"We're here! Unfashionably on time, as requested!"

I feel my whole body instantly deflate, my chin hits my chest and I pause at the door, gripping the handle with fierce disappointment. Frustration instantly becomes fury, and I rage internally, crushed that my own vehement insistence on punctuality, my complete lack of foresight and, especially, my demeaning need of assistance has resulted in yet another impediment; another precious opportunity to spend a moment alone with Louisa, thwarted.

Cursing under my breath, I press the button that releases the street door, suggesting curtly to Chris he find his own way up the stairs, as I wrack my brain, unsuccessfully, for the name of his pleasant, yet unremarkable, fiancée. If Louisa were here, she would remember, I think to myself irritably, and I sigh heavily as an idea reveals itself to me. Somewhat hazily, I glimpse something; a vague possibility, the merest chance, an entry into a new dimension. A more secure place where perhaps at least one my many shortcomings might be alleviated by her warmth and interest, my own inadequacy ameliorated by her seemingly boundless effervescence. The realisation brings the return of the all too familiar ache, and I glance at my watch and wonder where she is.

"Got the bubbly on ice, Mart?" Chris shouts, his voice distorted and sibilant through the speaker, but still noticeably optimistic.

"No, of course not." I growl scathingly, and I feel the return of a ferocious scowl, the badge of exasperation that I've been wearing for the last fortnight.

I leave the door ajar and march testily into the kitchen, frustrated by the need for every social event to seemingly be lubricated by copious quantities of alcohol. I recall that I have a bottle of Dom Perignon that Aunt Ruth sent me when I graduated, but it's certainly not chilled, nor will it be in time, even if I refrigerate it now. I'm aggravated further by the fact that I appear to have misread the situation, and I'm concerned that Louisa will arrive soon, perhaps with similar expectations. No one mentioned that I was apparently supposed to be hosting some sort of drinks party and I tear open the fridge door, staring at the contents more in hope than expectation.

A noise behind me indicates that Chris has entered the room and I turn around to greet him, reminding myself firmly that he is here to help me, and that my disappointment is all of my own making. He is already pink in the face, a light beading of sweat on his forehead as he saunters into the room, his girlfriend trailing cautiously behind him like a mere after thought. As usual, I am the recipient of his firm and enthusiastic handshake and, it appears, his charitable nature as he immediately introduces her again and now, mercifully, we all know her name is Helen.

I look at the two of them, a plighted couple standing side by side; affianced, betrothed, pledged to one another. Each showing such apparent delight in their respective intended that he has matched his overly large bow tie to the dark green of her dress; a shiny fabric that seems to squeak slightly as she walks, no doubt due to the short, tight manner of its construction, or possibly even the short, yet voluminous sleeves that resemble some sort of bivalve marine mollusc. Is this an unspoken language of commitment that I am unaware of? A relationship solidifier, a way to sartorially pledge ones troth? And, if it is, why do coordinated outfits seem so distasteful to me, so undignified and mawkish; even, I would go so far as to say, embarrassing?

Helen smiles at me, warily, and I nod in reply, glancing momentarily at her without interest. Her expression is familiar to me, I've seen it countless times on the wards, and in theatre often enough as it happens. Cautious, tentative, even possibly intimidated, circling me as if I am a dangerous creature; a wounded bull or a snarling dog. I have to admit that this self-imposed exclusion zone has suited me, and made it easier to keep the world at arm's length. I make little or no effort to provide reassurance or comfort, seldom modifying or softening my outward self for anyone. But I have made one recent, glaring exception and I remind myself that I probably need to make another of this auburn-haired, pale-skinned and slightly fearful looking young woman, if this evening is not going to be completely disastrous.

I clear my throat.

"Can I...ummm...can I get you a drink...?"

"Thought you'd never ask, Mart!" Chris cries gleefully, rubbing his hands together. "What are you offering?"

"Umm, there's a cold chardonnay, and a Riesling I believe..."

"That'll do nicely." He interrupts, beaming at me. "Fancy you having a selection of chilled white wine on hand, I assume we've got Louisa to thank for that?"

I open my mouth to object but he slips past me and, before I have a chance to respond, he has flung open the fridge door with disturbing enthusiasm. I slide open a drawer to retrieve the bottle opener and, as I turn back towards him, there is the loud and distinctive sound of tearing, of strained seams giving way under pressure and, as I look across, Chris is clutching at his shoulder, an expression of horror on his face. Behind me, I hear Helen stifle a laugh, and I groan in irritation as his white shirt is now clearly obvious through the gaping wound in his jacket, starting in his armpit and running up to shoulder seam. As he tentatively moves his arm, it's obvious that the damage is significant.

"I've warned you about your weight gain, Chris." I chide him. "Now look at what has happened. All this could have been avoided with a little more care over your diet and perhaps a little less optimism over what constitutes a well fitting suit..."

"Yes, thank you Mart." He replies cheerfully. "But, possibly, a couple of safety pins would be more use right now I think?"

"Hmm, give it to me." I growl at him, holding my hand out to him like a parent removing a toy from an errant child.

Reluctantly, he removes his jacket and I take it gingerly from him, carrying it on the tip of my finger, holding it at arm's length as if it were some sort of contaminated dressing. I have a travelling sewing kit in my wardrobe and, eschewing his ridiculous suggestion of nappy pins, I intend to undertake some rudimentary stitching in order to secure the split seam well enough that Chris will be presentable for the evening. I turn the jacket inside out and lay it on my bed while I retrieve a needle, and locate a bobbin of black thread. The thickness of the material and the fact that the lining has torn makes the job slightly more complex, and I hasten to my office to fetch several small bulldog clips that I can use to hold the seam in place as I tack it. I hear laughter from the kitchen and I assume that Chris and Helen are enthusiastically working their way through the first bottle while I struggle under the poor light, attempting to sew black on black.

I'm aware of the chinking of glasses, a hum of indiscernible conversation, the clicking of heels on the wooden floors, even the slam of a door; all blurring into insignificance as I struggle to push the needle through the layers of heavy fabric. I pull my handkerchief from my pocket and I fold it over; the required padding between my thumb and the eye of the stubbornly resisting needle which squeaks in protest as I apply the rather significant force required to move it. As I grunt with the concentrated effort, I'm aware that the laughter is suddenly louder and, this time, my head flies up and I hold my breath as I listen. Abruptly, before I'm even aware of what I'm doing, I have snatched up everything in my arms and I'm striding back toward the voices.

For I was not mistaken; Louisa now stands in the living room and I'm stopped abruptly in my tracks, staring breathlessly as Chris slips a glass of wine into her hand and she flashes him a smile so dazzling it hits me in the solar plexus like a roundhouse kick from a Sensei Master. But it's not merely her appearance that has sucked the air from my lungs. I am a small boy again, clinging as desperately to some semblance of hope as I do to the thin pillow that shields my head; isolated, tormented and afraid. It is this same hope that sees me silently imploring the heavens for deliverance, begging anonymous deities for the seemingly impossible; that life might offer me something good. And, for a short time,it became my mantra, a fervently whispered plea; the alleviation of all my unhappiness by a vague notion, the esoteric and gut-wrenchingly absent something good. And, of course, as time went by, I became resigned to the fact that, as difficult and unlikeable as I was, and obviously as unpleasant and unloved as I knew myself to be, I most definitely was not the sort of boy to whom something good was ever going to happen.

Until now, it seems, as she notices me and our eyes meet. My heart rate surges and my mouth is suddenly so dry that all the nervous swallowing in the world doesn't seem to make a difference. It is indeed Louisa, but one I barely recognise, and I realise I am staring at her, beguiled and seduced, and frozen to the spot. She is wearing a dress unlike anything I have ever seen before; cranberry red and highlighted in gold, clinging deliciously to her every curve, shimmering with gilded threads and glittering beads; exotic, alive and incredibly captivating. Her hair is up and the thin straps of the incredible garment in which she is clad only serve to highlight her perfection. She holds my gaze for a moment; so impossibly gorgeous, so divine, so completely out of my league that I feel a sudden stab of fear at my complete and utter unworthiness. There is nothing about me that is, or could ever be, deserving of a woman like Louisa, and it is my turn to be intimidated now.

I can't look away as she takes a couple of steps toward me; the effect of her dress as her body moves beneath it is hypnotic and I'm suddenly dyspnoeic, stupefied and spellbound as I watch her approach. My heart is in my mouth, as she comes closer, but she smiles again, so warm and so sweetly self conscious. Instantly, my unpretentious and endearingly hesitant Louisa is back, and I experience a tremendous surge of emotions, most of which I can at least now identify, self consciously, as components of my love for her.

Of course, feeling about her as I do doesn't alter the fact that her shoes are ridiculously high and she clearly has not heeded my warning on dressing for comfort. I am struggling to disapprove, though, such is the striking effect of her gleaming silhouette, and her long, bare legs. She still holds her glass, and I am clutching Chris' jacket in one hand and the needle in the other so, somewhat self consciously as I feel my guest's eyes upon us, I duck my head and she presses her lips to my cheek, rather chastely. I swallow hard. Her closeness, even momentarily, is incredibly distracting.

"Hi Martin." She says, and the split second she lingers with her free hand on my arm seems irrationally provocative.

"Hello." I reply softly. "Umm, I was...I have to do some...ahh...running repairs on Chris' jacket..."

"Yes, he told me!" She says, grinning at me, her eyes bright with excitement. "Another hidden talent, Martin!"

I gaze at her. She is dazzling, somehow even more brilliant than I could ever possibly have imagined and I struggle to compose my thoughts, desperate to articulate to her, somehow, how I feel. I peer self consciously down at the jacket in my hand.

"Umm, no, not really." I mutter. "Just a matter of a very simple, running, continuous suture. It's not like I'm amputating his necrotic leg."

I glance across at Chris and his cheeks are glowing pink as he watches us intently. I feel like an exhibit at the zoo, bemused at why he appears to find my private life so intently fascinating. He grimaces at me in some sort of amused disbelief. I'm about to point out that, if he continues his current poor lifestyle choices, I may very well have to do that very thing but Louisa, possibly noticing the hardening of my expression, gives a tiny shake of her head and I am momentarily distracted from my lecture.

"Umm, I will just finish this and then we can go." I grumble at him. "Do you think you'll be able to contain yourself for the rest of the evening, or do I need to bring this needle and thread with me?"

He barks with laughter and I glower, pushing past him to the window, positioning myself in the evening sunlight, in the hope of improved visibility. Even if I say so myself, with some rather deft work, I soon have the sleeve reattached with barely a ripple in the seam. I glance up and notice Louisa is gazing at me thoughtfully, leaning elegantly against the kitchen cupboards, her ankles crossed, clasping her wine glass against her sternum.

"Always destined to be a surgeon, look at that technique!" Chris says jovially. "All those hours of practice, all those Sundays spent sowing up grapes, it really paid off, Mart."

Everyone seems to find his observation very amusing and I feel a stab of angst as I glance up at Louisa, momentarily alarmed that she is perhaps mocking me too. But, she meets my gaze with equanimity, her eyes soft and kind, and I feel an overwhelming sense of relief as she smiles, almost appreciatively, at me. Suddenly bashful, I look away quickly, clearing my throat and summoning Chris a little tersely, watching him carefully as he slips his pudgy frame into his dinner jacket, this time without incident. Helen pats his shoulder affectionately and excuses herself away to the bathroom, and Chris bounces off after her like an eager puppy.

I watch them depart with relief. Suddenly, miraculously, Louisa and I are alone, and I glance at her a little sheepishly, feeling inexplicably as if we are back to square one and I am a nervous fumbling school boy, gauche and clueless before a beautiful apparition, a goddess, the veritable woman of his dreams. Grinning back at me, she furtively turns to look down the hall before hurriedly finishing her glass of wine and slinking over toward me. Before I can even lay a hand on her, the taxi toots from down on the street, and I have to content myself with the gentlest of kisses and her voice in my ear, low and breathy, telling me how much she has missed me.

"Mmm." I reply, holding her gaze as she pulls away, willing her to understand that it has been the same for me, and how much better everything is now; now that she is finally here. She takes my hand and gives it gentle squeeze and, for the briefest of moments, we stare at each other, wordlessly.

Whistling loudly Chris strides up the hall and, reluctantly, she lets go of my hand and I stalk towards the door, standing like a statue and gazing into the distance, as I hold it open and he and his scurrying fiancée pass in front of me. They seem to be already feeling the effects of the alcohol, giggling and offering enthusiastic thanks before scampering down the stairs together, clasping hands as if they were children. Louisa follows, pausing in front of me, so flawless and elegant, and I hold my breath as she runs her hand up my lapel.

"You look amazing, Martin." She says quietly, and her eyes twinkle as that familiar insouciant smile spreads across her face.

I stare back at her, confused. She doesn't appear to have drunk too much and yet what she is saying doesn't make any sense. If she is referring to my attire, she is about to discover that I am in no way remarkable.

"Ridiculous." I mutter back, sotto voce but, nevertheless, I feel a slight blush envelop me and I look away quickly, turning my back to her, as much to remove myself from her penetrating gaze as to secure the lock on the door.

"Ridiculous? Really?" She replies thoughtfully, and I'm startled as her hand slips beneath the tail of my jacket, running firmly across my right glute and lingering provocatively around the outside my hip, as if she's about to slide her hand into my trouser pocket.

I almost feel lightheaded but Louisa doesn't need to know that. As delicious and distracting as it is to feel her touch me, and as tempted as I am to let her delve further, the grim reality of the arduous evening ahead is once again forefront in my mind. Without saying a word, I reach around, clasping her errant and exploratory hand in mine, and I lead her down the stairs to the waiting taxi. She asks me quietly how I am feeling but I don't answer, because I'm honestly not sure myself. Instead I squeeze her hand and exhale deeply enough that she must hear me. I am resigned to the fact that, if she survives the onslaught that no doubt lies in wait for us, if she bears witness to the cold vileness of my parents, and still wants to have anything to do with me, it will be nothing short of a miracle. Like a visual last supper, I don't even attempt to avert my gaze she clambers through the taxi door, so misguidedly bubbly and eager. The lustre of the beading in her dress, and the way it shimmers and clings to her, is mesmerising and I allow myself one last momentary distraction, a rather disconcerting flash of imagination, before I begin to grudgingly don my defences.