It's always the same feeling when I see that look on her face. Because I'm so clumsy at all of this, my initial reaction is usually that of confusion; in my mind, whatever I've said to Louisa is irrefutably logical, undeniably factual, and completely rational. However, after a moment, as I notice her expression darken, I realise that I've inadvertently said something to upset her. Immediately, I find myself becoming somewhat defensive in my thoughts, endeavouring to justify to myself the legitimacy of my opinion, or the correctness of any information I have presented to her. Sometimes, I feel quite put out, even somewhat aggrieved that my adherence to truthfulness and my abhorrence of artifice seems to, once again, single me out as the villain of the piece rather than the voice of reason, and accuracy.
However, all it takes then is for her eyes to flash at me with her usual spirit; for her head to turn sideways and her jaw to set firmly, and I feel that split second flash of heat, my inexplicable erogenous response to her feistiness and her defiance; an indescribable urge ignited by her opinion on what she considers to be fair and equitable. Perhaps it's because I was brought up to never show emotion, or perhaps it's because I struggle so to articulate my own feelings but I can't help but find her passionate and emotional responses to absolutely everything both utterly disconcerting and completely captivating.
Eventually, it is usually when I'm gazing at her elegant yet enraged profile, that it dawns on me I've been my normal blundering self. As the sickening realisation sets in, and a sort of desperate despair begins to flood my consciousness, any slightly indelicate thoughts are replaced by a miserable ache; a crushing despondency followed by the most dreadful, painful longing; the more fierce her reaction, the deeper the regret, and the more intense the need.
And so I'd watched Louisa walk away, alone and unguarded, chastising Chris and Helen in a way they'd seemed to find highly entertaining but, as I'd waited for what seemed like an eternity for her return, I'd felt increasingly sick with apprehension. Plus, I'd had to endure Chris' mirth at my expense, and his obvious delight at informing me of his belief that Louisa 'had my measure', whatever that means. Calmly, I straightened the cutlery and smoothed the table cloth, studiously ignoring him as he took great delight in teasing me in front of Helen; apparently it is essential that she understands how completely out of character every aspect of my behaviour this evening has been. He seems to gain the greatest amusement of all from asking me if I tripped her purposely, just so I could regather her before she fell.
Actually, I find myself bemused and somewhat annoyed by his apparent fascination with my feelings for Louisa. Presenting me as if I were some sort of heartless, unemotional automaton, implying that I've lived my life as an unresponsive eunuch, a lobotomised asexual; hebetudinous, flaccid and cold. The truth is I answer only to my own rigorous standards, I am the only one privy to my self-imposed regulation and therefore I can't expect that my difficult choices might ever be acknowledged by others as showing any sort of strength of character. Not for me a recognition of having a far more sure moral compass than my own father, who set me the most abhorrent example and caused me no end of shame by his seemingly endless parade of indiscretions. Instead, as usual, it is I that is seen as a curiosity, the butt of endless jokes; no matter what my achievements ever have been, regardless of how hard and diligently I work, despite my attempts to live a decent, honest life and to subjugate my own needs in order to devote my career to improving the lives of others. It's always my failings that are paraded, always my weaknesses that seem to foster delight and, as I hear Chris' girlfriend barking with laughter as he details yet another tale of my hopeless introversion and my emotional incognisance, I've had enough. Agitated now beyond measure, I leap to my feet and, without saying a word, I stalk off in search of Louisa.
Fortunately, it doesn't take me long to find her, standing out like a beacon to me as she does and, as she greets me with a relieved smile, and grasps my hand reassuringly, I feel an immediate and intense relief, as if I've finally discovered the one person in the universe who doesn't see me as a freakish conundrum or a flawed unappealing arse. Then, as always, the engulfing feelings of what I now realise is love are tempered by the deep, underlying concern that festers away in my mind; the niggling fear that, at some point, Louisa too will come to despise me. But, for now, regardless of who is watching us, heedless of judgement or opinion or reproach, I allow myself to be led by my hand, back to our table, finding myself almost mesmerised by the sway of her hips, enchanted by the perfect, unblemished skin of her neck and shoulders.
Of course, I think about leaving, about taking her arm now and guiding her through the crowd and outside to a waiting taxi. In less than fifteen minutes we could be alone in the safety of my flat, and this nightmare might be over. I feel the slightest pang of nervousness, the merest flash of apprehension as I anticipate the night to come. I can't imagine that it's possible to feel any more heightened emotionally than I do currently but the mental images that engulf me, and the deep, unfulfilled need in me that they trigger, become almost unbearable. I glance at my watch as we sit down and I tell myself half an hour; enough time to calm myself, settle Louisa in safely in one place, and head off in search of Sholto once more. If I can climb into that taxi tonight with Louisa on my arm and perhaps a clear new career option in my future, I can call the evening a success. I reach for the champagne bottle and, ignoring the smirking face of Chris Parsons, pour the remainder into her glass.
As she watches me, I realise that she is rather on edge too, casting vaguely concerned glances out into the throng and clutching for my hand again, as soon as I set down the empty bottle. She'd insisted that my father hadn't upset her but, as I gaze at her, I'm unconvinced. She runs through her gamut of anxious facial expressions; taut smiles, mirthless grimaces, and her ubiquitous, lower lip punishing, self-reflective stares.
"You seem upset..." I say, hesitantly, in as gentle a tone as my own anxiety allows.
She smiles at me, holding my gaze for a moment and squeezing my hand tightly.
"Do I?" She asks, as she darts another cautious glance over my shoulder. "Well, probably just a bit, you know, overcome by the occasion, Martin."
"Hmm." I reply quickly, frowning at her, my scepticism no doubt clearly visible across my face.
She smiles at me again, and this time there's a hint of her usual insouciance as she leans into my ear.
"You're not helping." She says in a low, quiet voice, as she gently strokes the ball of my thumb with hers. "Not surprising a girl might swoon with you looking like that."
I swallow hard
"Mmm." I hear myself say. "It's probably more likely that you are hungry, Louisa, and it wouldn't do you any harm to drink a lot more water than you do. One glass of water per standard unit of alcohol would be my recommendation, if you want to avoid dehydration and the resultant unpleasant hangover."
She is suddenly perfectly still, and I glance down at her, momentarily transfixed by the detailing on her dress. I wonder if she realises how beautiful she is, and how exquisite she looks tonight? I'm sure she does, how could she not? There's not a woman in the place who can hold a candle to her, everything about her is utterly perfect. No wonder my father could not believe she was here with me. Neither can I, it's nothing short of miraculous. She sits back and, as I look up, I realise that she's staring back at me, eyes narrowed, a speculative expression on her face. Her lips twitch as if she wants to say something and then I notice her expression soften. There's something in her gaze that I can't define but I do know for certain that never in my adult life has anyone ever looked at me like that. Affectionate and kind, somehow amused and benevolent, perhaps even with some semblance of understanding. For a moment, I almost don't care where we are, I so desperately want to kiss her. It's suddenly imperative, even crucial, that I find Sholto and Zalman STAT so that Louisa and I can finally abscond from this appalling event.
"Excuse me." I say, leaping to my feet, desperate to somehow imbue my lingering gaze with my intense need for her. "I must find Sholto again, and then we can leave."
"Okay..." I hear her say reluctantly, but I don't look back. To say that I am focused on my task is an understatement, so intent am I on drawing this evening to a close.
As I push my way through the crowd, with increasing impatience, I pass a few familiar faces, and though I do take the time to greet them, briefly and without fuss, I hope that the expression on my face rebuffs any attempt at engaging me further. I happen upon an old tutor, an anaesthetist I studied under when I was doing my initial surgical rotations; a genial, trustworthy fellow who I consider discrete enough that I can enquire if he has seen Sholto and our conversation will not end up broadcast from one end of the city to the other. Fortunately, he recalls that both Sholto and Zalman are presently in a little roped off area behind the bar, and he gestures towards a collection of large, potted palms arranged in the corner of the hall, adjacent to the stairs. Unfortunately, he informs me with a knowing grimace, Christopher Ellingham is holding court at that particular small party and, as I think about the possible implications, my heart sinks. Thanking him, I make my way closer, casting about for a private spot with which to observe the proceedings and, somewhat fortuitously, the tables closest to the musicians are both empty and reasonably private.
When one is my height, it is admittedly almost impossible to remain unseen in a crowd, no matter how casually anonymous I attempt to be. I did rather perfect the art of being unnoticed and unobtrusive at prep school, as a reasonably effective technique for self preservation. On the rare occasions that I spent time at home with my parents, the surest way to avoid a thrashing at the hands of my father was to be silent, unseen and anonymous. Even as a small boy, Auntie Joan used to tell me I was skulking, as I slipped quietly about her house, observing from the shadows and avoiding eye contact wherever possible. And I find myself employing the same tactics now, head down, drifting around the unattended side of the bar with the sole aim of sliding, unnoticed, into the poorly lit, empty seating.
I arrange the position of the chair carefully, selecting the best vantage point, satisfied that my wait will not be too long, entertaining the idea that I might have time to get my wildly fluctuating thoughts, and my rather extreme physical agitation, under some sort of control. I will give Sholto five minutes to emerge and then I will abandon this ridiculous, undignified charade. Sighing heavily, I turn around, snatch unconsciously at my trouser legs, and look up, directly into the cold, disapproving face of my mother, her eyes glittering like obsidian, her face a mask of contempt.
How common is it, I wonder, to feel such fear and loathing when, as a grown man and as an independent, well-educated professional, I am confronted with the woman that gave birth to me.
"Martin." She says icily. "I see your manners haven't improved."
"Mum." I hear myself say, as the word sticks in my throat, immediately rendering it raw and bruised.
She stares at me, critically, and I wait.
"Tell me," she says and I can already hear the vitriol in her voice. "Were you going to make the effort to greet your parents properly, or are you simply too busy, too sidetracked by self-interest?"
I raise my chin and gaze back at her, silently. She is nothing if not predictable.
"Who is she?" She growls at me, no longer even attempting to control her disgust.
I breathe out heavily, considering my options and realising that I have very few.
"Louisa." I reply after a moment, and my mother raises her eyes to the heavens impatiently.
"I know her name." She spits at me. "I want to know what she is to you. What your intentions are."
I pause, staring back at her equally as coldly,
"How I chose to live my life is none of your business."
"It is my business, you selfish stupid boy!" She snarls and, for a moment, I am transported, once again an eight year old bedwetter. "It defies belief that tonight, of all nights, you decide to heap disgrace upon your family name by bringing a gauche, ignorant embarrassing child to the celebration of your father's career."
I taste bile again and I realise it's the sensation that I associate most readily with my parents; a cloying distasteful feeling of nausea, and of hurt and shame.
"I will not tolerate it, Martin, do you understand?" She says, threateningly, her lips so thin and and furious that her mouth is merely an angry, vengeful slit.
My throat is dry and burned raw by acid, as if I have already vomited, rendered increasingly helpless by wracking waves of nausea. Her face forms into a condescending sneer. I try to swallow so that I can speak.
"Don't you dare! I repeat, it is absolutely none of your business what I do, or whom I see. And you know nothing about her!"
"Oh for god's sake, Martin. Are you a complete fool?" She stares at me incredulously, as if she had raised a half-wit? "Are you really telling me that you don't recognise her type? Girls like her are everywhere, loitering in Public Houses and Night Clubs, determined to catch themselves a wealthy man. Hunting in packs. Luring their victims with promiscuity and flattery. Drinking to excess, disreputable and vulgar. How can you be so undiscerning, so completely and stupidly naive?"
"You're wrong." I say after a moment, hating that my voice seems weak and tremulous.
"Tell me this then. Does she flatter you Martin? I suppose she can't keep her hands off you either can she? I bet she spotted you a mile off; she will have realised instantly how pathetically needy you are and now it seems you've fallen into her perfect honey trap."
I try desperately to ignore her but this is a mean spirited reproach that stings; her accusation of my neediness goes back as far as I can remember and, as always, it wounds me, opening as it does, old, very deep sores. Am I needy now, I wonder, and I recall my longing for Louisa's reassurance, my desperate need to be with her. And then I think about the compliments that she has paid me, even tonight, how I wanted so badly to believe her, despite my inherent cynicism, my continued incredulousness that she might, somehow find something about me attractive.
"Do you ever stop to ask yourself what on earth she sees in you?" My mother says slowly, her voice low and mean.
I hesitate and, now I can't bring myself to look at her. Instinctively, she seems to hone in on my deepest, unspoken fears, her blows raining down on my composure as if she were tenderising steak, stripping away my confidence, challenging any shred of my self-belief that remains.
"It is none of your business and I don't care what you think." I reply quietly, wincing as I feel the familiar pain of her derision.
She stares at me and I wonder, has any mother ever detested their son so wholly? For as long as I can remember, I'd looked up at her face and ached for her kindness, for some sign of love; desperate for any sort of indication of regard, affection or even interest. When I had no choice but to do as I was told, it seemed that she could tolerate me, as long as I was mostly away at school; out of her way, not under her feet, not crying, not needy, not bullied. The bitterness, the resentment, even the disdain; it all seemed to amplify when I received Henry's not-insubstantial legacy. I was finally independent, and out of her way yet it was then she seemed to want the greatest involvement in my life, to be the only influence on my decision-making. But I realised that I had no respect for her, that we had no foundation to build on, no shared happy memories, no connection, no joy. And so, somewhat by stealth, I'd rejected her, just as I too had been rejected. It had angered her then, just as it continues to infuriate her now.
"You always were a stubborn, strange little boy." She says in a low, cold growl. "If you want to publicly humiliate yourself there is clearly nothing I can do. I'm just very glad that your father and I won't be here to bear witness, to partake of your shame."
I lift my chin and stare at her again. I've felt nothing but shame my whole life; indeed both she and my father have been responsible for a great deal of it. Suddenly, I wish I could tell her that I'm glad she's leaving, that I feel only relief at the thought that I may never have to see her again but, of course, I don't. I just gag on the words as the pain of her distaste for me once again threatens to throttle me.
She fixes me with her superior gaze, her disdain for me now palpable. The derision she heaps upon me seems to well from an endless source. I thought that, if I'd stayed out of their way, studied hard, achieved moderate success then perhaps they might think better of me but to finally realise that I am so intrinsically flawed that my own mother finds me abhorrent, is almost unbearable. I fight back tears, desperate not to reveal anything that will cause her to despise me more.
"Very well, Martin, it seems you've made your bed." She says, haughtily, as if I am a child who refuses to eat his supper. "Just don't come crying to me when Louise traps herself a flashy footballer with a bigger chequebook. Girls of her class, that's what they want you know. Showy, nouveau riche types, with their faces always in the tabloids..."
She pauses and looks me in the eye, her expression as callous as I have ever seen it.
"Footballers, Martin. Not awkward, charmless dullards, playing at surgeons." She growls, enunciating each word with a ferocious cold cruelty.
I feel myself shrinking, my shoulders hunch and the breath seems to have been squeezed from my lungs, leaving me feeling contracted, shrunken and somehow diminished. I know this is exactly what she intended, I clearly understand her purpose and I know that I must get away from her. I excuse myself with as much dignity as I can muster, and walk stiffly, her words ringing in my ear. Deafening, ominous and distressingly credible.