I'm not sure where I'm going, all I'm conscious off is the incessant noise, vibrating at a frequency that sets my teeth on edge; painful and disconnecting, as if I have sudden- onset Hyperacusis and the world is now a deafening and excruciating place. Everyone appears to be roaring to make themselves heard, and what was laughter now seems like hysteria, the chinking of glass pierces me like an inexorable tinnitus; a sensation only exacerbated by my tightly clenched jaw, and the pressing of the crowd as it folds in and around me.

I pause by the tail of the Diplodocus in an attempt to gather my wits, reaching for my spare handkerchief to wipe my unusually damp palms dry. It is ironic that I thought only of Louisa's welfare when I brought a spare with me and yet, glancing across at our table, it's obvious that she is not only safe and seemingly relaxed but she has now assembled what appears to be a coterie of admirers, her attention now focused on Bernard Newton, fixing him with a smile that is dazzling, even at this distance. Watching her assails me with a suffocating combination of desire and dread; though my feelings for her are indisputable, and my physical and emotional craving to be with her is undiminished, it's a fear that I have previously been able to bury, that begins to claw itself, grimly and determinedly, to the surface.

From this distance, it's a light-hearted, cordial scene and I feel a pang of regret that, as usual, I am merely a distant observer, struggling to get my burgeoning fears under control; the circumstances of the evening merely exacerbating how devoid I am of the inclination to socialise. I notice Bernard's wife, Lillian I believe she is called, a very pleasant woman whom I recall rather fondly, seated next to Louisa. Robert Dashwood, has appeared too, making a spectacle of himself in a white dinner jacket and a grey metallic tie that appears to have been selected to match his hair. Chris, too, of course, because he can't help himself, even Bernard, all fawning over Louisa, entranced and attentive and, no doubt, utterly charming.

And, in a moment, if I rejoin them, there is no doubt that the mood will change, the laughter will cease and a difficult silence will inevitably descend. An awkward, charmless dullard, my mother called me and I can't fault the accuracy of her description. Which just makes it all the more gut-wrenching to observe Louisa, the most beautiful woman in the room, admired by all who lay eyes on her, surrounded by men of wit and intelligence, and it is incredibly painful to realise that I have fooled myself into hoping that I could ever be enough for her. It is an agonising conclusion to arrive at, dreadful and debilitating, more resemblant of being slowly overcome by a river of molten lava than instantly struck dead by a bolt of lightning but, miserably, just as terminal.

As I stand, observing her, engulfed by a growing sense of hopelessness, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I hear my father's voice, it deflates me instantly, and I feel a horrible sense of dread at his touch; certainly no sensation of fatherly affection, never an impression of nurture, of paternal interest for I know only too well that he lays his hand on me to either control or to punish, never to encourage or reward. His presence renders me completely and utterly enervated; crestfallen and exhausted, yet I find the will to shake off his unwelcome grip, as I turn to face him.

"Martin. A word." He says coldly, the expression on his face depressingly familiar.

I wonder how many times, as a child, I cringed at that look. Strange how the same eyes in the face of my Auntie Joan can be so kind, so full of love and comfort yet, as I glance cautiously at her brother, all I see is an all-too-familiar remoteness, a disconnected and disinterested old man, still attempting to intimidate me with his aura of violence and disapproval. Christopher Ellingham, cold-eyed and bitter, reprimanding me for the inconvenience he feels in having to belt the bejesus out of me, chastising me for interrupting him with my neediness and my vexatious questions, banishing me to the cupboard under the stairs while telling me how much harder it is for him to be disciplinarian than it is for me to suffer the endless hours of solitary darkness. It was always my apparent misbehaviour, usually as a result of my insatiable curiosity, that apparently forced his hand, mostly at the behest of my mother, so his opening gambit comes as no surprise to me.

"Your mother's upset." He says firmly.

"I can't help that." I reply, raising my chin and staring at him, in a pitiful attempt at defiance.

He looks at me and his eyes narrow.

"I think we had better step outside, don't you?"

He turns to walk away and all I feel is resignation; a broken-spirited emptiness that sees me robotically adopting my old survival tactics: the sooner the infraction is faced up to, and the punishment is meted out, the better. Delaying the inevitable just make everything worse, angry blows rain down even harder, better to listen to him now, all the time reminding myself that I may never have to see him again. He strides briskly to a side door, and we find ourselves in a large, walled courtyard. It's actually a relief to be outside, as the cool air hits my burning face, and once again, I wipe my hands on my handkerchief, jamming it back into my pocket quickly in case he should identify my discomfort. He stops abruptly and swings around to face me, his expression a combination of frustration and irritation.

"So, are you serious about this girl?" He says, his voice curt and demanding.

"That's none of your business." I reply, mulishly, holding his gaze with an icy, unblinking stare of my own.

Experience has taught me to tell neither of my parents anything about my life, to keep my distance, for the less they know, the more limited their opportunities are for criticism, negativity, and even, occasionally, sabotage. My father's expectations of me are mysterious and ever-changing; his parameters shift rapidly and without notification. Currently, I realise that my professional achievements must be good enough to seem worthy of the family name but not so impressive that I ever might threaten to eclipse his career. He sighs, and his shoulders slump, almost theatrically.

"Listen to me, Martin, believe it or not, I do understand."

I feel myself frowning, unused to this conciliatory tone, and I immediately prepare for an ambush; it is entirely conceivable that he has discovered an unexpected angle from which to attack me because the idea of him understanding anything about me is, frankly, implausible.

"Your mother doesn't understand though, and therein lies your problem." He says simply, folding his arms across his chest and smiling at me, as if we are co-conspirators, facing the same adversary; the captain and the bowler discussing field placings at mid-on.

He glances down at his feet in a manner that almost suggests discomfort, even a reluctance to continue.

"Look, Martin...I've tried to explain to her...delicately of course that, as hard as it is to believe, her son will have...needs... like every other man on the planet but, you see...she's a woman, she can't quite grasp the concept...So she's upset."

I stare at him, incapable of hiding the disgust I feel for both he and my mother. As much as I find them generally abhorrent, I suppose their parenting has been successful in some ways; despite making me feel inadequate and a burden that could never measure up to their standards, I was self-sufficient from a young age, self disciplined and driven to succeed and more importantly, I learned the value of privacy, discretion and emotional restraint. Consequently, I stare back, unresponsive, as steely and determined to repel him as he is to come between Louisa and me.

"The fact is, your mother believes this girl to be a fortune hunter." He says, abandoning his usual belligerence for a quieter tone of speech, intimating that he is on my side. "And I'll be honest with you, I'm not sure what to think. I'll admit, she's quite a girl and, Martin, I personally don't blame you at all for wanting a bit of that for yourself...but I do wonder why you felt the need to bring her here tonight? Didn't you even consider how upsetting it might be for Margaret, umm, for your mother?"

"I fail to see what business any of this is of either of you." I reply quickly, fighting to stay calm, incensed at his suggestions and recalling, furiously, that it was his insulting and condescending behaviour that forced me into purchasing tickets for this godforsaken function in the first place.

"You really don't have a clue about anything, do you? You're like a child!" He growls at me, unable to maintain his facade of geniality, his voice again dripping with derision. "For god's sake, bonk her on the side, set her up in a flat if you must, no one will even turn a hair. But do us all a favour and think it through properly before you do irreparable harm to your future prospects. She's not the sort of girl that's going to open doors for you. She won't help your career! I mean, who are her family? Who does she know?"

I stare at him, swallowing hard, trying to control my heart rate. I've tolerated so much at his hands throughout my entire life; thoughtless violence, endless criticism, a litany of humiliations, but I don't think I've ever wanted to hit him as much as I do at this minute. For the second time tonight, I feel it; the red mist descending, and it twists my face into an enraged grimace. My hands clench at my sides and I want overwhelmingly to smash my fist into his smug, pompous face.

"Enough!" I snarl at him ferociously. "Don't your dare defile her with your disgusting double standards!" I take a step forward, adrenals exploding into action, every muscle in my body tense, all the time knowing with a sense of humiliation that, while I could flatten him, I won't, despite the goading expression on his face, the superior smile that distorts his thin pale lips.

"For gods sake, Have you taken leave of your senses?" He barks at me in disbelief, fixing me with the coldest in his arsenal of condescending stares. "Has Joan put you up to this? Following her lead? Sticking it to your family by shagging some local yokel and rubbing it in our faces? Hmm?"

All I can feel now is the pounding of my heart in my chest. Of course, I refuse to engage with him physically and, if I try and walk away, he will label me a coward. As I look into his icy, pale blue eyes, I'm only too familiar with his derogatory expression and his jeering tone. I recall the times I was cornered by bullying boys in my dorm. I never fought back then either. All I can do is keep my chin up, stare at him unflinchingly, and wait for him to tire of baiting me.

"I think you had better go back to your guests." I reply with as much vitriol as I can muster, my voice low and strangled almost beyond recognition.

He sighs, exasperated and impatient.

"Martin, listen to me! You're like a lamb to the slaughter." He says slowly, his expression pained as if he were explaining something to an mentally-defective child. "You have no idea what you are getting yourself into. She's not interested in you, how could she be, I mean, really?"

All I can do is to shake my head at him, as if my denial will make any difference to my parents obvious opinion of me as completely and hopelessly unloveable. I open my mouth to speak, but no words appear and, unerringly, he detects my hesitation, zeroing in on my susceptibility.

"I'm warning you, son. Stop and think. Getting involved with her, getting tangled up with a girl like that will be a disaster. You come from different worlds, you will want different things, and you know what you're like. You must know that you will inevitably disappoint her. You must know you couldn't possibly make her happy..."

His words are like a bayonet to my abdomen. All my fears, all my insecurities, targeted with pin-point accuracy. I try to lift myself, to raise my chin and stare at him but the muscles in my neck seem atrophied, as if the weight of my anguish is too much for them, and they too surrender, only too ready to cause me to hang my head in shame..

"Look at yourself, Martin, for goodness sake." He spits at me impatiently. "What on earth would a girl like that see in you? If you are too stubborn to save yourself, then think about her. She seems like a sweet girl, she doesn't deserve a lifetime of unhappiness..."

I am asphyxiating now. There is no oxygen, only doubt and dread and the agony of having my endless well of self-doubt verbalised by a triumphant adversary, as if his announcing of my insecurities aloud renders them even more powerful. I don't care much about my own happiness. I'm not even sure I understand the concept really, but the thought of being responsible for the obliteration of Louisa's joy, the idea of extinguishing her optimism and burnishing her glow, renders me speechless with despair.

I hear a strange gurgling sound in my throat and I just want to scream at him to shut up. I need to think, I need to try and quiet the chorus of jeering voices in my head, voices which I am starting to realise, sound depressingly similar to the thin, pale man who stands before me. But, of course, he refuses to be silenced, and I realise that he won't desist until he has carved me up and I am, on the ground, exsanguinating before him.

"I've seen this before, Martin, and I know you, she will end up hating you and then it will cost you everything you own to get rid of her."

And there it is. After nearly thirty years of belittling and rejection, I have finally had enough, culminating in this seminal moment, my ultimate effort at defiance, my last repudiation of what is left of his power over me. My father has seem me bent and cowed so many times, but he will never see me broken. As much as I doubt myself, and the idea that I might not make her happy finds the fertile loam of my terrified imagination, I have no reason to entertain the thought that Louisa might be an opportunist, a gold-digger, or anything less than what I know her in my heart to be. He can say what he will about me but I cannot let him disparage her.

"You know nothing about me. You could never be bothered to find out." I say slowly, in an icy, ominous voice that emerges from somewhere deep and disconnected within my rapidly rising and falling chest. "We are done here. Go back inside, primp and prance in front of those vapid obsequious morons you call friends, but don't ever approach me again. Do I make myself clear?"

He eyeballs me for several seconds, and then I hear it. His pitiless, gloating bray of a laugh, a callous declaration of his superiority in all things, with the capacity to instantly shred my composure to ribbons. I am not a violent man, despite my size I never have been so inclined, but there is something about the sound that makes me desperate to silence him. I briefly imagine myself in theatre, amputating his tongue, performing a Laryngectomy and suturing his thin, mean lips closed and, as I notice how deep the lines in his face have become, how he too has lost his polish, and his aura of invincibility, I'm throughly appalled at how satisfying I find the fantasy of permanently gagging him to be.

He smiles at me, a patronising sneer, the final expression of his contempt for me, and he slowly turns and walks away, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets and shaking his head, scornfully. The stoop is definitely obvious, and a definite unevenness of gait; his hip possibly or even his sacrum, a possible clue to his relatively early retirement. When he has disappeared from my sight, and I have made my escape from this torturous evening, I will bury his memory, I will banish his very existence to the furthest reaches of my mind. However far my career takes me, whatever I achieve, will be done on my own merit. There will be no special handshakes, no vile city clubs, no golf tournaments, no dubious charities, no mutual back scratching and, most definitely, no propitious marriages.

Of course, painful as they are, my thoughts can't help but return to Louisa and, as mental exhaustion overtakes me, I glance around for somewhere to retreat to. I long for silence, and for solitude; for a dark, anonymous place to sit and try desperately to regather the fraying threads of my equanimity. Without caring about its state of cleanliness, I slump onto a bench. Self doubt is a heavy burden, and so I have become an expert at avoiding situations where it might occur, until now, a point in time when all my failings have been exposed. The fact is, everyone who knows me, even vaguely, is surprised that Louisa is with me. Even those that don't say it are thinking it, wondering what on earth she sees in me; for god's sake I've honestly spent most of the last month or so wrestling with the concept myself.

Blundering onward with little more than blind hope is all very well but can I really bear to continue, knowing how it will inevitably end? Should I walk away now while she still has a shred of respect for me, before she really gets to know how intrinsically flawed I really am, a realisation that might cause her to despise me? I absolutely couldn't bear that. So, as much as it hurts so desperately to acknowledge the fact, in the long term she must be better off without me. If I truly love her as much as I think I do, then I must only care about her long term well being. Because, if I am honest, I have no doubt that, with her youth on her side, her optimism and her endless personal attributes, she is bound to be able to move on quickly.

On the other hand, as I sit in the fading light, I wonder how I will manage my own grief, as I contemplate the loss of her. It honestly feels like the very end of hope, and the realisation hits me like a wave of nausea. I lean forward, elbows on my knees, and my head in my hands. The pain is almost unbearable; asphyxiating and overpowering, and my breath comes in heavy, shuddering gasps. Just when I thought I'd found a mooring, a safe place to anchor, the safe harbour has become a turbulent whirlpool, a freezing, bottomless lake, a sinking dinghy in shark-infested waters. As my father's prophetic words ring in my ears, I am filled with a miserable, impotent rage; suddenly furious and resentful that life has bestowed on me such a flawed personality, that experience and education has formed me not into a successful, well rounded individual but into a man incapable of normal social behaviour; one who is difficult, unpleasant, and unworthy of even of his parent's love.

I breathe deeply, desperate to calm myself, and of course it is obvious how I will manage my imminent despair, the utter heartbreak that I know awaits me. I will cope in the only way I know how. Medicine has never and will never let me down. I will retreat into Science with all its predictability; I will take refuge in that which is unemotional, logical, and factual. I am safe in the knowledge that there will always be research and ongoing study to fill any free hours, if my dedication offers any spare. Vascular surgery is a cutting edge discipline and, if I choose to submit to it entirely, it will consume me, mercifully leaving me no time or energy to even consider anything else.

Burying myself in my work is such a familiar concept that, as miserable as it may seem, I do have a glimmer of a way forward, until I imagine myself returning home to my empty flat each night for the rest of my life and, suddenly, it's all too much. I find myself fighting back tears again and I press the heels of my hands, as hard as I can, into my eye sockets. I suck in deep shuddering breaths that threaten to become something infinitely more humiliating, as I beseech myself not to weep; the final indignity, the ultimate in shame. As I fight exhaustion and hopelessness, I think of the absolute horror of being discovered, sobbing like a child, all my emotions exposed to my colleagues. The thought is simply too appalling to contemplate, no one must see me like this, and I fight to pull myself together.

"Martin?"

My head flies up in horror, and I scramble to sit up straight, wiping the back of one hand across my eyes, and searching desperately for my handkerchief with the other, aghast at my discovery.

"Are you alright?" She says cautiously. "I was worried about you. Sholto came looking for you but no one knew where you were..."

I glance at her awkwardly, embarrassed and uncertain. I swallow hard, fighting for composure and I notice that Louisa, too, looks uncomfortable, absently twisting the handle of her little bag as she frowns at me, her eyes huge and concerned.

"Are you coming back inside? They're about to serve dinner, and..."

"Louisa, I can't...I'm just...you should go back inside...I need to go home."

She frowns and takes a few steps toward me, staring down at me, her beautiful face contorted by confusion. The worst part of my job is having to tell families that their loved ones didn't survive surgery, that their injuries were too severe, that we did all we could, but we were unable to save them, yet I would rather spend the next five years of my life breaking tragic news to grieving loved ones than have to tell Louisa that I can't see her again.

"I'm sorry, what did you just say?" She asks, somewhat more tersely, gazing at me incredulously.

I can't look at her any more so I stare down at my hands, twisting my ring around my finger so viciously that I break the skin. I don't know what I can possibly say that will make her understand. I just know I must do this for her sake.

"Louisa, please understand that I'm trying to protect you." I say, and I feel myself assuming a different tone; cool and detached, and I realise that, despite the fact that I love her desperately, and my heart is breaking, I have become Mr. Martin Ellingham, M.D B.S FRCS, emotionless deliverer of bad news.

"Protect me? I don't understand." She says, and there's a hint of panic in her voice. "Martin, what are you going on about?"

"I'm sorry Louisa, but I've become aware of...certain facts, indubitable truths I suppose and...I...I think it's best if...if..."

She steps forward and stands over me. She looks frightened and, momentarily, I can't speak, I can't elaborate, such is the pain in my chest. I'm aware that Takotsubo cardiomyopathy usually resolves itself after a few months but I fear that the agony of losing her will live with me forever.

"What?" She says, her voice strangled and breathless.

"I need to go home." I say dully. "By myself."

"I see." She says, but she plainly doesn't. Her face clearly shows only hurt and confusion and, though I know I am solely to blame, I can't find the words to explain. How can I?

"Is this about your mother?" She says, after a moment and I glance up at her, expecting to see her eyes flashing and a spirited toss of her head, but all I see is sadness and resignation.

I look away quickly, lowering my head and staring at the ground

"Oh." She replies and her voice is now full of sorrow. "Right. So that's it. She doesn't think I'm good enough for you."

"Louisa..." I say, but she interrupts me and immediately I see the slow, burning return of her indignation.

"Okay, well I suppose, when you look at it, I'm not exactly de Bretts bloody peerage am I? Mum gone, god knows where, dad in prison, country accent, borrowed sodding shoes."

I glance at her shoes. I feel a ridiculous sense of relief that they aren't hers before it dawns on me that, like everything else about her, it's none of my business any more.

"Louisa, please believe me when I tell you that whatever my parent's opinion of you, whatever it is they think of you, it doesn't matter to me. Not at all."

"Right. So they have said something..."

"This is not about them, it's not even about you."

She's now refusing to look at me, her brow knotted, her expression petulant and unhappy. As I knew I would, I'm making a ham fisted attempt at this. I'm making it worse for her, I'm hurting her more than I need to, and I hate myself for it. Everything seems so logical in my head, and I must make her understand. I must make another attempt at explaining it to her.

"Louisa, what are you doing here?" I ask her, my voice flat, catching in my throat.

"What?" She asks, lifting her head slowly, and staring at me, a little ominously, her forehead creased with a confused frown, her jaw tight and angry.

"With me. Why?" I reply quietly

"You asked me, Martin" She replies and I see a flash of annoyance in her eyes.

"I don't mean here...just now...I mean us. The last month..."

"I'm sorry, but what is this all about?" She interrupts and for a moment our eyes lock together. "You're scaring me."

"Louisa...What if...what if you realised that I would never make you happy? That a future with me, if we had one, would be just dull and empty and cold...that I could never give you what you deserve...would you still want it? That future, I mean?"

As I watch her, I can see change in her expression as the realisation hits her, as my words sink in, as she realises the sad miserable truth, the legitimacy of my question, the painful honesty required of her answer. She sighs and then I notice that she is now biting down hard on her lip. After a moment, she takes my hand in hers, her grasp so soft and warm, her touch so gentle that I fear my heart will actually tear apart in my chest. She sighs again, this time more heavily, and I wait for what is coming; a resigned squeeze of my hand, an acknowledgement, perhaps resignation, perhaps even relief. In the end though, the conclusion will be the same; she will accept that I am right, she might express regret, she may even cast a pitying glance at me but then, as inevitably as night follows day, she will walk away from me forever.

"Louisa?" I repeat quietly, my voice husky and deep as my chest becomes an empty, hollow void.

Without letting go of my hand she slides onto the bench next to me. I can see how hard she is breathing now, the rapid rise and fall of her chest indicates that she is reasonably upset. As is usual for me, I have no idea how she will react, angry possibly, sorry and sad perhaps, but as I turn slightly to glance at her, all I see are her eyes narrowing as her face becomes thoughtful and contemplative.

"Martin, who's put you up to this?" She says, after a moment, shifting sideways to face me. "What have they said? I don't know what's going on but I do know that this seems like it's our first test, and it also feels like we're failing..."

I swallow hard.

"I think...I mean I don't think...I will ever be enough for you..."

"But that's rubbish! Is this your mum, saying stuff like this to you?" Her tone is now incensed and she grips my hand so tightly now that it feels as if she is wringing out my fingers like an old chamois leather.

"Mmm" I mumble, feeling myself enveloped by a jumble of guilt and misery and disappointment and failure, not even having the energy to wonder how Louisa has so quickly and accurately appraised the situation. I realise that I can hear a strange humming in my ears, that my mouth tastes salty and, with every movement of my head, it jars disconcertingly, as if I have jet lag.

She leans in to me and it's almost unbearable. I close my eyes momentarily, but I can't avoid the overwhelming sensation of her closeness. I attempt to straighten myself, to at least maintain some semblance of dignity but I still find myself averting my gaze. Unfortunately for me, there's no part of her, especially when she is this close, that I can look at without feeling a painfully acute sense of loss.

"It was pretty obvious that she didn't like me."

"Why didn't you tell me that you'd spoken to her?"

"P'raps it was my way of trying to protect you. I mean, you've not exactly been relaxed tonight, have you?" She flashes me an uncomfortable grimace. "But at least now I sorta know why. I wish you'd just, you know, told me though...what they were really like."

"Yes."

"And while all this has been going on between you and your parents, I've just been stood inside listening to everyone singing your praises. Lining up to tell me what an outstanding student you were. What a brilliant surgeon you are...What endless potential you have. I'm in there, realising how extraordinary you are, feeling totally overawed actually Martin, then, I come out here and you've suddenly developed a mad inferiority complex?"

I can't think of anything to say. I should have expected that Louisa might not accept my arbitrary decision on our behalf but I suppose I'd hoped she wouldn't make it this difficult for me. For a moment my resolve weakens. I rub my eyes and I realise that my head has started to ache rather severely.

"You know, if my mum turned up, out of the blue and told me I wasn't good enough for you," she says softly. "I'd like to think I wouldn't take any notice."

Before I can respond, she relinquishes her grip on my hand, and I feel the sensation of her fingers ruffling my hair, as she gazes at me thoughtfully. I feel her thumb doing small circles on my temple; it's a surprisingly intense sensation and it almost renders me helpless. Strange how the same action, when applied by another, feels so much more pleasurable than doing it oneself. I close my eyes, and bask in the relieving sensation of her touch.

"In fact," She continues earnestly, her voice now as slow and intense as the movement of her hands around my aching head. "I know I wouldn't take any notice. My mum made me feel not good enough either, you know, when she chose Javier over me. My dad made me feel not good enough when he chose driving a bloody getaway car over taking care of me. They brought me into the world and then they couldn't be bothered looking after me. As if fourteen years old isn't hard enough...never mind being abandoned and feeling, well, unloved..."

"Mmm." I say gently, reluctantly opening my eyes. "I remember. It was, umm, it was a very difficult time for you."

"Funny isn't it then, that both of us really, have been, you know, made to feel like we just aren't good enough...but not by each other..."

She glances across at me.

"Even though I was just an annoying kid, you never made me feel like I wasn't good enough. You were kind, when you didn't have to be, Martin, you said things to me that made me feel like I did have value, that I did have potential and I...ummm...I..."

I watch her face and I'm surprised to see her lips forming words without sound. I'm not familiar with a Louisa who has been rendered speechless and, without thinking, I push her to finish her sentence. For some reason, her words have given me the faintest feeling of hope and, unusually for me, I just want her to keep talking.

"And, you..what?" I say, raising an eyebrow at her quizzically.

Smiling at me hesitantly, she slides her hand around the side of my neck, running her thumb gently across my cheek.

"And..." She continues, as I watch her swallow hard, and she focuses her attention intently at the side of my head. " I realise, Martin that, actually, I...have...ummm... I have been in love with you ever since..."

For a nanosecond, I exist in a sort of distorted reality; a house of mirrors, an intangible dimension, a light speed vortex. Though it occurs to me that this all might be a mirage, a mere trick of the light, I must crawl towards it, for I must discover for myself if it is real, for it is so oddly disconcerting to hear that sort of sentiment spoken aloud, and know that it is meant for me. Wordlessly, I reach up, envelop her hand in mine, gently lowering it to my mouth, and kissing inside of her wrist. I am inarticulate at the best of times, but speech now completely eludes me. Indescribable feelings overwhelm me and render me virtually paralysed. All I can do is to glance up at her self consciously, hoping that somehow, she understands how I feel. I lower her hand onto my knee, reluctant to let go as I realise how close I came to losing her forever, choking on a strange combination of gratitude and relief and desire.

Of course she notices my reaction immediately; I see her face change, her mouth curves into a smile and she assumes her utterly intoxicating expression of insouciance, her eyes sparkling in that way that so indicates I am about to be completely it of my depth.

"So, are you still going to dump me then, Martin?" She says airily and, as she maintains eye contact with me, I feel her fingers caressing my hand.

I swallow hard. I am feeling as mentally exhausted as I ever did as a sleep-deprived registrar. My cognitive abilities appear to have temporarily deserted me. I allow myself the luxury of revelling in her touch, surrendering to the onset of stupefaction. I inhale; a deep, relieving release of pressure

"Clearly, I...didn't think it through." I mutter, as I relinquish control, surrendering entirely as she leans towards me and, once again, her fingers are in my hair and, exquisitely, her mouth finds mine.

So gentle, the pressure so infinitesimal, her lips barely parted as she kisses me. I am immersed in the stillness of the moment, transfixed by sensation; the touch of her mouth so incredibly delicate, so subtle and yet it renders me helpless. Can this really be what tenderness feels like, I wonder, revelling in a sensation so previously unknown to me yet one that now feels so vital, so imperative, and so utterly divine? The more feathery her touch, the more intense it seems; it is miraculous to me that such a subtle act, the most gossamer-light of touches, can elicit such an exquisite burn, such a mesmerising heat. Of course this must be tenderness and, of course, it must mean something. And, if she really does love me, then it means everything.

I reach up and grasp her wrists, enveloping her hands in mine and pulling them down to her lap, leaning back slightly to gaze at her as our fingers entwine; suddenly she is shy and hesitant, her eyes so soft and so very beautiful as she smiles nervously back at me.

"We should go." I say quietly, and my voice sounds husky and breathless.

I stand up and pull her to her feet. She nods and I lean forward to kiss her on the forehead, pressing my lips against her as fervently as any pilgrim that had travelled thousands of miles to kiss the hand of a sacred deity might. I feel instantly uplifted, re-oxygenated and inflamed and, it is suddenly even more imperative that we leave immediately. I can barely take my eyes off her now, somehow the anticipation is almost too much; as if to hurry her up, I give her hand an encouraging squeeze

She smiles almost knowingly and, as she turns to follow me, I hear her give a horrified gasp. Startled, I look up and, standing some fifteen feet behind us is my mother, stepping out from the dusky shadows, with an aggrieved expression, as if she has somehow suffered a great injustice, clouding her shocked face. I wonder with abject horror how long she has been standing there and I glare back at her with complete and utter disgust.

"What do you want?" I demand, and my voice once again contorts to a low angry growl.

"Martin." She says sweetly, "The buffet is about to be served. Your father and I would like you to join us. We have a spare seat. On the official table. It's only for the Guests of Honour, you know."

I stare at her in disbelief as the fierceness of Louisa's grip on my hand is indicative of what she thinks of my mother's suggestion.

"I don't think so." I reply, disdainfully, and I glare at her, momentarily wondering if she has lost her mind. "We're leaving."

"But, the speeches Martin, surely you must want to stay for the speeches?" She says, imploringly, reaching out with her arm as if to beckon me toward her.

Still grasping Louisa's hand tightly in my own, I pause in front of my mother and stare down my nose at her, feeling nothing but revulsion; both for her and everything she stands for.

"Actually, Mum, I've had about as much of this odious occasion as I can possibly stomach." I reply icily, speaking slowly and clearly to ensure that she understands every word, every sentiment, the absolute minutiae of my disgust. "I don't think I can stand one more minute of your particularly tedious brand of frippery, or the sycophantic parasites you call friends."

Her expression darkens but I feel absolutely nothing; certainly no guilt and definitely no remorse. As I glance down at her, I'm struck by how faded she seems, how grey and cold she appears, even how sallow and dull her skin is. I'm almost shocked by her grim colourlessness, her drab, two-dimensional blandness and, most importantly, how powerless she seems. Oddly, I feel no shock nor even pity, in fact the realisation of her diminishment seems to invigorate me somewhat and, instead of feeling like I am running away, I feel almost back in control, as if walking out of this appalling event, somehow wrests back my vitality from her claw-like grasp. I glance down at Louisa, so warm and glowing, so joyful and alive, and I feel a strange and disconcerting sense of triumph.

I hold the door open for her and we quickly pass through it without a backwards glance. As we re-enter the main hall, I notice that most, if not all of the guests are now seated, and there are crowded tables as far as the eye can see. Without the milling throngs to impede our progress, our retreat should be rapid, and I am relieved because I have no intention of staying one moment longer than necessary at this ridiculous bacchanalian farce. Unfortunately, to get to the exit, Louisa and I will have to walk almost the entire length of the rather long room, thus running the gamut of every prying eye, and every whispered judgement but, in my current emotionally overwrought state, tense and exhausted, I no longer care. An affectation of my usual composure comes easily to me; I'm well practiced at always presenting myself publicly as supremely confident, self-assured and in total control, and this moment is no exception.

As we make our way along the corridor between the tables and the enormous diplodocus skeleton, I avoid eye-contact with anyone, staring haughtily into the middle distance. If my state of agitation makes itself obvious at all, it's when we pass my father, seated with his appalling cronies, and I find myself suddenly very protective of Louisa, almost overcome by a slightly alarming sense of possessiveness. Spontaneously, my arm comes up to steady her, to shield her, and, before I even realise it, my hand rests on her lumbar spine, my fingers sliding around the curve of her hip as we pass directly in front of him. Louisa glances up at me, flashing a gentle and encouraging smile and I barely know myself as a gentle squeeze of my hand pulls her even closer. I'm almost too drained and depleted to care what anyone else thinks, it only matters to me how she feels and, since we seem to have fallen into step quite comfortably, my hand remains affixed to her, and I only remove it, reluctantly, to open the door to the antechamber, and our merciful escape.