I maintain my outward appearance of nonchalance and, eventually, as her mouth droops open ever so slightly, she picks up the receiver and, haltingly, taps in the four digit extension I give her. Without taking her eyes off me, she slowly hands me the telephone, staring at me suspiciously as if she fears I might run away with it.
"Thanks." I say casually, flashing her a quick, deceptively friendly smile that belies the sudden sensation of turmoil that has overcome me. What if I'm interrupting him in the middle of something terribly important?
There's a moment of silence and, a little anxiously, I count the number of low, purring rings in my mind...two...three...four...
"Ellingham!"
"Martin, it's me, Louisa." I say breathlessly, incredibly relieved to hear his voice, even if the way he growls his name is anything but welcoming.
"Louisa?" He replies gently, and I'm thrilled to hear his tone so obviously soften. "Is everything alright?"
"Umm, no actually...well, umm, I'm fine but one of my kids isn't. Thing is, I've been waiting in A&E for hours and I..."
"I'm sorry, what A&E?" He interrupts briskly.
"Here...yours...St Mary's." I tell him calmly, smiling again at the blonde woman behind the desk who continues to glare at me suspiciously. "The receptionist was kind enough to let me use the phone at the Admissions desk and I..."
"Stay where you are. I'll be right down." He barks at me and, before I can reply, he is gone.
I pass back the receiver and I realise that both she, and the older woman who now stands behind her, are staring at me.
"Thanks so much." I tell them as I move to the side, muttering an apology to the short queue that has formed behind me. A woman with a black eye flashes me a toothless smile, and a spotty-faced child, in the arms of a heavily tattooed man, starts to whimper forlornly.
I glance down at myself, checking that I am no longer adorned in crumbs, at the same time tightening the band on my ponytail, and tucking the loose strands of hair behind my ears; a rather feeble gesture really considering that I am barely wearing a smudge of make up, and I dressed this morning specifically for sitting on the floor, undertaking Reading Recovery, building with blocks and playing Maths games with two of my most disengaged students. I've taken to experimenting with any sort of learning environment which might motivate them to participate confidently and, for Piers especially, an informal space that in no way resembles a classroom, seems to be obtaining results. Or was, I think to myself sadly, and my breath catches momentarily in my throat when I think about his feverish, unresponsive body and the cold-hearted, disinterested woman that seemed to have become responsible for his care. Suddenly, my shallow and selfish conceit about my disappointingly utilitarian attire, evaporates.
"Look out." I hear the older woman behind the desk mutter, and her colleague gives a strange little laugh. Glancing over at her, I notice she too appears to be checking her appearance and, somewhat bizarrely, she pushes up her already voluptuous chest and appears to moisten her lips rather pointedly, as she gazes down the aisle behind me.
I turn around to see Martin, looming momentarily in the doorway, filling the space as usual, so impressive, and energetic, and so robust. Instantly, I feel the familiar rush, a sudden internal explosion; as if a roost, a veritable kaleidoscope of butterflies swarms inside me as I watch him approach, striding purposefully through the milling throng toward me, his scowling expression haughty and forbidding. Amongst the scruffy crowd, the sick, and the bored and the broken, he appears even more immaculate than usual, his dark pinstriped suit, and red tie giving him such an air of authority that suddenly, the distinction of his perfectly tailored suits, his indefatigability, indeed so much of his imperious manner, makes perfect sense to me.
His gravitas, the pre-eminence, even his inveterate seriousness; seeing him here, now, in this sphere, it's clear that he must always be in charge, in control I suppose, making clear-headed decisions and issuing instructions, and I wonder for a split second how that must feel, and whether its sometimes a burden. To be not only considerably taller than everyone else but also to tower over most people intellectually must mean he sees the world so differently from the rest of us, understands things the rest of us just don't. As he stops in front of me and lifts his chin, I feel a warm glow of admiration, and a flash of desire and, above all, a sense of incredulity that a man as clever and capable as Martin should find something in me to love. He says my name and, as I look back at his impassive expression, I feel my face hijacked by a smile of relief and gratitude; and such complete and utter delight at seeing him. I'm suddenly desperate to throw myself into his arms, and revel in their reassuring strength but, instead, he keeps his distance and his imperturbable air, merely nodding at me politely, and indicating that I should follow him, before turning on his heel and striding rapidly back in the direction he came from.