The beef, stout and oyster pie is surely the Prince among pastries. With my mouth watering in anticipation, I'd treated myself to a the Friday special at my favourite bakery where, if you buy two aromatic and crusty portals to heaven, they throw in a large bottle of the eye-wateringly zesty, local ginger beer. Even so, making my way back to my office just prior to the lunchtime rush, I'd still gazed with vague longing at the pub, as I paused at the baronial front door. The fire would be roaring in the grate, and the smoky air would be heavy with the aroma of frying onions, roast beef and hot chip fat. The cues would be chalked, the balls set up and, better still, there's bound to be someone to talk to; drug company travellers, visiting administrators, or even fellow hospital staff seeking out a few blessed minutes of respite. How I relish those chance encounters because I'm a firm believer that no time spent in amiable discussion on licensed premises is ever wasted, and a little judicious tending of the medical grapevine always rewards me with fruit.
However, faced with another round of budget revisions, reluctantly, I kept walking and, facing up to an Adverse Events report I'd been avoiding for days, I found myself eating alone at my desk. As a speckled halo of crisp, golden flakes collected at my feet, I scribbled down a few cynical observations, finding myself shaking my head so often and with such vigour that my collar began to chafe around the folds of skin on my neck. Reaching up, I'd loosened the knot, a careless act I would later acknowledge had left grease spots all over one of my very few ties; fortunately it was only an old one, a slightly garish polyester number that was a bit tatty, having seen better days. I hated wearing the bloody things actually, and I usually just relied on mum to buy me a new one for Christmas if I couldn't pick one or two up in a sale. I make myself a note to tell her because it's coming up to the time of year when she will ask.
Dragging my attention back to what I was trying to read, I found myself becoming more and more disheartened by each paragraph. Honestly, the capacity for minor errors of judgement to snowball into nightmare scenarios would actually be rather amusing if the results weren't so bloody disastrous. It's relentless too; no sooner have I sorted one potentially unpleasant situation out than another queues in behind it. Of course I'm aware that managing these sorts of issues is an essential part of the role I committed to but, lately, it has seemed that my in-tray has become the proverbial end of the line, the terminus for the implications of idiotic behaviour and, literally, the ill-considered-action buck stops right here.
"Have a word with Chris Parsons," I can hear them all saying. "See if he can't make the problem go away…"
It's become a matter of personal pride I suppose, being recognised as the go-to man, the problem solver, the bloke to call when every other alternative has been explored. And I'd be lying if I said it wasn't immensely satisfying to hear my name mentioned with a kind of respect, knowing my number is on speed dial with numerous NHS big wigs, confident I can mingle and mix it with the best. It's hard for some people to understand that building these sorts of relationships takes time, and how effective a few bottles of red can be in lubricating the tongues of upper management. It should be obvious that networking across all levels is a core function of my job, something that can't always be done from the confines of the office, or within the convenience of a nine-to-five time frame. Sometimes it really stings me when I think about it, finding something you're really good at, only to be told you have to put commitment before success.
It's not as if I made a conscious choice to move into administration. I mean, as I tried to explain to Helen, this career found me, in a way I'd never expected when I was flailing around at college wondering in which direction my future really lay. Everyone seemed to have a vocation back then, a drive that I just couldn't find within myself, an earnestness I just didn't share. Though I always found the hospital environment stimulating and, from the start, I loved the camaraderie, the energy, and the sense of shared purpose, I simply didn't feel that way about the most essential component: the actual practice of medicine.
And then that moment of serendipity, one that had put me back firmly on the straight and narrow, crawling like a determined marine across the obstacle course that was med school, a small insignificant moon in Mart's powerful orbit, a lost lamb to his determined, disapproving shepherd. The truth was, in many ways, he'd carried me; I'd been disillusioned and perennially hungover, and on the cusp of throwing it all away when I'd met him. I knew I was taking my life in my hands just daring to speak to him, but it was the posing of that one simple question to a formidable wunderkind that had in fact reinvigorated my career. It was largely his own fault but I'm still a tiny bit ashamed to admit that I couldn't stand the sight of him initially. Once I'd discovered that he wasn't quite the rude, arrogant wanker I'd assumed he was though, for me educationally at least, life took a definite turn for the better.
The thing was he'd not only been brilliant at explanations, he actually didn't seem to mind when you asked him for help. It was like he had a sixth sense about medicine, a multi dimensional view that meant he always got right to the crux of whatever I was struggling with, always logical and concise and inevitably straight to the point. After that, I just seemed to assume the role of his lab partner and subsequently, for the first time in my life, I found myself at the top of a class. In gross anatomy it was like having a personal tutor at my side; physiology, biochemistry, nothing seemed to faze him and, unlike most of our classmates, the mountain of knowledge we were required to learn and understand never caused him any qualms. He wasn't alone of course, and it was fiercely competitive. In fact there were several brilliant students in our year but, with Mart's particular brand of uniqueness, he seemed to rise above it all, buoyed along by his genius and his innate self belief.
Recalling it now, I find myself chuckling at the expression he'd assumed, early in our tentative friendship, as he watched me attempt a vertical mattress suture, his forehead creased in horror, his mouth falling open in dismay.
"Really?" Was all he had said but, in his own briskly observant way it did sum up my surgical aspirations fairly accurately.
With his hands so sure and so steady, and his movements so dexterous and fluid, he couldn't possibly have understood how it was to be naturally so clumsy and inept.
"I don't suppose the concept of practicing until you acquire some level of skill has ever occurred to you, has it Chris Parsons?" He'd asked impatiently as he peered over my shoulder, at another sutured banana that was only now fit for the bin.
"Yes." I'd replied, resisting the lure of a double entendre as I tied off the last knot.
I know that basic surgical skills are a fundamental competency in all medical practitioners but, as find myself in a windowless office, with a long list of patients to placate and an even longer list of colleagues to counsel, I can only reflect on what other disciplines I might have found professionally more valuable. The qualifications I need now seem to relate more to those required by a circus ringmaster, a hostage negotiator, or even the head of the sodding U.N. Rubbing my eyes wearily, I feel a distinct lack of enthusiasm for an afternoon spent diffusing and expunging other people's misdemeanours, especially when I am suffering the results of my own.
I'd been feeling just a bit sorry for myself, rummaging around in my drawer for some peppermints when the phone had rung. So, I was momentarily delighted by the distraction, anticipating that at this hour on a Friday afternoon it might be a last minute invite; leaving drinks for a hot little number from the fifth floor, a cut-throat darts match with a couple of brutally bantering psych nurses, or just a few quiet pints with a solitary stranger, anything really that might delay the lonely solitude of a miserable night at home. The best case scenario was always a raucous evening of endless rounds in a crowded pub, especially if it was the dark and noisy King's Head, on the corner, just along from the Nurses' Halls of Residence. With Helen away again, the thought of another evening by myself in that tiny flat, eating cold baked beans straight out of the can, was too depressing for words. A bit of sweaty dancing to an abysmal covers band, or singing a tuneless karaoke duet with some perky little Polish nurse sounded infinitely more appealing, and I'd snatched at the receiver eagerly.
It seemed as if I am to be disappointed however as I recognise the distinctively raspy tone of an ex-colleague, a wily old manager who famously has his finger on every pulse. Working alongside him was an education and I was quick to observe how the wheels turn in the administrative world; it's definitely who we know and, more importantly, how much back-scratching we are prepared to do. Several months ago, I'd given him advance warning of some ridiculous auditing witch hunt, saving his blushes and cementing our network. Ever since, as I'd hoped, he'd been at pains to keep me in his large, extensive loop. Even though Imperial Healthcare Trust was not part of my remit, having my fingers in a few pies was always reassuring and, leaning back in my chair, I'd listened impassively as he took me in to his confidence.
Gradually though, as he filled in the gaps, I started to feel uncomfortable, my feeling of disbelief increasing exponentially with every word he said. And, when he paused for breath, I'd pinched the bridge of my nose until it hurt, equal parts incredulous and horrified, knowing that I had to know the truth.
"And you're sure you have the right man?" I'd asked him quietly, reaching for my pen and scrawling a few lines in the back of my notebook as he vehemently confirmed my fears.
I gazed at the name I'd written, in hindsight, with more surprise than I ought to have felt.
"Let me know if you hear anything else." I'd added, whistling through my teeth and still shaking my head at the magnitude of what he'd told me. "And…mate, ahh…let's do lunch next time I'm down your way shall we? I'll call you."
I'd hung up without waiting for a response, desperate for a moment to reflect on what he'd said, bolting down the hall to the loo, before grabbing a lukewarm cup of coffee from the tearoom on the way back to my small, cluttered uninspiring office. Collapsing in to my chair, I couldn't deny that the news had left me uneasy, as if this drama at St Mary's was a portent of something far worse to come. I mean, this was big, this was dangerous and my first instinct was to go into damage control mode. Of course, my second thought was to check in with Mart; obviously to find out what he knew but also because I needed to reassurance that he was out of harm's way. I still have some hope that he'd seek my advice and not lumber insensitively through the middle of what is bound to be a scandal but, if I'm honest, not that much.
As a result, I'd phoned through to Imperial, brisk in my request to be put through to his office, keen to go almost as close to the horse's mouth as it was possible to go. To my frustration, I got his answer phone, his message a low, ominous, silky growl, drizzled with the chilling hauteur he is famous for. Shaking my head, I think better of leaving a message, discretion being the greater part of valour and all that, and instead I bounce back to the switchboard, asking them, rather sweetly, to page him. I can hear the hesitation clearly in the telephonist's tone but, after I compliment her on her lovely speaking voice and ask her if she's ever thought of a career in the radio, she giggles self-consciously and informs me, conspiratorially, that Mr. Ellingham has been in meetings all day and that she has strict instructions that none of the attendees are to be disturbed.
There's a suggestive huskiness about her that sees my non-professional interest suddenly piqued, and I briefly consider asking her name, fantasising about her across a restaurant table from me, a glass of bubbly clasped in a manicured hand, a grateful smile playing upon the plump and pouty lips she must have to have that lisp. But what would usually be just a harmless flirtation and, only hours ago, might have felt simply as if I was hedging my bets, now appears to have a far more insidious potential for danger. I feel a stab of regret. The fall out from this disaster is going to be unpleasant for everyone. Reputations will be damaged, careers may even end prematurely and somewhere, someone like me will draught a raft of recommendations to present to a Select Committee, only to have them summarily ignored. For a while, I suppose it's inevitable that people will be cautious and, temporarily, circumspection will no doubt reign but then, as we all know, somewhere, somehow, it will all begin again. In the meantime, however, it dawns on me that the best idea is just to keep everything secured well within ones own trousers, be Jack the dull boy, and definitely not succumb to any sort of temptation to play away from home.
I slap the phone down into the cradle, and begin to flick impatiently through my address book, punching Mart's private number into the phone, even more anxious now to initiate some sort of contact with him. It's not going to be an easy conversation. He's bound to find the whole incident at best, an irritating distraction and, with his strict and confounding moral code, the worst case is he will be disgusted and furious, and express that rather forcefully to me.
"Hello?" A soft, female voice says tentatively and, when it dawns on me who it is, a ridiculous grin spreads across my face.
"Louisa?"
"Yeah… who's this?" she replies, her tone now slightly more impatient.
"Chris. Chris Parsons…."
"Oh Chris!" she says breathlessly, and she almost sounds excited that it's me. "Hi! How are you?"
"I'm great! And how are you?" I reply, my voice rising an octave from sheer delight.
"Yeah, I'm great too actually!" She says and she laughs. "Just got home from college and, you know, made myself a cup of tea. Wild student lifestyle and all that…"
Of course I laugh, willingly, because I'm charmed all over again; by her effusiveness, by her accent, just by listening to her talk. In my head, she's wearing that shimmery red dress again, as compelling as a mirage in the desert to a dehydrated man. And while there was barely a bloke in that auditorium that night that wasn't thirsty, and even though I find myself worse than distracted, and even still stung a little by envy, I'm genuinely relieved and delighted that Louisa has answered the phone. Because it means, doesn't it, that not only has Mart managed miraculously to hang on to Louisa but, just as incredibly, she has managed to stick it out with him.
"I'm trying to chase down Mart but I'm not having much luck…" I explain cheerfully.
"Oh right. Well..I'm not sure I can help you actually. He was up really early this morning…he woke me up when he apologised for waking me…and I did sort of get the impression he wasn't expecting today to be much of a laugh…but, umm, he didn't mention he'd be late home or anything…so I'm assuming normal time?"
I smile, trying to imagine their domestic arrangements. While I know Mart to be punctual to a fault, I've never known him waste breath apologising and he certainly was never one to explain his behaviour. But, then again, if I was ever so fortunate to wake up next to her I'd certainly be full of remorse if something unavoidably dragged me away.
"Shall I try him again at around seven then?" I suggest. "You see, the thing is, I was thinking of coming down in the morning, on the off chance the two of you were free for lunch? It's just that Helen's away, the weather is bloody dreary. I really hate this time of year, you know how it is?"
"Chris! Of course! And that sounds lovely!" she cries, so warm and enthusiastic that I'd even felt a little excited myself, before the actual purpose of my visit returned rather ominously to me. "What time were you thinking?"
As we discuss the arrangements, I begin to understand how Louisa, of all people, would have been the one to get under Mart's rhinoceros-like skin. Obviously, she's particularly easy on the old eyes but that alone would not have been enough to crack his resolve. She certainly wouldn't have been the first stunner to set her cap at Martin Ellingham, only to be met with either awkward disinterest or unconcealed disdain. The proof that she offers so much more than that is me, now, admitting to her that I'm facing a weekend alone but having no fear of revealing my soft underbelly to her, or that that my admission might be seen by her as some sort of weakness. Instead, she's warm, and kind, and encouraging and, for a brief delicious moment, I feel like I'm the most important person in the whole damn world. I've never told anyone, not even Helen, how enervating I find the dismal dampness of autumn, nor how exhausting I find being alone. Everyone always expects me to be a beacon of positivity and it's almost liberating to confess to her that, actually, I'm not.
I think about Louisa again in the morning, as I'm rummaging around in the wardrobe, regretful that I'm going to have to iron myself a shirt. My need to look presentable is only partly due to the fact that I am not keen to face the critical and disapproving eye of my immaculate friend by appearing before him in an unkempt state. But, even more intently, I realise that inside of me, there's a ridiculous eager child longing for her approval, seeking comfort in her empathy, and immensely gratified by her interest. As I lock the door behind me, it seems that this flat has become a hollow shell of a home, the residents having exhausted all curiosity in each other, living as solitary individuals in the daylight, intent on excavating a chasm that can never be filled. And, finally, when need brings us together, it is an apologetic fumble in the pitch black night; gratification by rote, a silent, unemotional exchange of fluids, two dissatisfied people settling for whatever they can get.
Trying not to think about it, I doze for most of the journey, awaking in an uneasy, discontented fog. When I get to the restaurant, it's busy and Mart strides in a few moments after I am shown to the table. It's set for three but he appears alone and, for a few seconds, I'm actually crushed. We shake hands and, as he gazes at me, clear-eyed and contemplative, I choke on my fears, laughing nervously as I casually query her whereabouts.
"Haircut." he replies briskly, his scowl deepening as he speaks. "She'll join us shortly."
"Good…" I add nonchalantly and I lower myself into my chair, muttering some sort of nonsensical excuse about sharing a bottle of wine until he cuts me off with a loud impatient sigh.
"So?" He says, archly, folding his arms and raising his eyebrows at me.
I clear my throat.
"I presume you've heard?"
"Dixon? Mm." he replies, tugging at his shirt cuff and making a minute adjustment to a brilliantly gleaming cuff link. "I spent the entirety of yesterday discussing little else. Ruddy infernal waste of my time, actually. And everyone else's."
"Sorry?" I ask him, my voice squeaking with surprise. "Forgive me, Mart but how exactly are Imperial tied up in all this? I mean, a day long conversation sounds more serious than just Sholto gloating at St Mary's mounting misfortune…."
"Gloating?" He replies sharply. "I fail to see, of all potential reactions, how that is the one you feel most likely. I think we can all agree the man's an absolute and utter disgrace to his profession…"
I laugh awkwardly, disappointed yet again, "Is that it?"
Rather ominously, he raises his chin and looks at me, appraisingly, his eyes grey and cool.
"Clearly, your insatiable, rumour-mongering cohorts have failed you, Chris Parsons…" he adds, his expression disapproving, his tone utterly scathing. "Or you wouldn't be here trying to interrogate me…"
From that point on, I know it will become a battle of wills. The usual inducements are ineffective of course; the cautious and measured exchange of snippets of information, a few cocktails in the bar of a swish hotel, flattery, insincerity and even emotional blackmail; all pointless when the subject of my cross-examination happens to be Mart.
"You know Dixon has gone to ground? Cleared his desk on Thursday morning and hasn't been seen since." I venture cautiously. "Bernard's even been round to his flat. No sign of him."
"Did Bernard tell you that?"
I nod quickly, and his eyes dart sideways with frustration.
"God forbid there should be any detail of this that hasn't become grist for the salacious mill…I can't pretend that I'm not disappointed. I hoped he at least was above that sort of thing."
"Actually, Mart, Bernard's in a bit of a bind in case you haven't realised. The reality for him is that they no longer have a vascular consultant on the staff. You're at Imperial, obviously, and Dixon's career is all but over. I had already heard that they were struggling to replace you prior to the New Year, and now this…"
An expression of something flickers across his cold, impassive face but, if he feels any sense of loyalty, or even of concern for his peers, he hides it well. His relationship with his mentors, his years of toil, building up the reputation of the department seems, apparently, to count for nothing.
"I wonder what's going to happen to all the patients on your old list?" I ask him carefully. "Terribly inconvenient for them all, if they have to be referred elsewhere. Especially so close to Christmas. It could even be disastrous for some…"
I tilt my head at him but he merely returns my stare with icy impenetrability, and I realise it's hopeless, he's never going to let on what he actually knows. Up until now, I've always admired his ethics, been impressed by the strength of his convictions but, at this point in time, I'm finding him as aggravating as hell, a frustratingly taciturn man who refuses to acknowledge the rules of game, never mind step out on the field. Sighing loudly, I plunge my hands into my pockets and slump down in my seat.
"Is that it then Chris? The reason you came all the way down here? To quiz me on Dixon's downfall? Hm?"
I close my eyes for a moment and sigh again but I can't think of any sort of retort. Truth is, if I did have a plan, it only became clear when she'd answered the phone.
"Well done on convincing Louisa, at least, that this was a social visit." he growls, as if he's read my mind. "She will want to stay and eat of course, but not another word about Ben Dixon or the assault, or the lunch is over. Do I make myself clear?"
I don't even look up but, of course, I acquiesce. Mart is very accustomed to getting his own way and, besides, if I'm honest, I've never been much good at convincing him to change his mind. Even when he was still a relatively naive young man, I could never sway him so what argument could I use against a highly-accomplished, supremely confident professional, one who seems to have the entirety of the medical world at his rather sizeable feet. Every day, he barks instructions, simply expecting them to happen; whether it be directions given to a tremulous scrub nurse, a reprimand to a terrified registrar or dismissing the queries of an old and loyal friend. No more shop talk, no exceptions, end of story. Yes, Mr. Ellingham, of course, Mr. Ellingham, whatever it is you say.
I lift my head and look at him again and it's almost as if I'm seeing him for the first time. I've never noticed how perfectly symmetrical the pin stripes are on the lapels of his jacket. I suppose it's someone's job to make note of that sort of detail but I can't imagine how on earth a tailor works it out. I'm well used to Mart's hauteur of course, like his frame, it's been growing exponentially since that very first day we met. And he's always had a tendency to be condescending, he's often had the propensity to be insensitive and rude, but today he is different, today he is seems colder, more ominous and more remote than I've ever known him to be.
"You didn't say 'alleged'….the 'alleged' assault…" I say suddenly.
He raises his chin defiantly and for a moment his expression changes again.
"Leave it, Chris." He replies sharply and, glancing at me with a barely concealed sneer, he picks up the menu, snapping it open symbolically, as if to reiterate that our discussion is over.
I can't quite put my finger on it but, even for Mart, he seems exceptionally prickly and displeased, as if lunching with me is simply a tiresome inconvenience or, worse still, an enormous favour. He wouldn't be the first brilliant surgeon to let success go to his head but, even so, it's not only frustrating but it actually smarts a bit. I wonder if it's not even about Ben Dixon really, this hardness, this indifference, perhaps it's the symptom of another undiagnosed disease. I mean, he's got everything now, hasn't he, and perhaps he feels he's simply outgrown me, my use-by date has passed.
The more I think about it, the more I decide that there just doesn't seem to be any other reasonable explanation for his mood. I'm confident that we both thought of Ben Dixon as an infernal arse. Neither of us had much, if any, respect for the fellow and we've certainly discussed his deficiencies at length several times before: selfish, lazy and incompetent I believe was Mart's succinct appraisal whenever the subject was raised. So the fact that this very same man could now plunge a whole department into scandal, potentially tainting all of his peers, decent men who had done nothing wrong, was travesty enough without having to endure the superiority and, quite frankly, the cold-hearted apathy of the man who now sits opposite me.
"If I didn't know you better, I'd almost think you don't care." I tell him. "Surely you must feel some sort of loyalty to St. Mary's?"
He looks up from his menu and stares at me, his eyes glittering.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I think you heard what I said. You told me yourself that Bernard Newton was a great mentor to you, and Piggers, too, didn't you find him to be an excellent tutor?" I blurt out, my voice now resentful and shrill. "And Robert of course, we both know he provided opportunities that don't often come the way of young registrars…you seemed happy enough to work with him then…"
He calmly turns the pages in front of him and I'm suddenly furious. Without realising, I've joined the ranks of those who've found his arrogance worse than aggravating, his superiority like some sort of chloride rubbed into a wound. His reluctance to engage with me on the subject really seems to make it so much worse and I'm incensed and driven to strike at the nerve.
"I'm surprised, that's all, given how much time they all invested in you, the belief they all had in you, how you appear to so easily have washed your hands of all of them…"
"If you've quite finished," He interrupts, without even the slightest glance in my direction. "Perhaps I might have a moment to read the menu without interruption?"
I reach for the water carafe and pour us both a glass. Unusually, I'm conscious of the rapidity of my heartbeat, and a tension that seems to tighten at my jaw. Exhaling heavily, I know I should resign myself to Mart's coldbloodedness, rationalising that having supreme control of his emotions is an essential skill as a surgeon. He has to live with himself, he has to be able to look these people in the eye. I shouldn't let myself get wound up like this, and I make a conscious effort to calm my temper down. As for Mart's attempts to stonewall me, I decide to follow the path of least resistance. This afternoon, I am resolved instead to now call Robert, offer to take him to his club, marinate him in pink gin and see what inevitably floats to the top.
For a minute though, all thoughts of subterfuge are driven from my head. The energy in the room just seemed to change and I'd automatically leapt to my feet as she appeared, delightful in a little black Pom Pom hat, tugging it from her head, tossing it down on the seat behind her and shaking out her hair as I tried desperately not to stare. Mart, of course, showed his typical indifference, a casual nod in her direction was enough for him but I'd been like a cobra to a flute, smiling at her as she slipped out of her coat, her smile dazzling as she chatted away happily; excited and charming and slightly out of breath. She'd darted around to my side of the table and hugged me then, in her warm and welcoming way. I couldn't believe how sweet she smelt, how soft she felt, and how disappointed I was when she finally let me go.
While every other woman in the room seemed to be adorned in gaudy, shapeless clothing, she was the loveliest of apparitions, clad in a snugly-fitting, thin, green jersey, the same colour as her eyes, and black jeans that clung to her every curve. All I could think of was that most blokes would sacrifice a kidney to be in his shoes right now yet the unimpressed, cold blooded expression on Mart's face seemed to be just asking for a slap. Even as she stretches up to kiss him, he seems more concerned with examining his watch than a generous display of affection from his gorgeous young girlfriend and I'm oddly infuriated by the fact; indignant that he can't seem to even acknowledge she's arrived.
"Actually Martin, can I sit there?" She asks him as she looks around. "I don't really like having my back to the room…"
He glances up at her in obvious surprise but, as I brace for his typically withering glance or caustic rebuttal, he rises to his feet instantly, standing tall and upright, only sinking his chin onto his chest and glancing at her surreptitiously as she passes in front of him.
"Ta." She says flashing him a smile and pressing her palm lightly against his tie as he clears his throat.
This deference is in sharp contrast to his earlier behaviour and, to be honest, I'm more than astounded. For those of us who have seen him in a clinical setting, charging through doorways and skewering anyone who dares get in his way, this glimpse of a considerate Martin Ellingham is almost incomprehensible. Famous for his intolerance, I've seen him crush the verbose and the sycophantic with just an icy stare, pulverising them into submission with fearsome disdain. There have been occasions that have since become legend; the infamous Edinburgh conference presentation for instance, where Mart reached the limits of his tolerance with a particularly persistent interjector. Folding his arms across his chest and addressing the poor fool directly, Mart had shamed him into silence in front of five hundred of his peers, displaying a devastating combination of superior intellect, a far better grasp of his subject matter, and firing off a salvo of perfectly aimed insults that sent the poor fool scurrying from the room.
But, clearly, that particular Mr. Ellingham was a hungry Bengal tiger, a terrifying and ferocious beast, intent on being the absolute king of the jungle, not the fluffy little pussycat that now appears before me, intent on avoiding my eye as he politely and courteously pulls out her chair. Louisa sits down and beams at us both, as if this lunch is every pretty young girl's dream come true. With an infectious enthusiasm, she seizes upon the menu that a silent and solicitous Mart places carefully in her hands. When he asks her what she would like to drink, his voice is quieter and more modulated than I recall ever having heard it; affable and soft and I'd even go as far as to say gentle. Above all, I am a student of human nature so, of course, I can't help but be fascinated by this glimpse into an intensely secret part of his life, even more so because I sense he'd much rather keep his chivalry well concealed.
For Louisa's sake especially though, I am relieved that his gallantry does exist. Like so many arrogant, imperious men who ensnare sweet, lovely wives, you can only assume they have private personas that they want never to reveal. I've long suspected that there must be two very different sides to Mart and this is probably as close as I'm ever going to come to witnessing the man with his guard slightly lowered. I'm not sure I understand how you live your life as two different people though but perhaps that's what Helen really meant when she said I was predictable. I'd been bewildered, frankly, since I considered my consistency to be something of a virtue; a straightforward man who was always the same, work or play, no matter who he was with. What you see is what you get; a chicken tikka masala, a few cans of lager and a night in front of the telly will always be entertainment enough for me.
She chooses the wine and I let her pick because I really don't have a preference. It's all a game to her, as she teases him, double checking her decision, asking him to confirm she's matched it correctly to her meal, all the time a smirk on her lips and a mischievous twinkle in her eye. His face is a mask of forbearance, of a patient resolve that he will not rise to her bait. Any cocky young med students on rotation through his department would be incredulous at everything they saw and heard today. A hint of disrespect and not only would they they find themselves at the receiving end of the noted vascular surgeons withering stare, but they would have been bloodlessly eviscerated almost instantly too, their ignorance ruthlessly exposed as he peppered them in front of their peers with questions he knew they had no hope of answering.
But her sense of fun is becoming quite infectious and I feel myself relax as she chats away, regaling us with tales of what she sees on the bus, and who she saw in the park. One minute her hand is on the table, stroking his affectionately; next minute, it disappears below edge of the white linen cloth and he glances at her sharply but still manages to suppress any spoken word of reprimand. She is like a playful puppy, tormenting a grizzly, world-weary old mastiff and, if I'm not mistaken, for a man who generally detests attention, Mart certainly seems to bask more than just a little in hers. Finally, the waitress arrives and, instantly, he is severe and reproachful again, ordering for Louisa brusquely, reeling off a selection I know he can't possibly approve of. And as he speaks, she leans back and gazes at him approvingly, an insolent smile lurking not far below the surface of her expressive face.
Of course I don't blame him for warming up under the blowtorch of her regard. When you have her attention, it's like you never want to let it go. And it's not just because she is so lovely, though that is quite a serious distraction. It's more that her focus is unwavering and, while she is listening, she makes you feel like you are the most interesting person alive. A lot of people will ask you how you are but very few actually care about your answer. Not Louisa though; her brow furrows and thoughtful creases ripple across her perfect skin. She fixes you with her crystal clear gaze, and nods encouragingly as you speak, effortlessly empathetic and kind. And, while her brooding boyfriend watches us in silence, she and I chat cheerfully about nothing; she's like a blazing fire on the coldest of January days, and I can't help but want to draw closer.
"What's Helen up to this weekend then?" she asks, resting her chin on her hand, and I notice how long her fingers are as they curve around the soft arc of her cheek.
"She's in Leeds, at some show she got tickets for…I can't remember the name."
"What, like a concert?" she says, enthusiastically, taking hold of my forearm. "Ooh, who is it?"
"Not who, what." I reply ruefully. "Les Liaisons Dangereuses, or however you say it…"
Mart lifts his head slowly and glances at me, his expression disdainful as he corrects my schoolboy French, murmuring something that sounds far more elegant and inviting. I hear her breath catch in her throat and, as I look up, the fleeting expression on her face is one I recognise, the thrill and disbelief you feel when you're soppy over someone and can't quite believe their brilliance.
"Why didn't you go with her then?" she asks, turning her attention back to me, her expression now thoughtful and inquisitive.
I don't completely understand the reason but, suddenly, I don't want to talk about Helen. It's not that I was even surprised at how angry she was with me for refusing to go but, really, she should know by now that musicals are not my thing, especially sung in a language that I don't like, or understand. She seems to crave the very things that bore me to tears; she's a culture vulture, a wannabe patron of the arts, happiest when paying a fortune for some uncomfortable seat in a far flung corner of a pokey little theatre. I wouldn't care but she insists on dragging me along. So I had to tell her, I had to make a stand, and now she knows. The only drama I'm interested in is the conflict of the heavyweight's weigh-in, the thrill of a last minute bullseye, the danger of Beecher's Brook, or the agony of a busted flush.
"She went with a friend." I tell her evasively, hoping she won't ask me their name because I honestly don't have a clue. I have a suspicion though, and it's an uncomfortable one, based on the way she wouldn't look at me when I asked her who it was.
"Oh, well, that will be lovely for her." Louisa replies diplomatically. "Sometimes, you know, it's a nice change to have a night away, and it means she'll have lots to tell you about when she gets home…"
"Actually, she's having several nights…. a very long weekend away. I'm not even sure when exactly it is she said she was coming home."
She smiles at me quickly as if she attempts to reassure me, a flash of brilliant white teeth glimpsed through the breathtaking frame of her perfect and succulent mouth. Beside her, Mart snorts with what almost sounds like derision, shifting impatiently in his chair, his eyes fixed on the table, and what appears to be an irritation he can barely contain. I feel aggrieved again; the man can be such a total killjoy sometimes. I changed the subject, like he asked, and really, professionally, he's at the top of his game, sitting here with his utterly delightful girlfriend, lunching at a fabulous restaurant and the best he can do is glower at the world with a face like a smacked ar$e. I mean, what does he want? That we sit here in silence?
"Is work still keeping you busy?" Louisa asks, after an uncomfortable pause, her tone again determinedly light and cheerful.
Before I have a chance to answer, the waiter appears with the drinks and, when he scuttles away, I propose a toast.
"To old friends, and new ones." I cry out, as the former rolls his eyes. "Long life and happiness!"
Mart opens his mouth then, as if he means to object, but she silences him with a glance and a squeeze of his hand. His utter contempt toward any rules or customs he finds irrelevant or deleterious is legendary, and I've usually found that side of him quite amusing if I'm honest. He's as subtle as a brick too; where I like to find my way around things, he prefers to go directly through them but, really, I have always admired his courage, if not his methodology. This disinclination to take a backward step has made him a feared name among senior management, or with anyone who attempts to enforce the sort of protocol Mr. Ellingham decides is counterproductive or, worse still, even pointless.
I can see him now, his gaze fiercely judgmental, folding his arms defiantly in the face of a deputation of senior managers, railing against incompetence, defying bureaucracy and pillorying any fool that wandered blithely and underprepared across his path. It's fair to say his acknowledged brilliance has rendered him untouchable, everyone from the orderlies to the Chancellor knew there was barely a revascularisation he couldn't perform in his sleep. Martin Ellingham, always the first to achieve x and the youngest to perform y, a man who could name his price, with the potential make a fortune in private practice, yet who sticks it out in the National Health, doing the work of ten men.
But the more accomplished he becomes, the more impatient he seems to get and, today, he appears more irascible than ever. The spillover into his leisure time worries me too, his penchant to have a face like thunder even when he is miles from a stethoscope. Every dilemma is a granite face that can only be cleared with the ferocious swing of a pick axe. Once or twice, I'd attempted to counsel him of course but I don't think anything I said ever struck a chord. He had no interest in smoothing his own path, or cultivating a network of support, and my suggestion that he learn to manage upwards was met with a contemptuous and disbelieving sneer. His strategy, then as now, was that it was all about save lives, sparing limbs and producing excellent patient outcomes; the rest could go to hell. Sighing to myself, I drain and refill my glass of wine.
Another interruption, our meal is brought out and, once again, Louisa is ecstatic. She thanks the waitress effusively, beams at her silent boyfriend and turns to nod at me excitedly.
"Seems such a shame to undo it…" she says, as she unfurls her napkin and flips it across her lap. "Aren't people clever, the things that they can make?"
"It's only a folded square of fabric, Louisa, it's hardly a cure for cancer…" Mart points out, his tone suddenly surprisingly weary.
"Yeah, still…I couldn't do it though…make a swan out of a bit of material, I mean.." she counters cheerfully, and he glances up at her.
"Anyone with a modicum of dexterity and the ability to memorise five or six basic steps in a process is quite capable of folding a napkin artfully. I wouldn't get too carried away if I were you…"
Slowly, she lowers her knife and fork and turns her head toward him, flexing her jaw from side to side.
"So I can expect origami napkins every meal now, can I, clever clogs?"
"If you would find it conducive to regular meal times, especially if it improved your eating habits, I'd certainly consider it…."
I reach again for my glass. As much as observing them together is completely fascinating, I find myself coughing and offering to top up hers too. Seeing them, like this really does make me wonder how on earth they ever got together. I mean, I've known Mart most of his adult life, I know what a fish out of water he is socially. It's not that women weren't interested, certainly there were a number of girls that had hovered around his orbit; nice girls, clever girls, even a number of very attractive girls, but he had dismissed them all effectively, either by his usual cold disinterest, or his propensity to wound with a tactless remark.
Thinking back, it's hard to describe just how much he stood out. Amongst a sea of worthy, corduroy-clad provincials, boisterous, conceited toffs and scruffy, earnest intellectuals, he'd seemed almost other worldly; tall, immaculate and aloof, and so polar opposite from the rest of us. In lectures, when most were either hungover, or overwhelmed, or bored, slouching and daydreaming and chewing on our pens, young Martin Ellingham would sit bolt upright, frowning in concentration, averting his forward gaze only to make an occasional brisk note with his silver fountain pen. Every so often, a girl would chance her arm, sliding into the seat next to him, attempting to be friendly or sometimes even spouting a line of chat. As sure as night followed the day though, he'd ignore her, or worse still, he'd be callously rude, so when one particular snotty red head had sought him out, I'd paid particular attention, gleefully anticipating her humiliation in the dry ice of his contempt.
How wrong I was and it had been awful, like seeing a slow motion car crash, or a flesh-eating bacteria consume a limb. She lined the poor bloke up with the same ferocious intensity she applied to competing for absolutely everything. I suppose at first it had been somewhat amusing, a fearsome battle of wills, and I was never quite sure if his obliviousness to her was a pretence or not. To give her her due, she had the ability to ignore Mart's thoughtless insults like they were water off a duck's back. Hell's teeth, I'd known Edith was hard but I hadn't factored in her limpet-like tenacity and, to give her some credit, she had persevered against the odds. She'd really stuck it out in the face of some rather stern resistance and, in the end, I think it's fair to say she simply broke him down. The reality was, with Mart already in self-imposed isolation, half her narcissistic job was already done for her; his family connections were tenuous and I was his only friend, a mate who was forced to watch on in abject horror as she went on to ensnare him in her nasty sticky little web. And, like a bloody idiot, I'd made the fatal mistake of trying to warn him, to tell him that Edith was just his mother in disguise. I'd banged on about praying mantises, and scorpions, and fish that eat their young, and he'd listened impassively. But when I got to the part about the rumours, the unpleasantness of her reputation, he had simply gathered up his books, turned his back on me and calmly walked away.
How I regretted that conversation afterwards. It had driven a wedge between us and caused an uncomfortable rift that took some time to heal. It was only after we'd sat our finals that I'd heard she'd disappeared, quite suddenly, abroad. I took my chance, and used the excuse of his scooping most of the sought-after medical prizes, and called him, and the conversation had been bloody difficult at first. Turning the topic to surgery though, as usual, had worked like a charm; his enthusiasm had been palpable despite his obvious attempts to keep his feelings completely under wraps. And that's when I plucked up the courage to advise him, to recommend he get out into the field and sow his proverbial wild oats. As usual, his reply was non-committal but I could only hope that he took it to heart. His commitment to solitude, I tried hard to tell him, was almost worse than being with her; it just wasn't healthy, it wasn't normal, and it certainly wasn't right.
To this very day I have no idea if he listened. In the years that followed, his middle name was discretion and, though rumours abounded, when I quizzed him he was never forthcoming, he always steadfastly refused to either confirm or deny. If he ever slipped up, I never noticed, if he ever gave anything away I missed the hint. As far as I knew, he was living his private life in impregnable secrecy; stealthy and clandestine, until the day I'd chanced upon him in that little cafe. Of course, I couldn't quite believe what I was seeing at first; I stood there like a lemon, blinking incredulously at discovering my remote and detached friend in the company of a stunning young brunette, her hand clasped in his, as he gazed at her helplessly, as if he couldn't quite believe his luck.
And the evidence suggested that the brilliant but taciturn young surgeon, a man who seemed to disapprove of everything and everybody, had fallen hard for a gorgeous slip of a thing who happened to be the polar opposite of him; vivacious and sociable and full of fun. I'd soon unravelled the mystery of how they knew each other, and you only had to a spend a few minutes in her presence to understand why he'd apparently lost his heart. But for the life of me I still couldn't figure out how on earth they'd ever got together, mainly because I could never picture Mart in pursuit of a girl. Louisa must have done all the chasing, I decided, she certainly has the confidence and charm, the optimism and the necessary strength of mind.
"Mind if I ask a personal question?" I say, suddenly, raising my eyebrows at her hopefully.
She appraises me over the top of her wine glass, her eyes narrowing shrewdly beneath her long dark lashes.
"Course not…"
Mart shifts awkwardly in his seat, reaching for his napkin and dabbing delicately at his mouth, a stark contrast with my own discarded square of linen that lies stained and crumbled on the floor beneath my feet. His parents might have been bloody awful but he certainly has elegant manners. I watch as he refolds it, slowly and methodically, placing it next to his plate with an ominous economy of movement.
"Must you?" he growls, folding his arms and raising an eyebrow at me, that familiar Ellingham disapproval freezing his face into an glacially contemplative scowl, like an official of the Spanish Inquisition ruminating on the most satisfying way to put you to death.
I'd seen that look so many times before it was almost as if I'd spent my college years deliberately provoking him. Lateness, drunkenness, womanising, anything that he considered was neglect of my studies would see it reappear. As a consultant, he'd become renowned for the wordless comeuppance. Brash young registrars on rotation would be assigned to assist him, the powers-that-be aware that any inflated ideas of their own competency would be squeezed from them, slowly and painfully, as they were made to hold a retractor for hours on end, standing in the shadow of a vascular specialist who demanded any procedure under his direction was performed in virtual silence.
She turns to him now, and touches his arm and, for a moment, I gaze upon her profile, recognising the warning that seems implicit in the curve of her mouth and the tilt of her head.
"Martin. It's fine." She says, nodding at him encouragingly until he grunts and looks away.
"Helen said you met through Martin's aunt in Cornwall?" I say tentatively and a slow smile spreads across her face.
"That's right. His Auntie Joan." She replies, leaning her elbow on the table between them, resting her chin on her hand and studiously ignoring his long, loud frustrated sigh.
"So, did Martin ask you out then?"
"Chris Parsons, that's none of your business!" He exclaims indignantly before, once again, she quiets him, touching his cheek with the palm of her hand, her will against his, her liveliness, her openness triumphing over his redoubtable need for privacy.
"Not really." She says, and the mischievous twinkle in her eye reappears. "We'd known each other quite a while before we finally, you know, just sort of got together…"
"What on earth were you waiting for?" I ask him, and I start to laugh, shaking my head in disbelief. "Most blokes would have asked for your number straight away, Louisa, but, as I suppose you well know, Mart here isn't most blokes."
I wait for the scowl or the sarcastic rejoinder but instead he is silent, licking his lips and avoiding my eye. I wonder what it is I'm about to discover; his discomfort certainly indicates that there's a story, one that Louisa seems quite content to reveal. I'm wildly curious at what he did, or what he said to her that still seems to cause her such veiled amusement; I certainly can't imagine that he swooped in and swept her off her feet. Bumping into her, knocking her off her feet is a far more plausible explanation.
"As usual, he was the perfect gentlemen." She says, with a sly smile. "He drove me to all my errands in his car, helped me move all my things twice and even found time to give me some excellent careers advice. In fact, his only blemish was when he left without saying goodbye…that did actually hurt my feelings…"
His head flies up and he stares at her in horror, but it only seems to encourage her as she nods at him as if if to make her point, reaching up to ruffle his hair affectionately as the colour seems to drain away from his face. The hint of discomposure is enough for me. The bloke takes himself far too seriously and a bit of a piss take never goes astray. A bit of banter, a bit of humour, it's exactly what this occasion needs to put us all back in the right sort of mood.
"In Martin's defence, what's another one, I suppose, when you're used to regularly beating them off with a stick?" I say, my tongue firmly in my cheek.
Even if I say so myself, my wind-up brilliantly hits it's mark. Mart is suddenly upright, stiff and uncomfortable, frozen like a rabbit in the headlights, his eyes as wide as I've ever seen them but still not knowing exactly where to look. It's hilarious, you can almost hear the gears grinding in the poor bloke's brain. Without the perennial scowl, instantly he appears younger and I grin at him as I wait, eager for his inevitable retort. But, before he can have a crack back at me, I notice Louisa is disentangling her fingers from his, dropping her hands into her lap, awkwardly and indecisively, before folding her arms and biting on her lip so firmly I fear she might draw blood. It's not the reaction I was expecting but at least, momentarily, the big guy is in the back foot.
"I need the lavatory." He says sharply, springing to his feet, fumbling for his handkerchief and studiously avoiding Louisa's confused stare as she turns and watches him stride away.
"Sorry….What?" She asks, as she faces me again.
Her eyes are so bright, her cheeks have coloured to a rather fetching pink and, as I smirk back at her, I'm again struck by just how lovely she really is. But, pretty girls can't always have it all their own way; Louisa certainly likes to tease and, as I've said before: if you like to dish it out, you have to be prepared to take it in return. I steeple my fingers and raise my eyebrows, rather enjoying myself as I relish her intense and undivided attention.
"Come on Louisa, surely he's complained to you about it too? All the years he's had to put up with gorgeous women pursuing him. Banging on his door at all hours, making nuisances of themselves when he's trying hard to fix his sodding clocks. It must have been difficult but, as we all told him, it just comes with the territory, I'm afraid, when you're a rock star surgeon like he is…"
I finish my glass of wine, reaching for the bottle only to discover that it, too, is empty. Disappointed, I snatch a glance at her and, for a moment it's almost as if she believes me, even funnier still, she starts to look slightly cross. I wait for it to pass, for the penny to drop, gazing at her gleefully as I anticipate her reaction: that dazzling smile, the laughing eyes, the mock reprimand she's going to unleash on me when it finally dawns on her that I'm pulling her leg. Better still, it gives me quite a thrill to amuse her, like there's something about me that she might find she needs. I might not be the high and mighty surgeon, I might not have a European sportscar, a spacious London flat or a depressingly thick head of hair, but I can actually do what her miserable behometh of a boyfriend can't and that's to make her laugh, until tears roll down her cheeks, until she gasps for air and slaps the table for mercy.
I incline my head at her, and pull my best Mr Bean face but, despite all my efforts, her radiance seems to have evaporated before my very eyes. I fumble with my glasses, in my haste to put them on, and that's when I notice it; the trembling lip, the glassy stare, the knotted brows.
"'Scuse me." She says, her voice tremulous and uneven, and I watch open-mouthed with horror as she scrambles to her feet, snatches at her things and bolts, frantically, from the table and out into the street.