I'd first seen the frock in a poky little shop in Notting Hill that reeked of mothballs and joss sticks and roll-your-own fags. I knew the owner, Sunbeam, from her previous attempt at Vintage retail, when she was operating out of her Nan's front room on one of the less salubrious streets of Shepherd's Bush. Clad in a long, sleeveless flokati coat, over a leopard print bodysuit, her eyes lit up when she saw me and she'd hurried into her cluttered storeroom, bringing it out to show me, still wrapped in the original, delicate tissue paper, crisp and yellowed with age. Sadly, the identity of the maker was a mystery, but the exquisite workmanship and the care that had clearly gone into the hand sown beading was testament that it must have been an important statement piece in someone's nineteen sixties wardrobe. The dress itself was so beautiful that I'd actually gasped out loud when she'd held it up; so tactile that I'd found myself delicately running my fingers across the surface of the fabric and wondering silently who had worn it, what amazing stories it could tell and, with my heart set on owning it for myself, how terrifying the price might actually be.
As I gently turned it over, I could see just how beautifully constructed it was, so elegantly cut and beautifully contoured, with a long rear zip that pulled it perfectly into shape. The material itself was a lovely, subtle floral lace but what made it so divine was that it had been hand beaded, with delicate threads of gold, and sequin embellishments which made it shimmer like snake skin. It also smelt musty, like dank, unventilated cupboards and, faintly, of some long forgotten scent but, otherwise, it was perfect, like new, as if it had barely seen the light of day. Looking at myself in the long mirror, I had one of those moments when you try something on and just never want to take it off again. It might not have had a label, but it was most definitely haute couture, and I was thrilled to bits. I bought it, for what was an eye-watering sum really for a second hand frock, especially considering I was usually so frugal and, consistently, so broke. I'd taken it home and, without unwrapping it, I'd placed it carefully in my bottom drawer, securing it with extra layers of brown paper, and cotton balls soaked in perfume and, as I'd done so, I had promised myself that, one day, I would find the perfect occasion to wear it.
Of course, I hadn't even reconnected with Martin at that point, and I would never have dreamed that the ideal opportunity to actually wear such a beautiful thing would actually ever present itself. Encouraged by Libby, I'd retrieved it from its careful storage and, sneezing and watery-eyed, tried it on. Of course, like the clumsy twit I am, in my haste I put my foot through the lining of the skirt as I attempted to slip into it, and I was mortified, only to have Libby come to the rescue with a pair of pinking shears. The skirt lining thus removed, I took the remaining portion of the dress to the dry cleaners and breathlessly entrusted it to their care.
As I suspected, because she always did, Libby had the perfect shoes; a pair of elegant, pale gold, ankle strap, fake Manolo Blahniks with a heel that required two weeks of practice, wobbling tentatively around the house, before I was even brave enough to contemplate wearing them in public. She had sat on the bed, arms folded, and whistled through her teeth when I'd finally tried everything on together, reassuring me, despite how self conscious I felt, that the now-unlined skirt was really not that transparent. Libby favoured hair down but I went a bit mad, treating myself to a sophisticated, elegant up do; a work of art constructed by a mad Frenchman at a Chelsea hair studio. Libby and I had made a day of it, brunch and then a few hours at the salon; I'd had a pedicure and Libby a manicure and while she was off having a facial, I'd had a couple of other things sorted, relishing every minute of the day because it really was such a special treat for me. Later, with the deportment a Lady-In-Waiting would be proud of, I'd swung my legs into the taxi, knees together, and sat so composedly for the short ride to Martin's flat, I barely knew myself. With my little overnight bag on the seat next to me, I don't think I'd ever felt so adult, so polished, even so confident, in all my life.
I must admit it was a bit of a surprise, perhaps even a little disappointing, to discover Martin's friends has already arrived. I was a bit taken aback because I really had hoped to finally spend a few moments alone with him but, when I walked through the front door, Chris greeted me so enthusiastically, and his fiancée Helen was so warm and friendly, that I'd immediately felt at ease; their apparent pleasure in having me there, and the fact they were clearly up for a party too, was actually really infectious. Chris had filled my glass and was clearly intent on getting a few under his belt too before we even got to the function. I can be a bit of a nervous chugger when it comes to alcohol, and I was really determined not to disgrace myself so I realised that I'd have to watch Chris and his propensity to keep a girl's glass continuously filled to the top.
As soon as I walked in, Helen saw me glancing around, a little mystified as to Martin's absence, and she had explained quickly that Chris had split his jacket and that Martin was repairing it, a fact they both thought was uproariously funny but it just sounded to me like a very Martin thing to do, to take it upon himself to fix a problem if he was able to. I listened to their light hearted banter, smiling when it was appropriate but, honestly, my eyes were fixed on the hall the whole time. I'd just lived through what felt like the longest two weeks of my life and my yearning to see him was now almost painful.
And then, all of a sudden, he was there, standing in the hall, gazing at me, so typically dignified and imposing that it only took a split second of eye contact to remind me of how badly I'd missed him. A whole summer's worth of butterflies were suddenly released as my stomach flipped over so violently that it smacked into my diaphragm and squeezed my breath out in a wobbly, anticipatory gasp. So impeccable and so very elegant; his suit so beautifully cut that even biting my lip had seen me unable to prevent the besotted soppy grin that had hijacked my face. Of course, as he'd lowered his chin and looked back at me, so self consciously, so endearingly shy, my need to touch him, to claim him as my own, became almost unbearable.
Oddly though, the rest of the brief time we were in his flat, and for the duration of the taxi ride, he was almost silent. I'd had a brief moment alone with him and, as usual, my self control was almost non existent, and I'd blurted out that I'd missed him, in case he was wondering, but he didn't really respond, seeming strangely quiet and aloof, even for notoriously taciturn Martin. He held my hand briefly but I suspect it was merely to restrain it from wandering all over him and, once the cabbie pulled away from the flat, he was completely mute for the entire journey, even going as far as to leap out the moment we pulled up outside the museum, striding off down the pavement without so much as a backwards glance at me.
Honestly, it was then that I just started to feel a bit annoyed with him. Admittedly, my ego did feel a little bruised because I'd actually gone to a lot of trouble to look nice and he'd barely acknowledged that I was even there, never mind finding a reason to compliment me. I really didn't feel it was much to ask and it was a bit hurtful, especially as all I'd wanted to do, all I'd repeatedly sought Libby's reassurance over, was whether I would hold my own at a function that had suddenly started to seem a bit daunting. And I suppose everything was a bit compounded by the fact I'd really missed him over the last few weeks and it was a bit gut-wrenching to realise that he clearly didn't feel the same way. I'd actually even told him how I'd been feeling but he'd just looked at me and said nothing.
So, when he'd effectively abandoned me and bolted away, leaving me to stagger up the road unassisted, feeling like an awkward gooseberry alongside his lovey-dovey, touchy-feely friends, I had a fairly sickening realisation. I'd foolishly imagined tonight to be possibly romantic, hopefully fun, and even quite significant as a first real glimpse into Martin's world. But, as I watched him disappear into the distance, I realised it was actually going to be nothing of the sort, which just made me feel suffocated by a miserable, humiliating sort of disappointment.
When we did eventually catch up, and I saw Martin waiting, looking impatient and annoyed as I struggled in my tight skirt and stabby heeled shoes to edge sideways up the steps toward him, I felt quite miffed with him to be be honest. When I finally stood alongside him, embarrassed by my foolishly unrealistic anticipations and fuelled by my frustration with him, I was admittedly a bit upset. So, quite crossly, I'd demanded that he explain what was going on but then I'd been more than a little alarmed by his response. Just for a moment, I'd seen that glimpse of the frightened little boy again and it had shocked me, a sad contrast to the magnificent way he was presenting himself tonight. And, that's the problem when you display such a polished and composed countenance to the world, immaculate and seemingly in control of everything, sometimes it's actually so dazzling that it's hard for anyone to see past it. But, as I noticed his fearful expression; the apprehension in his eyes as he squeezed them closed, and the way he opened and clenched his fists robotically, I realised that I was witnessing Martin fighting something enormous and onerous, and it had finally shaken me from my little selfish, immature, little trance.
I can't quite fathom the depths of his fear to be honest but I am overwhelmed by a jumbled surge of emotions, because now I feel both enormously protective of him, and really disappointed in myself for being so insensitive. And it actually galvanises me to make sure that, whatever it is he is so petrified about, he knows I am in his corner. Resolved and bloody determined to be honest, as I take his arm and clutch it firmly as we mount the last few steps. I'm relieved then because it's as if he finds it reassuring, and it's like someone has flicked a switch as I feel him relaxing, his body transforming from rigid granite to admittedly rather pleasantly firm muscle.
In the end, we'd walked in together just like I'd hoped, and the Martin that I'd had the crush on for so many years had returned; self assured, sharp-witted, cool and capable. He'd raised his eyebrow at me somewhat dubiously when I suggested that we needed to appear brimming with confidence, and he'd been slightly scornful in response to my suggestion that he looked particularly imposing tonight but, as we strode into the building, and he'd piloted me through the crowd with his expression imperious and commanding, he had totally and utterly nailed it.
However, as we make slow progress through the gathered throng, I notice, with surprise, all the immediate scrutiny Martin attracts; its really obvious that quite a few of the other guests are observing our arrival and they don't even feel the need to hide their interest; their expressions registering varying degrees of curiosity, surprise and even, for some, astonishment. It seems really odd and I don't know what to make of it. I don't know anyone here but people are making eye contact with me and I feel as if I should acknowledge them. I fix a smile to my face, I nod, I even greet a few really perplexed and staring bystanders with a genial hello, but Martin ignores every single one of them, focused as he seems to be on finding a table. I try hard not to lose my composure but, as I realise that our entrance is provoking comment, and I see heads coming together and whispering as we pass, I start to feel a bit like a particularly oblivious babe in the woods, and I realise there's a huge amount of Martin's life I just don't know anything about.
We pause for a moment, impeded in our progress, and I'm suddenly reassured by the gentle touch of his hand on my arm, as he stands behind me; it seems so infinitely encouraging, as if everything is actually going to be alright as he bends to whisper in my ear. I wonder if he notices that I get goosebumps; there's certainly no ambiguity in my response to his physical presence and I react reflexively, my need to touch him, to connect with him, catching him unaware and I laugh as I hear his sharp intake of breath. With a total lack of sincerity, he reprimands me under his breath but I'm encouraged to notice that he doesn't recoil from my hand.
I've only been in this museum once before, when it was crowded with rowdy school children, and harried teachers desperately trying to maintain control as the place teemed with slack-jawed tourists and over-zealous officials. But, tonight, I barely recognise it, such is the transformation. As a venue it's nothing short of amazing; the dramatic lighting, the acoustics, the whole atmosphere is just incredibly exciting really and I try desperately to remain composed, alarmed that my enthusiasm will reveal the unsophisticated country girl that lurks just beneath the surface. There's even a string quartet and I'm quietly thrilled that I recognise the concerto as Bach. Truthfully, I can't help smiling as I gaze around me, I'm just so delighted by everything really but especially the fact that I most definitely do not feel out of place, outclassed or inappropriately attired.
After we find a table and sit down, Chris disappears, returning exuberantly with flutes of champagne. Martin pours himself a glass of water from the carafe in the table, and scans the room, assuming an expression that is both ominous and forbidding. I'm now so conscious of my need to help him through the evening, I feel a flash of concern and I can't help but ask if he is alright but all I manage to do is to provoke Chris into more banter. It's always strange I suppose, when you start to realise how little you actually know about someone until you meet people who've been friends with them a long time. But I'm encouraged when, in defending himself, Martin's well hidden caustic wit appears. Along with what appear to be dimples and perhaps even the hint of a smile on his face, as he fires back a well aimed retort, in a velvety voice that drips equal parts honey and acid, and sees Chris almost choking with laughter.
Chris is certainly in good humour tonight even if, as I suspect, his effervescence is partly alcohol-fuelled. He raises his glass for a toast and, as I listen to the unfamiliar words tumble gleefully from his mouth, suddenly the implication of his salutation hits me, and I feel a ridiculous and surprising burn of self conscious embarrassment. Not only for myself, but also for intensely private and discrete Martin, who sits next to me and obviously takes a moment to compose himself before firing another salvo across the table at his friend. But Chris merely beams back at us, oblivious to our discomfort, I suppose mistakenly assuming that Martin and I are already lovers, not two relative strangers, tentative and on edge, at the beginning of an exploration; our silent and mutual discomfort acknowledging that we still have so much that remains to be discovered about each other.
After a moment I compose myself and I'm brave enough to glance at Martin as I take a self conscious sip from my glass. He flashes me a rueful, apologetic grimace and, as he holds my gaze, I smile back at him, wondering what he's thinking. I recall Toni and her yodelling one night stand, and how uncomfortable that made him too. I'm only too aware that he has very firm ideas on public propriety but I do find myself walking a fine line between respecting his beliefs, while also finding it almost impossible to resist testing every boundary he has in place. As he looks at me, I feel my smile assuming the slightest hint of suggestiveness because, when it's just the two of us, alone and uninterrupted, I know that his shyness and self-restraint can be overcome. His expression is now stony and imperious again but I can tell by the way he swallows, by his frequent, hasty glances in my direction, that he knows it too.
I slide my hand onto his knee, keen to remind him how much I've actually missed him; possibly, too, how completely irresistible I find him, as the wine and champagne begin to take affect on me, when a voice from behind me calls his name and, to my surprise, Martin stands up hurriedly, throwing his shoulders back and gazing down his nose at the visitor.
"Sholto." He says resonantly, holding out his hand.
I twist in my seat to get a glimpse of whoever this mystery gentleman is because, if I'm honest, I'm finding this little peek into Martin's professional life completely fascinating. Chris stands up too, confidently, in that way men do, and they all exchange firm handshakes and assertive greetings. I struggle not to stare at Martin because I'm almost transfixed by seeing him in this realm; so confident, accomplished and self assured, his speech decisive and commanding, unpunctuated by stammering or hesitancy. Clearly this Sholto is important too because, just as Chris is about to step in and introduce Helen and I to him, Martin remembers his manners and introduces him to me as Sholto Charteris, Dean of St. Mary's. I presume he must mean the hospital not the church in Battersea because Sholto, in his tartan bow tie and matching cummerbund, does not seem overly priestly.
"Well it certainly is lovely to meet you, Miss Glasson." He says, clasping my fingers gently in his soft hand and gazing at me almost inquisitively. "I hope you don't mind if I just borrow Martin for a moment? I promise to return him to you, expeditiously, as they say."
"Louisa, please." I say, smiling up at him. "And, no, of course I don't mind."
I glance across at Martin encouragingly but his face is impassive as our eyes briefly meet. He calmly and silently slips behind my chair and I watch them both disappear into the crowd. Never one to miss an opportunity, I shift across in his vacant seat, so I can comfortably observe the passers-by. I'm totally intrigued by the people actually and I'm so relieved that, though there's quite a cross section of personal style on display tonight, any fears that I'd had, about perhaps not measuring up, evaporate, and I curl my legs around those of the chair and grin across at Martin's friends
"Well that didn't take long." I say, laughing ruefully and reaching across for my almost empty glass.
Chris smiles at me kindly. "I hate to say it but you might have to to get used to it quickly, Louisa. When everyone's picked themselves up from the floor, all the bigwigs, all the administrators, heads of vascular, you mark my words, they'll all be dropping by the table on the off chance."
"Picking themselves off the floor? On the off chance of what?" I ask him, confusedly.
Chris starts to laugh. He stares at me and his eyes twinkle merrily as if he is really relishing my confusion.
"How long have you two been seeing each other?" He says with a wry smile, before emptying his glass and staring at it in disappointment, as if it had let him down.
"What's that got to do with it?" I retort, with possibly too much spirit, and Helen cackles, nodding her head at me in encouragement.
"Perhaps conversation hasn't been that important..." Chris says, gazing at me, probing for a reaction as rather a wicked grin spreads across his round, shiny face.
"Or, maybe, Martin doesn't bang on endlessly about his work." Helen chimes in, a pointed tone to her voice. "Have you considered that at all, Chris?"
Before I can reply, his head jerks up and I notice with surprise that his mirth evaporates and is replaced instead by a glassy, forced, thin-lipped smile.
"Ben." He says coolly, remaining seated, and I read that as a some sort of subtle masculine snub. "To what do we owe this honour?"
I look up and into the smiling face of a thin man, with pale skin, and fair hair cropped so short he looks like he has an aura around his head. He's possibly only a few years older than Chris and Martin, and he has a joyless, embittered air about him that makes him seem quite middle aged. He's staring down at me too, thin lipped and judgemental, and I immediately decide that I don't like him.
"Heard Ellingham was here." He says, his glare still intense, and I notice a faint sneer on his face as he enunciates Martin's name rather coldly. "Wanted to see it for myself."
He then holds out his hand toward me, and I take it reluctantly, fighting my instinct to ignore him in the hope he'll go away. I remind myself that we are not in the pub and he is not just some random stranger, with booze-fuelled courage, and I accept his handshake. As I imagined they would be, his hands are clammy and he holds my fingers for just a moment too long, until they too feel unpleasantly cold and sticky.
"Ben Dixon." He says and there's something vaguely creepy about him that makes me feel uncomfortable. "Colleague of, ummm, Martin's. Vascular specialist too, as it happens. He's probably mentioned me."
"Louisa Glasson." I reply, pulling my hand away awkwardly, and reaching for a napkin so I can wipe it dry. "And, no, actually, Martin has never mentioned you."
He laughs, and, as I pick up my glass dismissively and glance at Helen with a rueful grimace, he turns to Chris, folding his arms across his chest confrontationally.
"What did Charteris want? What did he say?" He says, sounding quite demanding actually, and I can see Chris struggling to maintain his facade of geniality.
"You'll have to ask Sholto, Ben." He replies affably, gazing back at him calmly. "I honestly have no idea."
"I will." Ben replies quickly and he glances down at me, looking for all the world like he's trying to get a better view of my cleavage. "Good evening then ladies, behave yourselves tonight, if you know what I mean."
Helen pulls a disgusted face at his back as hurries off and, as he disappears into the crowd, Chris watches his receding figure and mutters under his breath.
"What an Arse..." he says vehemently. "Sorry about that girls. Let me make it up to you. I just need the loo and then I'll fetch us another round..."
I smile at him as I watch him clamber to his feet, patting Helen affectionately on the shoulder as he walks behind her, and wanders off still muttering. Helen finishes her drink and starts to absentmindedly straighten the cutlery.
"Was it just me, or did he give you the willies?" She says after a moment, and I laugh.
"I'm so pleased you are here, Helen, or it might be a rather long night!"
"You haven't been to many of these functions with Martin then?" Helen says, smiling at me sympathetically and turning her attention to shifting our empty glasses to the other end of the table.
"We haven't actually been seeing each other for long to be honest..." I reply cautiously, looking around me a bit apprehensively, as if everyone might be listening in our conversation.
I notice the approach of an elegantly dressed older woman, and I smile at her as she glides past. She nods pleasantly, greeting me with a perfectly enunciated 'Good evening', displaying of the all of the effortless glamour that I aspire to but somehow never seem to be able to attain.
Helen leans in conspiratorially. Even with all of the noise in the hall, I can still hear her dress rustle loudly as she shifts in her chair.
"I know Chris is dying to know, so I have to ask..." She whispers. "But just how did you two actually meet?"
I smile at her, and, in return I want to ask her why it seems so important that they find out; and why Martin seems to provoke such curiosity amongst his peers really, why people seem so intrigued about his personal life. But she smiles at me so kindly that I really can't see why it would hurt to tell her the abridged version. Surely there's nothing salacious or controversial about saying Martin and I met through his aunt.
I don't want to speak too loudly though and so I decide to move places, and sit next to her. As I stand up to shift to her side of the table, two very distinguished looking older men saunter past and, as the taller one glances at me, I notice that his eyes are a glacial pale blue. In fact they gleam and glitter like Swiss topaz as he makes eye contact with me, turning his head toward me as he strides along, and flashing a rather disconcertingly charming grin. For an older man, he's quite ruggedly handsome I suppose, well dressed, with a thick head of steel grey hair and the type of cleft chin you see on old movie stars. I smile back at him briefly and then turn my attention to Helen, and the story of Joan Norton, unlikely matchmaker. But before I can speak, I notice that she's not looking at me and I realise it's because the man has turned around and returned to our table, and he's standing beside me, tall and elegant, smiling down at me benevolently with perfect white teeth.
"I hope you are enjoying your evening?" He says, gazing at me rather regally, his clipped vowels and military bearing only adding to the impression that he's someone rather important.
"Yes, thank you." I reply, nervously, and probably a little too effusively, as his eyes bore into me. "What a brilliant idea to have a function in here, with the dinosaur and everything. It's just great isn't it?"
"I'm very glad you think so, my dear." He replies slowly and the intensity of his gaze starts to make me feel just the tiniest bit on alert. "I don't believe I know your name...and that seems rather a travesty, wouldn't you agree?"
I glance nervously over at Helen. I have no idea about the etiquette of the situation and I feel suddenly slightly uncomfortable. Not only is he the type of polished and dignified older gentleman that's always made me feel slightly intimidated, there's something about his manners, his attentiveness, his speculative expression, that makes me suddenly anxious, as if I am thirsty chicken and he's a fox, holding a bucket of water.
"Louisa Glasson." I say hesitantly, and I smile at him, trying my best to seem confident and relaxed, as I slowly hold out my hand.
To my utter amazement, he clasps it gently between his own long, elegant fingers, bends his head over and, staring at me from under his ruffled brow, kisses the back of it, softly, just above the knuckles. It's a very strange moment, made more uncomfortable by his seeming reluctance to actually let go. Eventually, Helen clears her throat nervously and holds out her hand too, barking her name at him rather sharply. I glance sideways at her, as he straightens himself but, still, he doesn't relinquish his grip on my hand or even attempt to grasp Helen's as she stand awkwardly, her thin, pale arm flailing in mid air. Everything seems a bit weird and I tug on my hand, gently, in the hope he will finally let go of me.
In that moment, just in case the situation isn't surreal enough, out of nowhere, Martin is suddenly between us and everything is instantly in slow motion; ridiculous, confounding and impossible. I watch on in shock as Martin, usually so gentle and restrained, latches angrily onto the older man's forearm, gripping it forcefully in his own huge hand and spitting at him at him, furiously, to let me go. They eyeball each other momentarily, and the older man takes a step backwards as Martin leans toward him, imposing and uncharacteristically threatening.
I feel his long fingers slide lazily across mine, as if he was still attempting what feels like a seduction, as if he is determined to have the last word, as I'm still struggling desperately to try and understand what is actually going on. I watch as my arm falls to my side, deadened and useless, as if I've been shot, and I stare blankly at them both of them in disbelief, shocked by the quite terrifying expression on Martin's face. I feel like that little girl again, hiding under her counter pane at the sound of smashing glass; angry men really frighten me, and I hear myself cry out with alarm.
"Martin!" I squawk, a bit too emphatically, and my arm comes back to life in time for me to grab at his bicep and momentarily distract him.
I bite down on my lip as they stare at each other for just the briefest of moments before Martin releases his hold, and then, disconcertingly, the grey haired man starts to laugh; a strange braying sound that makes him seem now especially gloating and unpleasant. Without averting his eyes, he speaks, and his tone is mocking and derisive
"Perhaps then, you'd like to introduce us, Martin, since you seem so territorial this evening? Hmmm?" He says slowly, as if he was trying to goad further upset, his eyes glittering meanly,
Martin glances at me quickly and, though I see the his expression soften slightly, he is clearly still very agitated and upset. He swallows and I watch as he takes a deep breath. As he raises his chin and stares down his nose, icily, at his mysterious adversary, his lip curls in disgust.
"Louisa." He says in a chilling, angry voice that I've never heard before. "My father, Christopher Ellingham."