Martin's suits are surprisingly heavy, and I am carrying two of them, plus a week's worth of shirts, and a tie that he had referred to as soiled despite the fact that I couldn't see a mark on it. By the time I get to the Dry Cleaners, my arms are a bit tired but I've only myself to blame. Martin had left me a couple of crisp fivers for a taxi but, stubbornly, I'd decided some fresh air and exercise would do me good. So, in what was not my only bad decision of the day, I'd walked for over a mile in my new boots and though, initially, I'd been thrilled by them, by the time I got to Bayswater Road, a hint of regret had begun to set in.
With cramp in my instep, and calves as tight as drums, I grit my teeth for the last hundred yards. Fortunately, an old man holds the door open for me and I stagger the few steps to the counter before depositing my carrier bags, dramatically, in a pretty impressive heap upon the broad expanse of stainless steel. While I waited to be served, I'd turned to smile at everyone a bit self-consciously, only to gasp as it hit me; that distinctive odour with its slight steaminess and that vague acridity, condensing into heavy little pockets of vapour, clinging to the back of your throat and staying with you for ages afterward.
Once again I'm aware of it, and I smile to myself as there's no one to point it out to; the strange phenomenon that dry cleaners assistants all seem to be cut from the same cloth, if you'll excuse the pun. Perhaps it's the effect of the fumes, or maybe it's the constant barrage of noise that gets to them or, probably, its having to spend eight hours a day feigning enthusiasm for the endless procession of dirty clothes, mucky bed linen and mouldy curtains that must come through that door each day. And, as I stand in the queue, smiling pleasantly, I add managing the demands of the rude and demanding customers ahead of me as yet another horrible part of the poor laundress' job.
For some reason, today, I seem to have struck rush hour in the stinky, steamy world of dry cleaning but even the growing congregation of impatient clientele fails to prompt any sort of urgency in the woman behind the counter. With her thin fringe plastered to her forehead and her hair limp and lank, I do feel sorry for her though, having to work in an environment like this. When it is finally my turn to be served, there's no subtlety in the look she gives me as I hand over Martin's things and spell out his name. Knowing how fussy he is and especially since I've a fair idea that, as a collection, this small selection of his clothing is worth probably more than everything I own, I am a bit anxious actually, acutely conscious that Martin has entrusted me with their care.
"You will be careful with the tie, won't you?" I ask breathlessly, grimacing at her hopefully, but she doesn't even look up from her task, ignoring me pointedly as she scrawls Ellingham across her dog-eared receipt book. "It's just that it's a particularly nice one and…"
"And when do you wish to collect?" She interrupts disinterestedly, placing her closed fists on the desk and looking up at me, her expression weary and vaguely contemptuous, tapping her biro quite crossly as she speaks.
Before I can answer, I'm bumped from behind. A woman carrying what appears to be an enormous folded quilt has shuffled aside to create space for another customer and inadvertently almost knocked me off balance. Fumbling, I drop my purse and, with barely enough space to bend and retrieve it, I startle as the phone begins to ring, a harsh amplified klaxon that sounds like it signals an impending nuclear attack. After I pull myself up from the floor, I can only wait, carefully examining the hem of my jacket, determined to be patient, and quite relieved actually that Martin isn't here, having to endure this too. Pressed against the counter and with nowhere to move to, like me, he'd simply have no choice but to stand here like a lemon and await her attention. The thought of his reaction, his firm-lipped, narrow-eyed, impotent fury makes me suddenly snort through my nose.
As the beam across the entry door buzzes once more, and everyone wiggles self-consciously about, attempting to create space when there is none, the shop assistant replaces the receiver, and repeats her question to me flatly, her expression now noticeably more harried than fatigued.
"Umm, next Thursday please, you know, if that suits." I say loudly, trying to make myself heard over the sharp steaming hiss of a machine that has just started up in earnest.
"WHAT?" She barks back at me, squinting her eyes and glaring at me and, somewhat shamefully, I feel as if I'm being a bit of a nuisance.
"THURSDAY!" I shout, almost apologetically. "MY DAY OFF!"
Thankfully, as quickly as it started, the cacophony behind her abates but not before I have bellowed out at her, rather madly actually, like a stressed-out cow separated from its newborn calf.
"My day off from college." I add lamely, pointing half-heartedly over my shoulder. "But, I'm still studying…you know…just at home…"
"Aren't you the lucky one." She says, and she sniffs. "Will there be anything else?"
I feel myself prickle with embarrassment, my face colours and, I shake my head, almost manically.
"Umm, no…" I say, attempting to take the ticket from her without looking at her, and only succeeding in dropping it on the counter in the process.
I barely have an opportunity to retrieve it before I am unceremoniously shunted sideways, almost lifted from my feet by a man carrying an enormous armful of uniforms. I attempt to thank her but my cry of appreciation is muffled as a scrum of impatient customers surges forward. Ducking sideways, I attempt to turn around, intent upon elbowing my way toward the door, snatching my handbag up onto my shoulder and stuffing this week's dry cleaning docket deeply into the side zip compartment. Later, I will think about this moment quite frequently, and of course I will wonder how things might have been different. It's only natural to wish I'd been looking where I was going or, most heartfelt of all, to regret that I had even been there at all. But nothing can now change the fact that I looked up too late to avoid the collision. And nothing will alter my total dismay it was him.
My first reaction should have been to carry on. I should have flipped my sunglasses down from the top of my head and simply ignored him, sweeping past him imperiously in the frequently observed, haughty manner of the man I love. But, instead, a chance encounter freezes me to the spot. I stand, staring back into eyes that seem darker than I remember, and I find myself thinking rather dementedly that he's actually shorter than I recall too, and his face is somehow so much thinner. I feel his hand on my arm and, instinctively, I shrug it away as, thankfully, I finally get my wits about me.
"Oh, good lord…Fair Louisa!" He gasps, his voice reedy and incredulous, as if he was hamming it up in a really bad radio play. "Could it really be you?"
I recall that tone instantly and it takes only a second longer for an explosion of humiliation to blaze rampantly across my skin, rendering me a fiery shade of red from crown to heel. If I could have rushed from the shop I would have and, in hindsight, I definitely should have. All it would have taken was for me to duck my head, drop my shoulder and I might have been able to barge past him and out into the glorious freedom of the street. But, instead, we stare at each other for what seems like ages, with my heart thundering in my ears, all the while I wonder, incredulously, what it was about him I ever found attractive.
"Andrew." I say eventually, in a strangled voice that I don't recognise. "Umm, hi…"
"So, how are you? You look brilliant, I must say!" He yelps, earnestly, and then, to my disgust, he giggles; a depressingly familiar sound, that ridiculous, infantile evasion that makes me cringe as I recall how I had once even imagined it charming.
The cheek of him to laugh, as if nothing ever happened! And I mean, if that wasn't effrontery enough, he doesn't even attempt subtlety as he looks me up and down. It's such a horrible thought that, really self-consciously, I pull my jacket across my chest, instantly regretting my choice of neckline and the tightness of my skirt. I think I was always just an object, a piece of meat to him, and the way I'd felt when I realised I'd been discarded, well, it all comes flooding horribly back. The shame and the humiliation is still there, and I feel sickened, and angry, too and now intent only on trying to place as much distance between the two of us as I possibly can. I smile at him, coldly and mirthlessly, and attempt to get past.
Undeterred, he simply takes a swaggering step towards me and a broad grin spreads across his face; a cocky, shameless expression of confidence, as if that whole, awful afternoon never happened. I'm torn between slapping him and running away as fast as my heels will allow me.
"Do you live around here now?" He asks rapidly, and there's an eagerness, a huskiness to his tone that makes me uncomfortable.
"Stupid question, I suppose. I mean, people don't usually go miles out of their way to go to the dry cleaners, do they?" He adds quickly, before I can answer, and I'm struck by how talkative and excited his speech is, and how casual he is in talking to me, as if he's totally oblivious to the fact that there are always going to be repercussions when your behaviour is as callous as his was.
"I don't know." I reply in a non-committal tone, and I find myself lifting my chin and staring back at him coolly, as I now contemplate asking him, up front, just what the bloody hell he thought he was playing at back then.
"Well, I suppose other people might but the question is, really, would you?" He interrupts, giggling again and rubbing his nose with the back of his hand, like some snotty-nosed kid. "I mean, would you really come a long way out of your way just to drop off dry-cleaning, even if there was a lot of it, which there was, wasn't there? Oh, by Jove, look at your face. I'm really not making any sense am I?"
He's garbling now, and I almost feel sorry for him in a strange sort of way, because leering glances aside, he's actually really feeble and cringeworthy. He sniffs a couple of times and wipes his nose again, this time on his palm, one final disgusting act that makes me shake my head at him, without caring if he sees the distaste on my face, or if my curtness will hurt his feelings. Everyone has their battles in life to fight, everyone has baggage that they have to carry around, but some people just have the strength of character to defy all sorts of odds, whereas others, like Andrew, just seem to become blaggers or barnacles, all spineless and fake.
"I have to go." I tell him icily and, instantly, he leaps toward the door, flinging it open, and holding it for me as I pass in front of him, as if there were any possible way he might convince me, retrospectively, that he is a gentleman.
"Join me for a drink?" I hear him ask, as shameless as ever. "My round…"
For a split second I consider stopping; I picture myself turning around, in front of a shop full of thwarted, disgruntled women, middle-aged and middle-class, with their blonde bobs and their flowery macs, and telling Andrew exactly what I think of him. Would they look away embarrassed, or would they mentally cheer me on I wonder, if I stabbed my finger at him, and threw all his failures back in his smirking, sharp-featured face? And what of his other limitations? His ineptitude and unreliability, is there a point to highlighting those? I mean, as satisfying as it would be, would it make the slightest bit of difference to him if he was aware of how endlessly disappointing he was?
His hand is now on my arm, and I'm aware of a pinching sensation as his long thin fingers clutch at my flesh. As I shrug him off, I'm surprised that I'm experiencing no other sensations, not even revulsion, and that's when it dawns on me; Andrew never was capable of actually making me feel anything physically, not then and certainly not now.
"Louisa?" He calls out, almost as if he's incredulous that I'd walk away.
Was he always that arrogant, always that obtuse? I feel myself frown as I try and recall. But the truth is, I'm barely able to remember how it felt to be with him at all, other than a few irritating recollections that spring to mind; the fact he giggled more than a grown man should, and talked like a bit-part actor in some late night BBC4 farce; camp, affected, and insincere. It was a million years ago as far as I am concerned, a lifetime away, when I was a different person, a mere shadow of who I am now. The current Louisa, more cynical and worldly-wise, with a far healthier self-esteem, just wants to dismiss him, because he doesn't matter now, and he shouldn't have mattered then.
"Sorry, lots to do…" I call out over my shoulder, quickening my pace, feeling a tiny pang of anxiety as I glance back and realise he's following me.
On the spur of the moment, I duck down the stairs to Paddington Station, merging into the mass of commuters and making my way hastily to the ladies loos. It's not the most pleasant of places to hide but, in my flustered state, it is the best I could come up with. It wasn't helped by the fact that I could see his reflection in the shop windows, not lagging too far behind but, most disturbingly, not gaining on me either. Standing at the basins, I brush my hair and touch up my eyeliner, before I loiter for a while by the towel rolls, one foot up against the wall, chewing on my lip, and trying to look inconspicuous.
I don't know how many times I glanced at my watch but, as the seconds hand crawled around the dial, it always felt too soon to venture out. As I thought about it, it started to seem just a bit disturbing and I began to consider the odds. I mean, what were the chances I'd run into him again? I did feel a bit stupid, mind you. Not only had I almost forgotten he lived around here, but I'd never even considered that I might encounter him again by chance, especially and rather ironically in a dry cleaners. It could only have been a coincidence that I bumped into him, and there really wasn't anything to worry about. He was too disorganised and too shambolic for any of it to have been deliberate. He'd probably just been as taken aback as I was, probably worse actually, since he really ought to have a guilty conscience. Besides if he didn't even want to contact me then, when he had the chance, why on earth would he want to bother with me now?
Casting a quick glance at myself in the mirror, I make my way out into the cold, draughty building. I'd made quite an effort before I'd left the flat and I just needed a bit of reassurance that I was still presentable. Wearing my favourite black dress, even as plain as it is, it's hardly the appropriate attire for hanging around in a railway station loo. Of all the places to end up when it still feels crucial that I make a good impression, it's so unfortunate, it's almost funny. Sighing and fixing a smile to my face, and with the unpleasant events of the last hour having been more or less rationalised in my mind, I try and compose myself for what lies ahead.
It's the way of the world I suppose but, as third year, I often feel impossibly old as I make my way around college. It's taken a bit of adjusting now that everyone seems so young and fresh-faced. The way they dress is different, even the music they listen to on their portable stereos in the Quad is often unfamiliar to me. The posters on the walls advertise bands I've never heard of and gigs I won't attend. Illegal raves and taking pills seem to be just the way it is and, as I refuse another flier from being pushed into my hand, I couldn't help but feel as if my youth has been and gone. Yet earlier, as I chose my outfit, I was intent on presenting myself as the epitome of maturity and sophistication and, along with that, hoping to give the impression of an elegance I still don't quite believe I possess.
Surprisingly, I'm only a tiny bit late when I eventually step tentatively through the hospital doors. I've walked quickly, no mean feat in my new winter boots but, as much as I still think they're brilliant, with their long, black expanse of suede right up to my knees, the heels have just starting to rub and I am relieved that I'm finally here. Reception is as busy as ever and, as I look casually around for Martin's familiar towering figure, I'm resigned to a reprimand. Whatever look he gives me, however much he folds his arms and cocks his eyebrow at me, I am quite resolved not to admit the reason for my tardiness. The more I'd thought about it, the more it makes sense not to mention it, for lots of reasons really but mainly because tonight is for him, and I couldn't bear to be the one to spoil that. Laughing things off is not his forte, so finding amusement in a vaguely disturbing encounter with a slightly manic ex-boyfriend is just a bit too much to hope for, even in our softer, more vulnerable moments.
Before I am even half way to our designated meeting place, I hear a cheerful shout; my name rings out above the dull hum of conversation and I spin around in surprise, delighted if not somewhat surprised, to recognise Martin's friend Chris as he strides enthusiastically toward me, his round, shiny face split into a jubilant smile. With the top button of his shirt undone, and his tie askew, he looks like a bit like a dishevelled schoolboy as he draws me into hug, as if we are reunited old friends. As I pull away, I smile at him happily and he takes hold of both my hands, gazing at me intently.
"Louisa." He repeats breathily. "It really is lovely to see you again."
"Hello Chris! Great to see you too!" I cry, as he finally lets go of me but continues to stare at me somewhat eagerly. "I'm supposed to meet Martin but I can't see him anywhere…"
"Yes! I know!" He says, removing his glasses and jamming them hastily into the gaping pockets of his trousers.
I smile to myself, recalling Martin's observation that a failure of a garment's tensile strength is directly attributable to the wearer spending far too much time with their hands thrust deep into those compartments that are not designed for the purpose. That, and slouching, and inferior quality fabric, apparently, in his considered opinion. He had a point though and I will concede that I find most, if not all, the men I encounter in my day to day life appear somewhat scruffy when compared to my immaculate Martin. But what he lacks in presentation, Chris makes up for in kindness, and I'm already remembering why I took to him so quickly when we first met.
"Actually, Martin sent me to get you." He adds, taking my elbow lightly and guiding me toward the lifts. "He found himself detained by the Dean and he was really anxious about that, quite terrified in fact that you would be waiting down here, worried and not knowing where he was…."
"Really? Did Martin say that?" I ask, slightly incredulously, my tone more cynical than I intended.
He presses the button on the lift and turns to me, a sly little smile hovering about his lips.
"Not exactly, but I'd finally extracted from him that you would be coming along tonight." He says cheerfully, his eyes twinkling merrily as he gazes back at me. "And, after watching him spend the last ten minutes looking forlornly at the door, staring intently over the Chief's shoulder, like a hopeful Labrador tied up outside the butcher's, I finally put two and two together."
The idea makes me laugh out loud and my spirits are high as the lift doors close behind us. The thought of Martin waiting for me, being happy to to see me, is encouraging enough but that Chris noticed is somehow even more invigorating.
"To be honest with you Chris, he only admitted me last night that they were even holding a function for him. And, even then, he insisted he wasn't going."
Chris shakes his head, and glances around the lift in a sort of mock frustration, beaming at me, literally smiling so hard that I fear his shiny red cheeks will split, like cherries after rain.
"Always consistent, that's our Mart." He says cordially. "Anyway, I'm very glad you could come at such short notice. And not just for Martin's sake!"
I smile, and nod at him. Another little expression of reassurance, another hint that I belong in this world. I feel a lovely kind of warmth seep through me and I sigh, heavily, in a contented sort of way.
"Where are you living these days?" Chris asks pleasantly. "You were in Belgravia weren't you? I'm sure Helen said you were a Sloane Ranger"
I laugh out loud and shake my head gently. I couldn't imagine any description further from the truth.
"Hardly! The only thing posh about our flat was the postcode! Not that it matters though, because I don't live there anymore."
"Oh? So where are you now?" He says, raising his eyebrows at me inquisitively, an expression that makes him look like a friendly hamster.
I grimace back at him, feeling quite awkward actually, as my mind frantically attempts to make sense of the question. And I wonder why Martin hasn't told him, how can he not have even mentioned our new living arrangements to the bloke I thought we both considered his best mate? Chris stares at me hopefully and my jaw goes slack momentarily as I grapple with what Martin might expect me to say.
"Umm, I moved in with Martin, Chris." I say slowly. "We've been living together a while now… at his flat."
His eyebrows resume their usual position and he smiles at me, and nods, his cheerful demeanour not entirely successful in hiding his slightly glassy eyes and confused expression.
"That sounds like Mart. Playing his cards close to his chest as always." He replies jovially, after a moment, as if we are indulgent parents discussing our difficult child. "And, fair's fair, we haven't spoken much recently. I only came up this morning and, from what I've seen anyway, poor sod's spent most of the day having his ears chewed off by the big wigs…"
"Oh god, he'll just love that." I say lightly, allowing my shoulders to slump, and staggering for a few steps as I buckle theatrically at the knee.
"Yes…indeed." Chris agrees, glancing at me thoughtfully as he chuckles in agreement. "And, it's ridiculous really, because there's no doubt they have left their run too late."
The lift doors open and I step out into an unfamiliar foyer. A long corridor lies ahead of us, rather empty, and ominous too in that way you feel you're somewhere you shouldn't, or you're in a familiar place at an unfamiliar time. Unlike the other parts of the hospital I've visited, up here, the walls are completely clear of flyers and notices. Instead they are lined with noble portraits and historical photographs and even, here and there, the occasional plaque. Up here, my heels don't clatter loudly against the flooring, nor do they echo embarrassingly along the deserted hallway. Up here, there is wall to wall carpet, a sea of grey and pink triangles, a geometry lesson as far as the eye can see. Where every other surface in the building is simply hygienic and durable, the only requirement here seems to be a floor soft and spongy enough to cushion the step of even the heaviest of the Top Brass. In these heels, as the lining abrades against my flesh, I feel like I'm walking in burning sand.
"What do you mean?" I ask him as he holds out his arm to direct me.
Chris lets out a long, thoughtful groan.
"Hmm." He says, and he lowers his voice. "What I mean is, I don't think the board ever really believed he'd move on. I think they assumed, with his family associations etcetera, that his bond with the place was unbreakable."
"Right." I say, as if I understand when I don't, not entirely.
Anytime I discover a little bit more about him, it just seems to reveal a greater gulf in what I do know. By family ties I presume he means that Martin's dad worked here too and, I don't know, perhaps even the famous Henry. But, even with my limited understanding of Martin's career, I would be confident that an association with Henry would have forged stronger links to this place than any loyalty his father might have engendered.
"And now, I think they've realised he's slipped through their fingers and panic has set in." Chris says, shaking his head in disbelief. "I can only imagine the state of emergency in the board room when they finally took their heads out of their own arses and realised they'd lost him, to Imperial of all places."
I stop suddenly and reach for Chris' arm, to stop him too. I need to speak to him before we get to wherever we are going because I've had some thoughts, too, on this move but I've previously been unable to form them into any sort of coherent questions. And Chris is so clever, and connected, and approachable, and Martin trusts him. This might be my only chance to voice my concern.
"What do you think, Chris? I mean, is it the right move for him?" I ask breathlessly, gazing at him intently, watching his face for any sort of revealing tremor or tic.
"Why do you ask that? He's not expressing doubts already?" Chris replies carefully.
"No, he seems totally committed, you know what he's like." I reassure him fervently, cringing a little inside at the return of something familiar; that unpleasant sense of disloyalty I experience whenever I discuss Martin with anyone. "It's just that, you know, he absolutely loves being a surgeon. He loves surgery, I see it every day, he lives and breathes it. And I love that he has that passion for it, that it drives him every day to become the best he can be…"
"He's always been like that…." Chris rejoins thoughtfully, as his hands go back into his trouser pockets.
"Yeah, I'm sure, and I suppose that's what worries me a bit. I mean, you know, correct me if I'm wrong but I've sort of got the impression that, in the Imperial role, there won't be as much…action, I 'spose, for want of a better word. And, from the brief discussions we've had, it seems it's more research based, with a lot more teaching, with mostly just elective surgeries to perform. And I'm concerned I 'spose, that it might not be enough for him. That he'll end up dissatisfied. Chris, and I'd so hate him to regret it…"
"Let me make it clear, I do see your point." He says slowly, looking up at me and holding my gaze. "But, trust me Louisa, if he does ever get to the point where he regrets his decision, he'd only have to mention it to someone like Bernard Newton and he'd have every institution in the UK knocking on his door…"
"Really?"
"Yes, absolutely. I mean, in the sort of environment Mart exists in, the upper echelons, among the superior surgeons that strut about in vascular, and neurosurgery and cardiology and the like, you'll find they don't bandy about the expression 'Golden Touch' lightly. But almost since day one, almost as long as I've known him, Mart's had that little reference attached to his name…"
"He doesn't ever talk about things like that, to be honest. I only hear those sorts of plaudits from you. And his Auntie Joan." I say, flashing him a rueful smile.
"I know I like to call him an arrogant sod, but, truth is, he's never been one for blowing his own trumpet. He likes to let his work speak for itself." He says, and he takes a few steps again. "But there's a part of me that thinks that, for Martin, this might actually be a really brilliant career move."
Oh?" I reply, feeling suddenly quite heartened. "What exactly do you mean?"
"Well, just that being a surgeon is complicated and demanding enough as it is but I fear it's even worse for Mart, you know, with his reputation, because he does get asked to look at a lot of really difficult cases. Patients that other consultants wouldn't touch, for all sorts of reasons. And, from what I've seen, that means he experiences even more pressure than normal in what is already a high pressure environment. Almost every time he picks up the scalpel these days, it's a life or death situation."
"Chris, he doesn't tell me any of this. I had no idea."
"I wouldn't worry about him Louisa. From what I hear, he copes admirably." He says cheerfully, before pausing in front of a large impressive set of double doors. "But I've seen so many others burn out that I admit it has concerned me. So, the idea of him taking on a role like this, where he can be brilliant and innovative without being up to his elbows in blood and guts, well, frankly, I can only see it as being a good thing."
I smile at him gratefully. Chris does seem to have a way of putting people at ease, that doesn't require him to sugar coat everything, or to treat me like I'm a child.
"Thanks Chris." I blurt out. "You're a really good friend."
Again, he chuckles, slightly more self-consciously perhaps than before.
"It's quite nice to think that I have someone else to share the responsibility with now. Keeping an eye on him for the last ten or so years has been quite a strain…" He says, his eyes twinkling.
I laugh lightheartedly but the reality is, I'm actually a tiny bit thrilled. There have been times in my life when I've felt so discouraged, so disconnected and really quite alone. But if anything is testament to the fact that, 'chin up, you just have to get on with things', then this conversation, in this place, on this occasion is it. I reach into my bag and feel around for my lipstick, rapidly applying a new layer with a couple of deft swipes. According to Cosmopolitan, being able to put lipstick on without looking is a sure sign of attaining serious womanhood. That and enjoying olives, and a whole lot of other things I can't quite recall now.
"Is it serious then, you and Mart?" He asks, matter-of-factly, out of nowhere.
"Yes, I hope so." I reply, before I've even had a chance to think about an answer.
My voice comes out as some odd baritone, deep and throaty like Greta Garbo or even Divine, and when I realise what I've said, I'm momentarily stuck dumb, unable to either qualify or elaborate any further. It's like I've been turned to stone by the earnestness of my own response, at the confession of something out loud that I've even been reluctant to admit to even in the privacy of my own mind. Holding my gaze, he nods his head, his expression thoughtful but not displeased. He has nice blue eyes, bright, sparkly and quite kind, and I watch as he fishes around in his pockets, searching for his glasses before placing them, rather solemnly, back onto his nose.
"That's good." He says, as his face breaks slowly into a smile. "Very good. Now, you ready?"
"Yes." I tell him, my tone slightly disbelieving, even a bit cocky, as if the pretence of youthful confidence will outweigh any of the nerves I might be starting to feel.
He inclines his head at me, a gesture that makes him look like a curious owl, and reaches for the door, groaning as he pushes his shoulder against it. Poor Chris, he's certainly not been blessed with an athletic physique and, not for the first time, I think I might just be a bit spoilt. I mean, you love the person, don't you, you love what's inside of them? But, still, there's an awful lot to be said for having a hulking great muscular body to cuddle yourself up to.
"Fair warning, Louisa, it is literally teeming with testosterone in here, a lot of very large egos bumping in to one another." He says, sotto voce, as I pass. "It can be quite amusing to observe when you're not in the thick of it but no doubt you will work that out for yourself…"
Just a glimpse inside reveals a bigger room than I expected, and the number of attendees is even more of a surprise. That Martin actually considered not even even turning up for his own farewell makes me smirk with disbelief, and I shake my head. All I could think of, when he informed me, was how breathtakingly rude that would be of him, and I was honestly taken aback by how adamant he was that the whole function was a pointless waste of time. And now it seems that half of Harley Street have found their way here today, a room heaving with confronting intellect and half-round bi-focals. Taking a deep breath, and resisting the temptation to bite on my lip, I step inside.
I stand for a split second in the doorway, casting my eyes around the room, assailed by a cacophony of clipped vowels and received pronunciation. As the dull droning of the conversation momentarily abates, and every face in the room seems to turn in my direction, in the grey, heavy silence he is suddenly as prominent as Nelson's column, looming like a beacon amongst a sea of pinstripes and monogrammed cufflinks. He lifts his chin and looks across at me, barely a flicker of acknowledgment passing across his face and yet I feel a delicious flush of excitement, a tiny little electrical surge that makes him instantly and rather madly irresistible. I flash him a quick encouraging smile, and probably less than a few seconds elapse but, it's long enough to have that feeling again, that there are only the two of us in this room.
I had come in the knowledge that I should expect some scrutiny and I'm aware that people are looking at me now. Abandoning my chaperone to his own devices, I give in to the familiar magnetism that lures me to the opposite corner of the room, squeezing through gaps in the crowd, nodding and smiling at those who might greet me, but not pausing, not loitering, simply intent on securing a place at his side. The faces that glance at me as I pass are unfamiliar and their expressions are curious, or startled or even, here and there, a little bit leery. And though it's hardly befitting the supposed rank and superiority of these men, it's certainly no worse than I'd experienced in any crowded pub on a raucous Saturday night.
I feel a hand on my shoulder and there's a sense of restraint in its grip. I turn around, expecting to see Chris in my wake, but I'm confronted by a face I know I've met before; his skin so pale as to be almost translucent, his white blonde hair appearing like peach fuzz across the rounded dome of his head.
"Well, well, well, if it isn't the lovely Juliet, come to witness the canonisation of your Romeo, have we?"
"I'm sorry?" I bark at him incredulously, rolling my shoulder vigorously so he relinquishes his grip. "Who are you?"
"Ben Dixon, colleague of Ellingham's." He replies, fixing me with a disconcerting reptilian stare. "You may recall that we were introduced at Christopher's farewell.."
Though I'd never give him the satisfaction of acknowledging that I remembered him, I'm determined to be polite, if only for Martin's sake. After all, wasn't it me that told Martin in no uncertain terms that he must be here tonight, despite knowing how much he found the idea abhorrent? Despite the fact I'm starting to understand the reason he feels so uncomfortable about social occasions? I mean, hadn't I spent this morning reading strategies for improving the classroom experience for introverted children? The last thing he needs is for me to make a spectacle of myself in front of his peers, to draw any more attention to him that which he already suffers.
"Oh right." I reply, careful to strip any enthusiasm from my voice, and taking half a step backwards as the intensity of his stare now starts to get a bit creepy.
"I wasn't even sure if you were still in the picture. I mean, what has it been? Two, three months? That's a very long time indeed to put up with someone like Ellingham."
I shake my head at him, aghast at what I'm actually hearing. Is this the sort of banter that goes on between professional men? It's more like the sort of nastiness you expect from teenage girls, or disparaging flatmates. But, if I wasn't so incensed, I think I'd probably be quite intimidated by him, the inflection in his voice, the way his cold stare seems to go right through my clothes, the feeling I have that, if there was no one else around, he's not the sort to take no for an answer.
"You know, you don't have a bloody clue what you're talking about, actually." I snap at him, tartly, conscious as I speak that I'm a little bit trembly, and that my accent is suddenly almost impenetrable, about as thick as it's ever been. "And, you know, I don't think it's any of your business anyway…"
His eyes narrow and his tone changes again as his pale pasty face begins to show a hint of colour. How is it that most of the men in this room have skin the colour of asparagus grown in the dark, yet Martin appears always to sort of bask in a pale gold light, glowing and robust? I glance around hopefully but he is nowhere in sight.
"Forgive me if I find it impossible to imagine Ellingham whispering the sort of sweet nothings you'd want to hear, never mind doing whatever it is you want him to do. " He says, with a mirthless chuckle, staring at me closely, as if he doesn't not want to miss any of my reaction. "I mean, we all know the man's a cyborg…"
Inside, I wince at his words, feeling like I've been slapped, a stinging sensation that won't go away, and inexplicably, I think of Danny, chasing me through his mother's house with a rolled up wet tea-towel, flicking it at me remorselessly until I'd had to scream at him to leave me alone. Looking back now, I realise it wasn't quite right and, also too, that the man in front of me is, in his own way, similarly sadistic. I think I'd considered him just another lecherous middle-aged man, obnoxious and full of his own importance, but he now seems really mean-spirited, malicious even and so, as much as I'd quite like to get away, it seems suddenly crucial that I don't leave him with any sense of triumph over me. I think perhaps I've had quite enough of blokes like him today, thinking I owe them something, thinking their opinion is the only thing that matters.
"Do you know what the definition of irony is then, Ben, hmm?" I interrupt sharply, my voice now a condescending hiss. "I'd say it was you, actually, being scornful about what sort of partner Martin is when, every time I've met you, you're always on your own…"
"You should calm down, my dear." He replies quickly, smiling at me, his lips so thin and pale that they are almost invisible. "I'm simply verbalising what every man in this room is thinking…"
"Then you should stop verbalising, Ben." I suggest to him coldly, determined not to look away or back down or even let him have the last word. "Otherwise you might come across as…oh I don't know…pathetically jealous or something."
Even as I watch him silently turn and walk away, I'm too wound up to feel victorious. It's suddenly got a lot warmer in this meeting room, despite its high ceilings and the coolness of the evening air outside. I take off my jacket, wrestling with it a little in the confined space, wary that I might inadvertently punch some poor unsuspecting colleague of Martin's in my struggle to be free of it. When finally I'm successful, I'm a bit disoriented, as the crowd appears to have thickened but, immediately, I hear the cheerful voice of my rescuer as he appears at my shoulder.
"Sorry about that." Chris says brightly. "Some of these PCT fellows are never off the clock. You'd better come with me. Time we put Mart out of his misery I think.."
I follow in his wake, a bit upset, and breathing heavily, yet marvelling at his ability to make everyone feel important, to feel as if he's delighted to see them, just by the tone and inflection he uses to say their names. It's a skill I admire greatly and one I'd like to acquire for myself. I imagine the classroom I will one day be in charge of, and the environment I want to create, remembering how important it was as a child to feel like I was visible. Even when things were just horrible at home, a teacher who believed in you could make all the difference in the world.
And a boyfriend too, who thinks you have some ability, the intelligence to pursue tertiary education, though he wasn't my boyfriend as such when he made the observation, not in his mind anyway. His back is to me now but I can tell by the tilt of his head that he's seen me, by the ducking of his chin that he realises I'm there. That broad, navy-blue clad expanse of shoulder seems to draw me closer but the air around Martin is somehow constrained. Three men are lined up in front of him; shrewd and bespectacled and clearly commanding of his attention. The discussion is robust and, while their opinions quite forceful, Martin says nothing, the only indicator of his impatience are the tightly closed fists at his sides.
Chris glances at me suggestively, grimacing slightly and raising his eyebrows, inclining his head in the direction of the bar. I don't know if it's because I'm tired, or it's been a day of unpleasant confrontations but I'm definitely not inclined to go anywhere. He slips away but I stay perfectly still, biting my lip as I hear Martin speak, his voice a low, ominous rumble, and I realise I'm not the only one tonight in a mood for stinging retorts. As I listen, his defence sounds like a sub machine gun, directing barb after barb, yet delivered all with a rather terrifyingly calm demeanour. Bed shortages, rosters, technology investment, even the standard of nutrition in the cafeteria, nothing escapes his critical eye and, when the old men remonstrate with him, try to assuage him, or worse still, attempt to talk down to him, the tension in him becomes palpable, and closer to release.
He squares his shoulders, and his hands slip behind his back, gripping his own wrist ferociously as if his own efforts to control his anger and frustration are simply immense. His tone becomes curt, and what is left of his patience evaporates with every pointless reference they make; the historical association of his family to the hospital, his mother, and her much-lauded fundraising efforts, how loyal his father was to the board. Knowing just a little of his parents makes me ache for him, knowing how he must be be feeling inside. I'm torn too; while I want desperately to grab the silly old buggers and shake them, and rage against their piteous arguments, I'm also driven quite ferociously to take Martin by the arm and simply drag him away from here.
I can see his jaw clench and his eyes are starting to narrow. His white collar is as usual immaculate, such a crisp and striking contrast with the dark navy of his suit and the brilliant gold of his closely trimmed hair. For some reason, it reminds me of the beach in summer; the deep water, the clouds, and the sun. I can sense they are desperate now and he knows it too, as a sneer forms about his mouth, rejecting their latest offer, a larger office with a microwave, and a designated parking space. For some reason it infuriates me that they really don't know anything about him; they simply can't do or they'd understand how set in stone his principles are.
And I really wouldn't expect anything else from him. I'm proud of his staunch resistance in the face of such an assault, the firm grip he has on his own dignity and his utter rejection of ever going back on his word. I suppose his strength of character, and his commitment to personal ethics have always been something I've found really attractive and it's no different now, in fact it's probably more intense than ever. My life has been populated by too many unreliable people,Martin refers to them as those who lurk in moral ambivalence, oblivious to the collateral damage of their freewheeling ways.
He shifts his weight very slightly and flexes the fingers of his free hand and, more than anything, I want to throw my arms around him. I want to run my hands over his hair and pull his mouth down to mine. I want him so desperately to know that I love him, and I want everyone else here, this sea of shallow, boring, ordinary men, to know it too. Yet I am paralysed, knowing so well how much any sort of public embrace would be just too far outside his strict behavioural parameters. But it's my fault he's here, my fault he's been subject to this relentless tirade when I know he'd be so much happier having a quiet night at home. The pull of him is so strong though that I reach out my arm, knowing I could easily touch his hand, except I don't, instead my fingers levitate above his and it's like I'm floating in a weird sort of force field, unable to move or react.
And then I feel it, with the gasping intensity of a shock, a sting or a burn, turning my legs turn to jelly and causing my heart to wildly race. It shouldn't be anything really but, in fact, it's like nuclear fission, as his little finger curls around mine, gently initially and then with ferocious energy, the breathless intensity of a desperate childhood pinky promise, gripping me as firmly as if we were the only two links on a very tight chain. His skin feels so smooth yet his touch has so much intent, and suddenly I am anchored again; reassured, restored and made to feel safe. The old men sputter on, oblivious, and everyone else around us breathes in and out in their humdrum, common or garden way, but not Martin and me. What we have is remarkable, extraordinary even, and i know we share that thought, and perhaps we're even elevated by it, as we stand there in an intense, almost rhapsodic moment of silent accord.