Scientifically speaking, the sensation of time standing still is merely a trick played by one's memory. And, while it seems to me now that everything is suddenly moving in slow motion, I am peripherally aware that the experience is merely the result of fear, which has rendered the brain's amygdala more active, triggering stress hormones that speed up the brain's ability to process life threatening situations. As much as I fight this obvious mental chicanery with an attempt at reason, it is a powerful illusion, and my subsequent automatic mechanisms are vivid in my recollection of them; a series of Polaroids in my mind, a montage of his effrontery, a collage of his contempt.

Prior to that though, I'm almost entirely focused on Sholto, as he formally introduces his companion as Zalman Goldsmith, newly appointed Head of Vascular at Imperial College. Of course, I know who he is; his reputation proceeds him. I'm more interested, however, in why they have approached me, and here of all places. There have been rumours of another impending resignation, a shuffling of the decks and, subsequently, an opening for a Clinical Lead in Goldsmith's department. He gazes at me over the top of his glasses, his expression genial yet undeniably appraising, and my interest is piqued.

As I listen, I temporarily lose sight of our table; the open spaces of the floor fill rapidly with milling groups of indecisive people, oblivious to everything around them. The air crackles with air kisses and insincerity; you could cut the fraudulent bonhomie with a knife and, annoyingly, my protective surveillance of Louisa is impeded. Though I admit to being momentarily distracted, I remind myself quickly that Chris has promised to remain vigilant, the knowledge of which goes part way to assuage my fear. As my attention returns to the conversation, I hear Goldsmith mention that, in his previous incumbency, he was in the audience when I presented the Edinburgh conference paper. I nod solemnly, clearing my throat before responding with the names of my energetic co-authors, both of whom contributed greatly to what was a collaborative study. Sholto smiles and glances across at him as if they expected my response. I realise my suspicion that I am being evaluated is probably not far off the mark yet, for all the significance I understand this discussion to hold, I am momentarily distracted.

It is as if the rapidly moving clouds in a windy grey sky have, for an instant, parted and, as the crowd opens up, there is suddenly light and space. I glance across quickly, searching for a reassuring glimpse that Louisa remains secure but, before the crowds swallow up my perspective again, to my annoyance I see that infernal arse, Dixon, loitering in her vicinity and I curl my lip, involuntarily. I observe with approval as Chris Parsons, with his arms folded across his chest, appears to send him immediately on his way and, though I can't make out the detail of her face, I immediately notice Louisa's posture. To my relief, she seems reluctant to engage with him; disinterested and totally unimpressed, even if her elegantly crossed legs are revealing, even from this distance, a tantalising glimpse of her pale honey-coloured thigh.

I swallow hard and refocus, as Goldsmith mentions a dinner that I might attend. As I ruminate on the guest list that Sholto casually reels off, I wrest my thoughts back to him, and what seems more and more to be the subtle initial suggestion of what might prove to be a significant opportunity. Since my very first foray into medicine, as a callow, introverted outsider, I've made a point to avoid networking at all costs but, while I've always detested both the principle and the activity, I admit to being sorely tempted to accept this particular invitation. When Sholto adds hastily that he hopes Louisa would come with me, I admit that I'm rather taken aback by the idea or, more accurately, the implications of his suggestion. Having always seen myself as a very single entity, initially it seems a rather foreign proposition to me. However, as I briefly ponder the thought, I realise that it is not an altogether unpleasant one and, again, I glance over in her direction, to reassure myself for the hundredth time, that having her here with me could possibly be real.

It's at that point I remember only the paroxysm of fear as it hits me; a deep, lacerating horror that obliterates everything from my mind and renders me momentarily incapable of rational thought. The room is suddenly still, silent and grey, and only Louisa remains in colour, so indescribably beautiful, unblemished and innocent, as the I watch the shadow of an indecent spectre fall across her. A demon in the form of my father who has appeared from nowhere and now leans over her, menacing and vulturine.

Bizarrely, I hear the voice of my grandfather, Henry, instructing me as he did, that a surgeon must have the capacity to make consecutive decisions under stress and, as my mind regains it's sharpness, that's what I find myself doing, grunting a hasty apology and abandoning my cohorts before pushing my way through the aggravating and ostentatious crowd. As I bolt the short distance back to the table, everything around me seems frozen in time. Unsurprisingly, as my adrenal glands release epinephrine, I feel my body respond on a visceral level: the room comes brightly into focus, my limbs seem light and mysteriously powerful but, most terrifyingly, I feel an aberrant and barely controllable rage that threatens to rupture my torso. Like an abstract observer, I see myself reach for his arm, gripping it ferociously, all the time detached enough to realise that his brachioradialis especially, but indeed all his flexor muscles, feel soft, diminished and surprisingly weak.

In truth, I have never laid a hand on my father before so to discover that the instigator of so much violence against me as a vulnerable child could now be suffering from age-related sarcopenia shocks me. I can see the surprise register in his coldly glinting eyes, an almost imperceptible jarring of his brazen-faced expression, but still I don't relinquish my hold. While he still insists on clinging to Louisa's hand, for some reason it becomes essential for me to make him understand that there is a line in the sand that I will not permit him to cross. I maintain my grip, mercilessly, as he takes half a step backwards and I follow, looming over him and glaring ferociously, my heart hammering in my chest. After a moment, Louisa pulls her hand away; then I feel her clasping my arm in hers and calling my name quietly but firmly; her accent more pronounced as she pulls me toward her.

Our eyes meet as I glance down at her and I see no fear, only yet another flashback to that unpredictable, mercurial teenager, as she fixes her jaw, and a cool, determined stare transforms her face. I see her mind working and I can only hope that she contains herself because, if she refuses to engage with him, Dad will soon discover that he is not to be the centre of attention at our table at least, and I know that this will hasten his departure. He will not want to waste a moment with us when he could tonight be otherwise basking in adulation; preening himself in the spotlight and soaking up the disingenuous compliments liked a dried up old sponge.

He laughs and the sickening bray seems deafening; horrifyingly echoing and resonant, and so familiar to me as the soundtrack to a litany of childhood humiliations, the preamble to innumerable adolescent indignities that were foisted upon me. As I let go of his arm, my mouth is dry and my lips taste salty, and I don't think I can bear what he will say in front of Louisa; even the anticipation of the shame brings bile to my constricted throat. I complete the introductions, but his name on my tongue feels bitter, nauseating and toxic, and I brace myself for his inevitable put-downs, his condescension and my own miserable disgrace.

"Louisa." I growl in disgust. "My father, Christopher Ellingham..."

His eyes shift between Louisa and me, as if he is struggling to make sense of what he sees. Slowly, he moistens his lips, contemplatively slipping one hand into his jacket pocket and resting his gaze on me.

"Well, I never." He says, raising his eyebrows, incredulously.

I know exactly what he's thinking, and I know I'm not imagining it as his expression seems to become covetous, as he now stares again at Louisa, slowly looking her up and down and causing my blood pressure to spike. She gazes back at him far more calmly, so reassuringly shrewd and perceptive, clearly cognisant of my father's particularly galling brand of middle-aged, arrogant lasciviousness. Her jaw slides to one side, her eyes flash and, then I feel her hand on my chest, sliding playfully up and down my lapel, dusting off some imaginary speck of fluff, and pausing to play with the top button of my jacket. As she runs the tip of her index finger provocatively around its circumference, she smiles up at me, with a hint of suggestiveness and, for what seems like the first time in quite some while, I exhale. Considering how very uncomfortable I am with any form of physical contact in public, it's an action that brings a surprising degree of comfort.

"Why don't we all sit down?" Louisa says, flashing me a quick encouraging smile.

"Good idea!" I hear Helen say enthusiastically and I glance across at her in surprise. I'd forgotten she was even there.

God knows where bloody Chris Parsons has disappeared to, I think to myself angrily as, reluctantly, I pull out the chair and lower myself into it. I notice that Dad hesitates, adjusting his cuffs and turning to scan the crowd, searching, I presume, for an easy escape or a better offer. Of course, not being in control will be abhorrent to him, and the fact that his utter contempt for me has failed to find a foothold amongst his audience will be a failure he finds particularly galling. As I glance across at him, the feeling of his insubstantial forearm returns to me and the implication of this rather shocks me. It is clear that I could now physically best him easily, if the situation required, but there is no doubt that he will always mock me as weak and spineless, awkward and disappointing. As a child, as I sobbed breathlessly into my pillow after he'd punished me brutally for some minor infraction, overwhelmed by a resentful, impotent rage, I'd sometimes fantasise about turning the tables on him. But now, the truth is that I wouldn't risk a chipped nail throwing a punch at him, never mind my surgical career should I damage my fingers.

"Martin, darling, can you pour me a glass of water please?" Louisa says confidently, her teasing tone once more evident, her eyes sparkling impudently.

"Yes, of course." I reply, as casually as I am able, clearing my throat and reaching across the table for the remaining empty glasses.

I pour one for Louisa, sliding it across to her as she thanks me with a deep and throaty murmur of gratitude. As I glance up at her she nods in the direction of my father and I fill one for him too, placing it in front of him unceremoniously, without even looking at him, fixing my gaze on Louisa's encouraging smile. For the briefest of moments, I allow myself to be distracted by temptation; inveiglement, and the promise held by the soft, sensual curves of her beautiful mouth. While it's only too obvious that my own father can't quite believe that a woman like her would ever consent to be with me, neither, quite frankly, can I.

There's a moment or two of silence, or should I say a complete dearth of conversation. The hall hums loudly with the conflation of hundreds of voices but I haven't had anything to say to my father for years and I have no inclination to inaugurate any form of communication with him now. It's all I can do to swivel slightly in my seat so that my back isn't completely to him as he lingers self consciously beside me, clasping the back of a chair and fixing his still disbelieving gaze on to Louisa.

"Must mingle, my dear." He says in an oily tone, and it's clear he speaks only to her. "Shame that we can't get to know each other rather better but I hope, perhaps, that we will meet again very soon."

"Mmm. Perhaps." She says after a moment, her tone non-committal as she flashes him a radiant smile.

Over my dead body, I think to myself and I fix him with a cold, dismissive stare. I feel Louisa's hand on my knee and I reach down and clasp it in my own. While I do admit that it's a sensation I usually rather enjoy, I don't quite put it past her to test my limits in front of my father, for the sake of her own amusement. I am already uncomfortably on edge, and almost filled to overflowing with apprehension; in truth, the distraction of her touch, and the impudent relish with which she enjoys the effect she has on me, might just be too much to cope with.

Before my father can bray at me again, I hear Chris cry out as he appears from nowhere, standing beside Helen and grinning down at her, brandishing a bottle of champagne triumphantly.

"Service was bloody terrible! Once I got to the front of the queue, I thought, to hell with it, let's just get a bottle and be done with it!"

I want to point out to him that of course he will not be done with one bottle but, before I get the chance, he notices my father and his shiny, round, pink face is instantly grey and worried. Glancing at me quickly, and maintaining his balance by holding his other arm, still clasping the bottle aloft, he throws out his hand as a greeting.

"Mr Ellingham!" He says, beaming across the table with a painfully forced smile. "What a splendid occasion!"

Dad reaches across the table and they shake hands firmly and, on Chris' side at least, vaguely enthusiastically. I suspect my father will have no idea who he is, nor does he display the slightest semblance of interest but, if Chris notices, it seems he doesn't care. Of course, it could be that his failure to carry out his assigned task of supervising Louisa's safety, with any concept of responsibility or diligence, is causing him much-deserved chagrin.

"Chris Parsons, sir. At med school with Martin, you may remember?"

My father fixes him with his steely stare, as if trying to place him, squinting at him down his nose as he speaks.

"Mmm. Parsons...Baled out at the last minute to stumble into general practice as I recall..."

He glances at Helen as if he's only just noticed her and I notice Chris reflexively place his hand on her shoulder.

"Dishing out Calamine Lotion and Preparation H for the rest of your life? Mwahmwah." My father says. "Not really much of a career for a chap, is it?"

Chris gazes at him, thoughtfully, as imperturbable and affable as ever.

"Aah, no, you're correct that it wasn't the career for me, sir. But it turns out it was an excellent stepping stone into Administration, where it seems I've found my true calling."

Dad pulls a disgusted face, and his upper lip flickers, as if he has inadvertently trodden, with one of his signature, slim, beige loafers, in something unpleasant. But, for the first time in nearly thirty years, I agree with him on a principle and it's not a comfortable feeling which makes me wonder why I'm so very unimpressed by Chris' career choice when in fact I actually believe that he will be highly capable in his role; energetic, sensible, benevolent, and as naturally imbued of the same networking and negotiation skills that would be rather sought after in Westminster, Brussels or The Vatican.

"Is that so?" My father intones, barely suppressing the sneer in his voice.

"Funnily enough, yes it is." Chris says pleasantly, and the smile and colour begin to return to his face, as he slips into the chair beside Helen. "For instance, I've been backwards and forwards to London quite a lot recently, because I'm also working on a little collaborative research project for the NHS."

He puts his hands on the table in front of him and interlocks the fingers.

"Bit of HR...some regulatory research, working with the legal team...reading a lot of files actually and talking to a lot of people..." He pauses, glancing at my father with a rather meaningful expression. "Here and there tucked away in the different filing systems...different departments, different hospitals, even different authorities, it's amazing what sort of dossiers you can put together when you start to collate the data."

Dad doesn't move a muscle but I notice that his lips are now so thin and pale that they almost seem to disappear. He leans forward with his palms flat on the table and he pauses for a moment before pushing himself up to a standing position. I notice with disgust he appears to have left his sweaty prints on the white tablecloth and, as my lip curls in disapproval, I leap to my feet, intent on preventing him again placing a similarly perspiring finger on Louisa.

Almost instantly, he composes himself, nodding at her, his eyes narrowing slightly as she smiles back at him brilliantly.

"Very well, enjoy your evening. Ladies..." He says loftily, inclining his head at Helen before turning to Chris and I and barking out our names clearly, coldly and with noticeable finality.

I watch his back as he struts away, observing that he now seems to exhibit a slight stoop and, though I detest him, I can't help but think that it seems a little premature for a man who can't be much older than his mid sixties. And there's another query fomenting in my mind too. I turn to Chris, about to press him for clarity and he notices my perplexed frown, removing his glasses and begins to polish them, casually, on the edge of the tablecloth. I clear my throat.

"Umm, Chris, I thought you told me you were landed with coordinating the repainting cycle for the NHS hospitals...managing the tenders and the scheduling, and so forth? Indulging in time wasting on a colossal scale, by even chairing the committee that chose the colours, from what I recall?"

He glances across at me and a sly grin spreads across his face.

"Yes, that's right...a fairly accurate summary of the apprenticeship I'm undertaking..."

I stare at him, and I feel my cheeks tighten as I struggle to suppress a smile.

"So, what was all that, hmm?"

Chris gazes out at the throng, peering at the spot where my father was swallowed up by the crowd. He smiles to himself before looking back at me over the top of his glasses, his eyes bright and his expression almost triumphant.

"Mart, it's not my fault a guilty conscience causes people to make assumptions..."

My father, caught hook, line and sinker seems inordinately satisfying. I know Chris will expect that he has redeemed himself now but I'm not quite ready to let him off his hook just yet so I merely grunt indifferently, as I watch him eagerly pouring the champagne. Feeling marginally more composed, I turn my attention immediately to Louisa.

"What was all that about?" She says, and her brows knot thoughtfully as she holds out her empty glass toward Chris who seems to be splashing more on the table than he does into the glasses.

"Aah, nothing, ummm..More importantly, are you alright?" I say and I notice a slightly earnest tone to my voice which sees both Chris and Helen glance up at me with veiled interest.

Louisa smiles at me. Our interlocked fingers rest on my knee and she slides sideways in her chair, placing her free hand on top of them and squeezing tightly.

"I'm fine, Martin, thanks..."

"Are you? I mean, what did he say? Did he upset you?"

"Umm, I'm quite capable of taking care of myself actually." She replies somewhat haughtily and, though I detect a hint of annoyance, I can't prevent myself from continuing on. Once I've thought through my diagnosis, it seems like I must deliver it, whether the patient wants to hear it or not.

"You don't know him, Louisa. I..."

"Please just shut up about it, Martin, it really doesn't matter. I've dealt with a lot worse than an old man slobbering over my hand you know!"

If she means to reassure me, her statement has the opposite effect. Even when I'm with her, I see how some men look at her, so what must it be like when she is on her own, or out with her friends? I know that she likes to go out and socialise; pubs, parties, even her university classes, all potentially containing men who might behave inappropriately, gazing at her like my despicable father just did. My father's appalling behaviour didn't worry her because she deals with this sort of thing all the time. The thought sickens me and I have a series of rather unpleasant mental images forming in my head that I struggle to dismiss.

I hear Helen giggle loudly and, as I glance across, I see Chris has thrown his arm around her shoulder and they seem to be embracing, and whispering privately to each other.

"Ching Ching!" They cry in unison, their simultaneous imbibing seemingly provoking another flash of puerile amusement.

I ignore them of course but Louisa responds joyfully, taking a generous mouthful from her glass and laughing too, their hilarity as cryptic and impenetrable to me as Glagolitic script. I feel uncharacteristically jumpy, unnerved and ill-at-ease and, as much as I'd like to try and not ruin our evening together, everything is starting to feel beyond my limitations. It's as if I must remain hyper-vigilant; constantly on my guard and assessing my environment for threats as if I was that small tormented boy, isolated and vulnerable, in the ominous dormitories of my prep school.

"Oops." Louisa exclaims, and I see her stand up as she releases my hand, using her own instead to tug at the skirt of her dress, which seems to have ridden up, possibly causing her discomfort.

"Scuse me." She says brightly. "I just need to...you know..."

"I might come too." Helen says quickly but I notice Chris seems reluctant to relinquish his hold on her as she wriggles playfully to free herself.

"What is it with you women?" He cries, a little too loudly. "Do you always have to go to the loo in pairs?"

"Keep your voice down!" Helen shrieks at him and once again they dissolve with inexplicable amusement.

"Ummm, 'scuse me, Martin...I ..umm...I just need to squeeze past." Louisa says, unnecessarily apologetic and awkward as she grimaces at me and I mutter under my breath, unable to think of any words, merely hoping to sound pleasant and agreeable, and quite unlike myself.

I stand up, endeavouring to make myself as slim and unobtrusive as possible as she brushes past me. In that oddly modest way that women do, she attempts to slip by with her back to me and, even in my heightened state of alarm, the feeling of her firm, round bum pressed against me is a little too pleasant. I feel like a neurotic sort of pendulum, swinging madly between fear and exhilaration. I should be seeking out Sholto once more, continuing what I'm sure was a significant career conversation but, instead, I'm grasping Louisa around her waist as she almost stumbles over in her ridiculously inappropriate shoes. I'm pulling her towards me and holding her tightly for just a moment too long, relishing the sensation of the smooth beading beneath my fingers where her dress hugs her rib cage.

I let her go, eventually, with a stern and reprimanding growl and she turns to laugh at me over her shoulder, as she totters away, and I watch her intently as she disappears into the distance. If I were perturbed before, now my agitation seems to be fermenting; heart stopping anticipation now raises its hand and every feeling I have, both positive and negative, seems to be intense, unsettling and, almost, unmanageable. I glance over at Chris and, as usual, he's smiling; staring at me as if I were an exhibit in the zoo or a specimen in a jar. As a result, I apply control where I can, and I'm determined to give him nothing, ensuring that my face is a mask of calm indifference as I gaze back at him. But, as I take a large gulp of water, instead of sensibly trying to locate Zalman Goldsmith, I'm recalling the way Louisa's wonderful dress clings to her so impressively. Perplexingly, instead of considering what a move to Imperial might mean for my prospects, I'm contemplating how its breathtaking, shimmering tightness not only appears to greatly impede Louisa's stride but also seems, rather avidly, to have knocked me off mine.