With my fingers resting lightly on the small of her back I follow her toward a table at the far corner of the room. We are led by a rather pompous waiter, one who mistakenly assumes I am unequal to the task of identifying our dinner companions in a space as small as this. I glance surreptitiously at my watch; we are several minutes late, a situation that Louisa cheerfully assured me that she was happy to take the blame for, fixing me with her narrow-eyed, cautionary stare as I continued to grumble at her in the back of taxi. Truthfully, I'd expected her to point out that the fault was mine; that I had provided so little in the way of advanced warning she'd been unable to assemble everything she needed, but to my surprise she'd remained discretely silent. Instead, she'd communicated her opinion rather implicitly, her eyes flashing and her jaw setting momentarily in that firm, disapproving twist I am so familiar with. But, as the driver had pulled out into the traffic, her eagerness had returned, and she'd reached for my hand, squeezing it encouragingly, like an emphatic exclamation mark at the end of each breathless sentence.
"How are you feeling?" She'd asked me, the green of her eyes so intense as she gazed at me, her eyelashes impossibly long and dark.
"I'm fine." I'd answered, truthfully.
"But it is sort of like a job interview, isn't it? So it would only be natural to be a bit nervous."
"Would it?" I replied, with a vague shrug of my shoulders. "I can't say I feel any sort of concern, other than what might be on the menu, obviously, and whether Sholto will have selected a restaurant with reasonable standards of cleanliness."
"Yes Martin, god forbid you might have to ignore a streaky glass or a greasy spoon just because of a fantastic opportunity to advance your career." She said, shaking her head at me, an insolent teenage grin transforming her mature and elegant demeanour.
"Any indication of poor hygiene standards should be taken seriously, regardless of the occasion." I replied, perhaps slightly more pompously than I'd intended.
"Well, with a name like 'L'Anglais Imperieux' it's hardly gonna be a kebab shop is it?" She retorted, laughing at me, as I pretend to remove invisible specks of lint from my freshly dry cleaned suit.
Perched beside me, she is so animated, so beautiful and irrepressible that I realised I, too, even feel rather a pleasant sense of anticipation. What threatened to be rather an awkward and uninspiring evening is rendered infinitely more tolerable by Louisa's presence at my side. It's an unusual idea and it had first really struck me when she'd finally emerged from the bathroom. I'd managed to control my reaction of course, glancing up at her impassively and muttering under my breath that the taxi was waiting, impatient and disapproving like some miserable old curmudgeon. But, as she gathered her things, and her focus was elsewhere, I'd found myself staring at her once more, experiencing a strange combination of relief and incredulity and gratitude. Louisa has her own inimitable style and, tonight, her dress is so feminine and well fitting it is as if she has been sewn into the garment. Her hair is up in some sort of fantastically complicated arrangement and I find it rather incredible to think that her transformation, her metamorphosis, might have been undertaken principally for me.
I'm not quite sure I deserve it, though, in my own inarticulate way I'd tried to explain the circumstances of the evening, and why I'd been so reluctant to involve her in it. In all honesty, Louisa would have been justified if she were in fact upset with me. In my fear and indecision, I'd only sprung the invitation on her when she'd forced my hand; to my horror, she'd suggested a visit to the cinema and, rather guiltily, I'd had to admit to my prior engagement. Of course, I'd braced myself for a volatile reaction but, in fact, she'd listened with surprising equanimity. I had attempted to convey my reasoning to her, of course, delivering a sadly lacklustre explanation of the qualms and apprehension that had driven my decision. But, by some miracle, apparently she understood, miraculously even seeming delighted at the prospect of an event I'd assumed she would find utterly tedious.
"I don't know much about French food." She'd said, casually, glancing at me sideways as she pretended to examine her nails. "Unless, you know, you count French fries...and French Toast of course. I had that once...with bacon...and icing sugar, I believe it was..."
I'd raised an eyebrow at her, not even attempting to hide my distaste.
"I believe I can categorically state that neither of those things will be on the menu tonight, Louisa." I told her. "We're not dining at a Transport Cafe."
To my covert and undisclosed satisfaction, we arrive at the restaurant together, a side street building only elevated from the mundane by the generous bunting that decorates the facade; hundreds of tiny le Tricolore that flap languidly in the mild evening breeze. Holding the door open for her, I've barely stepped inside myself before she is swooped on by the portly maître d'; gushing, and insistent on relieving Louisa of the jacket she carries casually over her arm. She glances at me, a bemused and awkward smile on her face and I hear myself growl at him to leave it, glowering furiously at him as he stares across at me with a surprised expression on his pale, shiny face. As he apologises she ducks her head and I notice her shoulders bounce as his heavy French accent suddenly evaporates, revealing him to be a second-rate charlatan, more obviously Birmingham than Bordeaux. I gesture encouragingly with my arm and, flashing me a mischievous smile, she falls in behind a looming waiter, gliding along behind him serenely, her usual inclination to reach for my hand mysteriously absent.
It appears that this is popular establishment and, of course the tables are packed rather too closely together. What I assume to be the proprietor's idea of mood lighting merely seems to turn every step I take into the navigation of a potential trip hazard while possibly afflicting all the staff, and half of the patrons, with varying degrees of a dry-eyed asthenopia. Around us, inelegantly wielded cutlery clatters jarringly against bone china, causing me to grit my teeth and inhale deeply. Innumerable high-pitched voices seem to compete with one another, grating and merciless, like a seething mass of overwrought ravens. Tables full of raucous imbibers, everyone talking and no one listening; none of them exhibiting the good grace to eat in silence, nor to grant their fellow diners the same respect. Irritated, I fix my gaze at the soft unblemished perfection that is Louisa's posterior cervical spine, surreptitiously admiring the creaminess of her skin at the nape of her neck; a tiny distraction that is enough to enable me to refocus, to breathe and to commit myself to the task at hand.
As we weave our way toward him, Sholto sights us and clambers to his feet, raising an arm and smiling benevolently. With his apparently endless wardrobe of bespoke tartan and tweed, I imagine he must still use an Edinburgh man, for I can't imagine his requirements would be satisfied by any self-respecting London tailor. I wonder, fleetingly, how frequently he visits for fittings and what an inconvenience that must be. I am no expert on Scotland but he does appear to claim membership to an innumerable number of clans. Like many senior practitioners in our field, Sholto does have a tendency for flamboyancy in his attire and, while it is hardly a grave sin, it is a peccadillo that I have no patience for. My old tutor, Bernard Newton, simply horrifies me with his penchant for boldly coloured jackets, badly tailored in fabrics more suitable for boudoir cushions than a gentleman's attire. Even my own chief is of the pretentious ilk to whom a bow tie purports to be a practical choice for daily attire and not merely a humiliating attempt at pseudo-individualism. I suppose I should be grateful, with these men at the helm, that our scrubs are merely plain and green and not some sort of ghastly psychedelic paisley or a disgraceful fluorescent plaid.
"Thank you." I hear Louisa say, smiling fleetingly at the waiter as he departs before turning her attention to the table and greeting the party with a confident hello, her voice low and husky and warm.
Sholto extends his hand to me and I grasp it firmly. I'm aware that most people find me somewhat of a curiosity. I can see it in the eyes of my hosts, in the way even their wives display inquisitive expressions as they gaze up at me. I'm sure my reputation proceeds me, the stories that poke fun at me are legion and no one seems to ever tire of retelling them. Martin Ellingham, people will say, yes we've met him. Cold and aloof, rude and impatient, demanding and humourless, and let me tell you a tale to prove it. The truth is, I've long since abandoned any concern I might once have had on the opinions of others, preferring instead to focus on my own competency; constantly challenging and improving my skills, knowing how that translates to successful outcomes for patients under my care: the only measure that I care about. Whatever it is that people think of me personally, professionally, I'm aware that this factor alone means that I command respect.
"Louisa! What a pleasure to see you again." Sholto tells her warmly, and I have no doubt he means it. "You remember Zalman of course? And his wife Tzippy, Dr. Tzippy Goldsmith..."
"Lovely to meet you." Louisa replies, bestowing upon them a radiant smile that, for a split second, seems to illuminate the dull opacity of the room.
"And don't be fooled by the demure appearance of the lady beside me, because that's my wife Aoife and I can tell you it's all an act." Sholto says, jovially, beaming at them both as his gaze shifts rapidly from one to the other.
"My goodness." Louisa says brightly, laughing as if she is amongst old friends. "That's quite an introduction! You sound quite dangerous, Aoife! I think I'll sit next to you!"
Everyone laughs and, as I pull out Louisa's chair for her, even I can sense that bringing her here was exactly the right thing to do. I've occasionally seen glimpses of this side of her; the poised and gracious young woman who knows instinctively how to make those around her feel comfortable and relaxed. Where this savoir-faire arises from, I have no idea but, at this moment especially, I am intensely glad of it. I have already forgotten the names of the two other women but I'm secure in the knowledge that Louisa will have immediately committed their mystifying monikers to memory. As I lower myself into my seat, I'm unsurprised that she is already engaged in conversation with Zalman's wife, bright eyed and brimming with joy, all three of them leaning in together in that way women do, each finding something to admire about the other.
For all my proficiency, and my confidence with a scalpel; the steadiness of my hand as I manipulate a catheter, despite everything I've managed to achieve in my career to date, amazingly, this moment feels like one of my greatest accomplishments. While I always knew that my vocation lay in surgery, I was never deluded enough to imagine myself striding confidently toward a career-defining occasion such as this, supported so willingly by a woman of the calibre of Louisa. For a fleeting moment, I glance at her in profile, and it's as if she is suddenly aware of my attention. In mid sentence, she turns her head and smiles at me and, oddly, I know what she means to tell me. Her attention is soon solely on her conversation partners; lips parted, eyes shining, her expression is rapt but I watch her for a moment, just to make sure. It doesn't take much skill in observation, however, to be confident that my worries were indeed unfounded and that Louisa, indubitably, will be fine.
I hear Zalman say my name and I turn back toward him. As he speaks, I help myself to the carafe of water, filling Louisa's glass and then my own. Conspiratorially, he inclines his head toward me and, with a wink of his eye, informs me that shop talk should be kept to a minimum tonight, on pain of death; a threat he tells me, happily, emanates from his wife. I frown but say nothing, puzzled as to what on earth they expect me to talk about if we can't discuss medicine. The more I think about it the more ridiculous it seems; the evening will be a complete and utter waste of my time if I can't question them about the role they have in mind. Seeing Sholto nod his head in agreement as he glances, condescendingly, at his wife makes me suddenly quite irritated.
"Really?" I ask them, trying and almost failing to suppress the frustration in my voice. "Surely, that was the whole point of coming out tonight? To talk about Imperial?"
Before I can continue any further, as my exasperation begins to reveal itself, I feel a sudden sharp blow to my shin. I know immediately that it's Louisa, because she says my name, in that particular way where I know to ignore her would be unpropitious.
"Isn't that right, Martin?" She says, fixing me with a rather pointed stare as I gaze back at her, perplexed.
"I'm sorry, what?" I ask her quickly, bemused by her admonishing expression.
A rather mirthless smile flickers across her face but her stare remains slightly ominous, and I swallow hard, unable to look away.
"I ummm, I didn't hear what you asked me." I add, in an effort to explain, immediately perturbed by the rather obvious way my tone softens as I speak to her, conscious that I might just be revealing a little too much of myself to these virtual strangers.
"I was just saying how you like to cook. How good you are at it." She says slowly, nodding almost imperceptibly at me as she speaks.
"Well, ahhh, I'm not sure I'd classify myself as a good cook...perhaps adequate would be closer to the mark..but I have learned to find satisfaction in meal preparation...if only to ensure that I maintain a healthy diet."
"Yes, well..." Sholto says, rubbing his hand across the tartan-clad curve of his middle-aged abdomen. "No mean feat in the hospital environment..."
"It's an occupational hazard." Zalman says, smiling at Louisa. "But, in vascular, we see the results of life's excesses disproportionately magnified, what more can I say..."
"Another string to your bow, Martin, perhaps you could give me some pointers in the kitchen, it wouldn't do me any harm to improve my culinary skills..." Sholto suggests with a smile.
"Darling, you could burn water." His wife interrupts cheerfully. "And I'm sure Martin has better things to do with his time than take on a lame duck apprentice like you."
"I could help you with your fish-filleting technique perhaps, Sholto." I reply archly. "Apparently it's been some time since you had a blade in your hand."
To my surprise, there's a generous smattering of laughter. He holds his hands up helplessly, in an act of mock surrender and, once again, I glance shyly at Louisa, in what feels like an embarrassing, childlike seeking of approbation. The look on her face reassures me, her expression is soft and encouraging and, as I hold her gaze, my disgruntlement begins to miraculously abate. This is not a job interview, it's not even a discussion. Whatever it is they want to know about me, I suspect, as Bernard suggested, it has very little to do with my skill as a surgeon.
"And what do you do, Louisa, when Martin is doing the cooking? Does he allow you to help? Or are you banned from the kitchen?" Sholto asks, his eyes sparkling as he watches, and waits for my reaction.
"Actually, he pours me a glass of wine and makes me sit at the table, out of harm's way. If I'm totally honest, I don't think he trusts me with his sharp knives..." Louisa replies, her eyes twinkling merrily as she looks across at me. "Do you?"
"And do you lay all your utensils out first? I'm just trying to get a picture of this in my head..." Sholto says, genially. "But I'm struggling..."
"Oh, Martin, just ignore him." His wife interrupts shaking her head at him, lightheartedly. "I don't think he even knows where the kitchen is in our house."
"Directly above the wine cellar, as well you know!" Sholto says, laughing uproariously at his own joke.
"Well, I for one am jealous." Zalman's wife states calmly, when the laughter abates, gazing at me with rather a thoughtful expression on her face. "Most women would give their eye teeth for a man who knows his way around a kitchen. I think you're very lucky, Louisa, very lucky indeed..."
"Oh, I know that." Louisa replies cheerfully, and I feel the pressure of her foot against my leg again, though this time with an altogether more subtle contact.
"Well now you have more than just Martin's word for it, my dear." Zalman adds, with a sly grin. "Because you have heard it from Tzippy as well. So, it's a fact."
It's altogether such a preposterous notion that I find myself clearing my throat and glancing across at Louisa, alarmed that she might take offence. I am well aware that there is patently only one person in our relationship who might be described as lucky and it's certainly not Louisa but, even if I wanted to share such a deeply personal revelation, I doubt I could get the words past my throat. With everyone's eyes upon me, I find myself the reluctant centre of attention. I observe as Louisa merely folds her arms and gazes at me, and I'm relieved to see that, beneath her expression of imperturbability, she fights to conceal a smirk.
"I think we will have to agree to differ on that point, Dr. Goldsmith." I reply firmly, regaining my composure and meeting Zalman's wife's rather intense stare with one of my own.
"Tzippy, please." She suggests with rather disarming pleasantness.
"Mm." I reply vaguely, cognisant only that, like almost every other female name in Britain, it ends in an 'ee' sound but, other than that, having no point of reference with which to commit it to memory.
"I suppose we should have a look at the menu." Sholto's wife says, to a murmuring of agreement and, suddenly, there is a flurry of activity at the table.
With everyone distracted, again I steal a glance at Louisa, smiling to myself at the way she bites her lip in such fierce concentration. How she can possibly be enjoying herself is a complete mystery to me but, seemingly, she is. It is also obvious that she has removed at least one of her shoes and it is now the soft flesh of her instep that has pushed up my trouser leg and is determinedly making contact with the inside of my calf, as she ruminates happily upon her dinner choices. For my own part, I am not as optimistic, having evolved rather an unfavourable view of French cooking, based as it so frequently seems on copious animal fats and red meat. But Louisa seems thrilled even though, as the menu is transcribed entirely French, I wonder how much of it she can possibly understand.
In an attempt at discretion, I lean forward so that I can make myself heard only to her.
"Louisa...Umm..the menu...is it clear? I mean, is there anything you want to ask?"
As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realise I have made a mistake. Her eyes flash in a way that clearly demonstrates how she feels about my offer of assistance but, to my relief, instead of firing off a salvo of indignant reproof, she glances furtively around her before poking her tongue out at me, rather unambiguously.
"I'm fine." She assures me, in an airy tone dripping with defiance, and I hear myself mutter a series of unintelligible grunts, returning my attention to my own choice of meal.
As I feared, there is little to tempt me, with almost everything being either fried in butter, drowning in cognac, or enveloped in gallons of cream. Though it is unintentional, I sigh heavily, loud enough that Louisa hears me and, as I place my menu on the table, I feel her hand curl over the top of my own. Immediately, I have that familiar need to recoil, feeling suddenly too conspicuous, as if her spontaneous gesture has turned a spotlight upon us. I glance down briefly, my twitching fingers only seeming to result in a tightening of her grip, and then back up to meet her steady and rather perceptive gaze.
"Martin, honestly, lowering your standards for one night won't kill you." She tells me, her tone earnest but not impatient. "Just because you haven't tried something before, doesn't mean you won't like it...I mean, actually, it all sounds really delicious..."
She squeezes my hand and, reluctantly, I venture an opinion, clearing my throat self consciously.
"Hmm. Perhaps the Lotte a L'Imperatrice might suffice..." I tell her, somewhat reluctantly. "Every single other dish is creme this and beurre that...Honestly, it is a complete and utter mystery to me how France isn't Europe's most lucrative market for private vascular clinics..."
I hear Sholto chuckle and, as I realise he is listening, I feel rather glaringly on display; awkward, too, in a way that requires a large degree of self-discipline not to wrench my hand away from Louisa's rather determined clasp.
"Ah, the French Paradox." He says, nodding sagely, and reaching for the wine list. "I put it to you that a couple of glasses of a good red to wash it down with is what you need... so what's your preference? Are you a merlot man?"
"I don't have a preference. I don't drink." I tell him baldly, holding his gaze as he stares at me with complete surprise.
"Ah, yes, well, very prudent of you sir, I'm sure." He replies quickly, smiling at me in rather a knowing way, and I feel oddly irritated. "Does that apply to you too, Louisa? Does Martin make you abstain as well?"
"Martin doesn't make me do anything." She replies, her tone crisp with rebuke. "I understand his decision not to drink just as he respects that I can have a glass of wine or whatever, when I feel like one."
"You must forgive my husband, Louisa." The woman next to her says, glaring at Sholto rather fixedly. "His views can sometimes come across as rather too patriarchal. You'll have to trust me that, deep down, he really isn't a sexist pig."
"Those of us who know surgeons, and surgery, always tend to assume that the need for total and absolute control follows them home from the hospital." Zalman's wife adds, rather pointedly. "It would be rather refreshing to hear that Martin might be one of the few exceptions..."
My head flies up and I meet Louisa's bemused glance with a rather horrified one of my own. If only my expression alone could exhort her to remain silent and to preserve our privacy at all costs but whether the look she gives me is one of acknowledgement and understanding, one can only hope. Even Zalman clears his throat awkwardly, pouring himself a glass of water; plainly neither of us are comfortable with this level of exposure, and a difficult silence momentarily claims the table. For the first time, amongst a sudden merciful lull in conversation across the whole room, drifts of recorded music reach me; the misery and torment of a warbling torch singer; a emphysemic accordion the sole accompaniment to her obvious gallic heartbreak.
"I think I would like to try the Coquilles St. Jacques actually." Louisa says firmly, her alarm at the sudden silence plainly apparent in the quick, theatrical grimace she flashes at me.
"Mm, of course." I reply thoughtfully, briefly pondering her choice as one I myself might consider. Her French must be better than I'd assumed, yet another lesson for me in underestimating her.
"I think what Martin is saying is that I'm a bit predictable." She says, smiling, inclining her head at me as she fights to repress the laughter that threatens to bubble to the surface.
Even in this insipid light, in the sepia tones of the restaurant, congested as it is with the lavish and the affluent, all competing to outshine each other, Louisa eclipses them all. Even our dinner companions seem jaded and inanimate by comparison, and weighed down with a bitterness that she simply does not possess.
"No one could ever level that accusation at you." I think to myself, as I steal another surreptitious glance at her, only to be surprised by the expression on her face. It's only then I realise that the words have inadvertently slipped from my mouth and I've declared such a deeply personal opinion, out loud, to the entire party.
My heart hammers in my chest and I feel sure that everyone's gaze must surely be upon me; such a private aspect of my regard for Louisa unwittingly laid bare, my feelings now so flagrantly exposed to derision and denigration. Furtively, I look around the table only to realise with inordinate relief that only she seems to have heard me; the rest of the group apparently fixated upon the selection of their meals as they are. Biting her lip, she smiles at me, her eyes sparkling with merriment, her cheeks twitching with barely suppressed audacity, a heady sort of insolence, an inherent suggestiveness that does nothing to calm my elevated respiration.
I'm grateful when the waiter arrives for it signals that we are one step closer to escaping this painful little rite of passage. I order the scallops for each of us, a glass of the Chassagne-Montrachet Chardonnay for Louisa, and I sit, somewhat removed, as an interested observer of her skill in engaging so warmly with total and utter strangers. Seemingly oblivious, she has so easily assembled Zalman and Sholto, and even their wives, as a little coterie of admirers. While I had quickly become aware that this evening wasn't about my professional achievements, I'm inordinately relieved that it no longer even seems to be about me at all. I'd winced, initially, when Sholto's wife had quizzed her about her course of study, as admittedly I am touchy about her right to privacy, but Louisa, in her typically generous, transparent way, had no qualms about picking up the subject with enthusiasm.
There's a momentary pause in the conversation as the waiter places our meals, rather flamboyantly before us, ignoring my grim expression as he shakes her large napkin out and, with a ridiculous flourish, lays it across her lap.
"Teaching, eh?" Sholto asks, rather disappointingly reaching for the salt. "Well, it's a noble profession I suppose, but not one I'd care to take up. Though I suppose there are a few nice little prep schools here in London...Sweet wee kiddies in blazers, holding hands and walking in neat pairs..."
"Well, initially, yeah, I was thinking about a classroom role but, actually, now I'm finding myself more and more interested in the roadblocks to learning." Louisa says, thoughtfully.
"Roadblocks?" Sholto's wife asks, and Louisa smiles at her beatifically.
"Yeah, roadblocks. You know, why some children just don't thrive in the mainstream. How we make learning attractive to damaged and disadvantaged kids, including kids who desperately want to learn but are lacking parental support. And, there's this huge hole, under current thinking, in the way we help young people navigate the terrain of schooling if they're not considered to have conventionally measured intelligence or ability. I 'spose the children on the fringes of education are what most interest me, how teachers make sure they don't get left behind."
"I don't know how, under the current funding models, any teacher can even scratch the surface of what needs to be done for kids who are failing." Zalman's wife says, her voice husky with regret. "One presumes Thatcherism has done for education what it has done for The NHS..."
"I don't believe it is an ideological issue." Sholto's wife replies crossly. "I think Thatcher simply detests the professional classes, full stop..."
"Now, now...please, no politics at the dinner table!" Sholto interrupts, frowning determinedly. "I have enough of that, day-in, day-out..."
"I am in complete agreement." Zalman adds, enthusiastically. "Louisa, my young friend, please continue..."
"Absolutely, my dear, your youthful enthusiasm is a tonic..." His wife agrees, and I wince again with discomfort at the prospect of Louisa's age being raised, however harmlessly the enquiry is meant.
The conversation arcs rapidly and vociferously. I suppose having children automatically engenders an interest in education, more specifically an opinion on strengths and weaknesses, pros and cons, private versus state-funded, single-sex versus co-educational, and every permutation in between. Unfortunately, when one has has no children of ones own, and one's only first hand experience is that of a public schoolboy, one tends to find such discussion rather tedious, and the opinions of others rather superfluous and irrelevant. Even Louisa is silent as debate rages all around her, glancing at me occasionally with a fleetingly helpless expression on her face, mouthing a quick apology to me when she thinks no one else is looking. Zalman's wife is vehement in her support for the public school system, a position diametrically opposite from Sholto's wife who lays the blame for the supposed international lag of the entire British education system squarely at the feet of those very same public schools.
The argument drones on and, for the hundredth time this evening, I glance my watch and, from the corner of my eye, I notice Louisa suppress a smile as she gazes at me from under her eye lashes. I'm immediately somewhat breathless, struck by the novelty of finding myself so synchronous with another human being, somewhat incredulous that she and I are apparently sharing such similar thoughts. A bromidic debate has exposed our rather reassuring contiguousness, and revealed our minds to be rather incredibly in rapport. Even more astonishing is the fact that, if she weren't here, by this point in the evening, I would be fractious, resentful and irritated beyond measure. Yet, as our eyes meet, a rather enervated arch of my eyebrow is enough to indicate to her that I am merely resigned and apathetic, and completely ready to bid our companions a hasty farewell.
As her foot slides softly and languidly against my shin and, as my thoughts drift hopefully to the promise of the night ahead, I feel suddenly and unexpectedly exultant, knowing that, unequivocally, Louisa feels the same way as I do. I don't have to face it all, deal with all these excruciating social occasions on my own. It's a strange sort of excitement, a vague and giddy sensation, as if, for the first time in my life, everything is finally and miraculously falling into place. So, when she looks across at me, so breathtakingly lovely, her face lit from within by a gentle and hopeful amusement, I can't help myself and I realise, in my own oddly subdued and inhibited way, that I am smiling back at her.