The chair leg screeches across the floorboards like a cry of alarm.

Flee.

Anywhere else but here.

Don't think about it, don't give it a name, my girl, just gather up your things and go.

Turn your back and walk, Lou Lou, never let no one know they've struck a nerve.

This is what happens when you believe in fairytales, Wheezer.

You do seem rather impulsive, Louisa, please exercise caution on the slippery floor.

Flee.

Smile at the waiter now, as he scrambles to open the door.

Gasp as the cold air hits you like a slap.

Fumble with your things, drop them on the sodden ground.

The world shifts and sways, as I stagger out into it, trampling my hat into the pavement with the heel of my boot. I stand there helplessly, staring at my feet, angry, and already ashamed of my own impulsiveness. Out here, I am conspicuously alone and all my frustrations escape my throat in a sharp, furious whimper. The sky is gun metal grey and the street seems weirdly silent, the hum of the city distant and indistinct. I tussle with my coat, stricken with indecision and unhappiness, seeking shelter under the cover of a neighbouring doorway as the freezing rain begins to fall. Pulling my collar up around my ears I realise, with a yearning that makes my bones ache, that the only thing I want, the very thing I crave so desperately at this moment is for Martin to come and find me.

In the time it takes for him to emerge from the restaurant, I've already resurrected the ghosts of his past. I can see them as clearly as if they're here in front of me, the pursuers he chose not to beat off with a stick. The clever, accomplished women who share his passion for medicine, and everything else, sitting on the sofa with him, discussing the latest pharmaceutical advances, agreeing on the importance of nutrition and exercise, and the need to abstain from alcohol. I can't bear to watch as they curl up against him, knowing that he reads over their shoulder, nodding appreciatively at the passages they've highlighted, interesting facts about varicose veins.

"Is something the matter, Louisa?"

Out of nowhere, he looms over me, and I'm ashamed to say I startle, lost as I was in such a horrible vignette. Of course, his expression is perplexed and I know that, even if I could, it's not worth trying to explain.

"I just needed some fresh air." I say quickly, trying my best to minimise everything, yet unable to make my voice sound anything else other than that of an anxious child, one who has been told they must be brave and they must not cry.

"I see." Martin replies thoughtfully, and his hand goes to my forehead, the back of his fingers soft and gentle against my skin. "You feel hot."

"I'm fine." I assure him and my tone is short.

It's such a pointless act of defiance because, clearly, I am not fine, and now his fingers are under my jaw, and he stares at me in careful contemplation, oblivious to an annoyed pedestrian whose progress we impede. The fear I have is bigger than everything, and I can't find a philosophy, I simply can't find a way to rationalise it all away. Of course I don't mind sharing him with patients, I can accept sacrificing our time together because I'm well aware of how crucial his work is in saving people's lives. In fact, I'm almost like the president of his fan club really, I'm in awe of what he does. But, I can't deny it, I just can't stand thinking about there being other women, knowing that he one gazed at them like he looks at me now; the skin around his eyes crinkling with concern, his brow creased, and his voice so low and velvety soft.

"Your lymph nodes are slightly swollen…are you feeling unwell?"

"Martin, please, I'm fine." I insist but, all the same, I tilt my head, pressing my cheek against his hand because, in the midst of an afternoon downpour, surrounded as we are by dreariness and damp and conflict and cold, I feel a desperate and almost childlike need for comfort.

"Still, probably best we get you home I think." He says and I glance up at him hesitantly, his use of the word like a glimmer of hope as he brushes a damp strand of hair from my eyes.

If he wonders at all about my unexplained flight from the table, he says nothing, safe now in his retreat into medicine, once more the confident, authoritative man that his friend spent much of our lunch describing. A quick smile seems all the reassurance he needs that we might want the same thing; his usual preference, just the two of us alone in the flat, amusing ourselves on the gloomiest of afternoons. The flicker of something passes across his face; the pressure of his hand on my hair increases infinitesimally and he leans in and presses his mouth gently to my forehead, his kiss soft and sure and lingering. Briefly, I close my eyes and, finally, after almost drowning in a sea of anxiety and insecurity, it feels as if someone has thrown me a buoy.

The apparitions evaporate, it is just he and I, and we are more than enough for each other. I slip my arms under his coat and press myself against him, giving in to my craving for his solidity and reliability and warmth. He murmurs into my hair that perhaps walking home is a poor idea and I grunt my assent into the buttonhole of his smooth lapel. I feel his hands on my collar as he carefully adjusts the uneven folds, and, when eventually we part, the tension that has enveloped him all morning seems to have evaporated too, sliding from his shoulders like snowdrifts off a chalet roof.

As I step backwards, of course he notices my hat, sodden and discarded beneath my feet, and he frowns as he bends down to retrieve it. A few yards behind him, loitering awkwardly in the doorway, I'm suddenly aware of Chris, looking unsure and uncomfortable, watching us with a sheepish expression on his face. I barely have time to wonder how long he has been standing there before Martin stands upright, obscuring my line of sight once more.

"Ah…time for a new hat, I should think…" he says, abandoning his attempt at retrieval, and reaching for his handkerchief, carefully wiping dry his hands.

"It doesn't matter." I hear myself say, and I allow him, without resistance, to put his arm around me and shepherd me to the kerb.

Stepping onto the road, he hails a taxi and, as the rain gets heavier, he urges me inside. As we pull into the traffic, I glance across to the solitary figure on the pavement and, grimacing, I slowly raise my hand.

"Did Chris pay for lunch?" I ask, my voice squeaking as I attempt to clear a tickle from my throat.

"The least he could do, frankly, since he drank most of the bill himself…" Martin replies curtly, making no effort at all to disguise his disapproval.

"Martin, I think even he'd admit that he probably wasn't on his best behaviour today. Perhaps I was imagining it, but did you get the feeling that something was wrong?"

"Wrong? If that's his excuse then there's been something wrong every night since I've known him. He drinks like a fish. Always has."

"Perhaps you should have a quiet word with him then? I don't know…he just seemed…"

"Pfft…utterly pointless. I've advised him on several occasions that he wants to watch his intake but he takes no notice whatsoever." He interrupts briskly, folding his arms across his chest and assuming an irritated, impatient expression that will last all the way home. "His father died of cirrhosis nearly ten years ago and he got drunk at the funeral. Six hours on the train back from Leeds, listening to his drivel and trying to keep him hydrated. Never again."

"Really?" I say, and I am surprised. "I didn't realise you'd been friends that long."

"Well…mm…I suppose we have…in the broadest sense of the word…."

"Still, you must know each other quite well though."

"I know his alcohol intake is excessive, his diet is appalling and, to make matters worse, he squandered years of medical training so he could indulge both those vices on the pretence of it being a career." He replies fastidiously, lifting his chin and gazing at me as if nothing else needs to be said.

I'm not sure Martin understands friendship in the same way most people do. Still, male bonding is complex and highly variable, just as Tzippy touched on in her new book. I don't have a huge amount of experience but I know, for blokes, their emotions, and the depth of their attachments, can be quite different to how you feel about your best friends when you're a girl. My dad, for instance; he took being as thick as thieves with his mates just a bit too literally really. He couldn't ever let them down, he wouldn't do anything that made him lose face in front of them, and it used to drive my Mum absolutely mad. She didn't have a lot of friends as I recall, not female ones anyway, and none that she seemed particularly close to so perhaps she didn't understand that well either. Just another reason for them to scream at each other though, yet another excuse for a flaming row, her questioning his loyalties, him saying she was nagging, and then it all just kicking off from there really.

I'm suddenly back in Delabole, waiting outside the bookies, sucking on sweets and watching the local farmers gathering in small groups on market day, smoking pipes and spinning yarns; hearty, back-slapping friendships that seemed forged in their collective facing of disaster and ruin. And then, at the other end of the scale, there was Danny, with a new best friend every week, each one apparently the best thing since sliced bread. his fascination was always short lived though, inevitably one loaf was quickly usurped by the next. It was ages ago now, so long in the past that it doesn't even matter but I punish myself with the thought: what had I ever seen in him when he was clearly so superficial? He was like a kitten chasing the beam of a torch or a hitch hiker always on the lookout for his next lift. Such a contrast to the fishermen in the village, with their camaraderie, their lives depending on looking out for each other, and the way they seemed to understand the importance, drawn to the commitment of lifelong friendship. In a small community of course, most people try to get on, except if you're someone like that horrible Jimmy Millinger who seemed to prefer his friends to be so much younger, better looking and more naive than himself.

I picture Martin on a train, younger even than when I first became aware of his existence, once again assuming responsibility for the lost and grieving; this time one who would have been devastated by his father having been taken from him far too soon. Poor Chris though, to lose his dad like that and, I mean, everyone tries to cope in their own different way, don't they? Surely it's better to try and understand them than to judge, even if his decision to get smashed at the funeral didn't seem possibly the wisest choice he could have made. I'm only too aware of how very lucky he was to have Martin to take care of him when things were a bit grim. That sort of trip too, I suppose it couldn't help but bind you together, and I wonder just how close he and Martin might have actually been. But, as I can't help but notice the permanent expression of irritation on my boyfriend's pensive face, just as importantly, I'm keen to know whatever it was that made them drift so far apart.

"You sort of implied once that…I don't know…he was always on the pull? Was he successful? I mean, did he often chat up girls when you were out together?" I ask him casually.

He glances at me, his eyes wary.

"Is that important?"

"Yes, Martin, I think it is. He's your friend, we've just had lunch together, and I'm trying to understand him…so actually, any points of reference would be quite useful!"

"I see…" he says but I'm not sure he does. "I'm not sure there's that much to understand but alright…yes, he did attempt to…umm…ingratiate himself with a lot of women. I'd say to the point at which it became, well, almost pathological."

"Oh."

"Exactly."

"Gosh…how did that make you feel though? I mean, it must have been awkward…"

"How did it make me feel? I felt nothing…invariably, I'd just leave him to it."

"So, umm…you didn't go out with girls together? Sort of like a double date kind of thing?"

He stares at me like I'm mad, his brows knotting together, his lips parted in disbelief.

"Of course not."

"So where did you go? I mean, what sort of places were you hanging out at when he was trying to pull all these women?"

He sighs heavily.

"Most of the time we spent together, we were studying, Louisa, either in lectures or at the hospital." He replies, his voice crisp with impatience. "And, in case you were unaware, both locations have a proportion of obliging young women willing to be persuaded into bed by anyone who purports to be a doctor, and is prepared to buy them dinner. Now, is there actually a point to this discussion or can we talk about something else?"

With his lips pursed, he glances at his watch before transferring his attention to the rain-soaked view outside. I stare at him, blinking in horror, and, in my chest, I feel a pain; my heart, it literally hurts. God, that's a much worse scenario than I'd even imagined, far more upsetting than the man I love having occasionally being susceptible to women who threw themselves at him. I mean, I would never have found Chris attractive, dinner or no dinner, but I imagine what it would have been like, as a student queuing for lunch, or a nurse innocently getting into a lift, having Martin suddenly focus his attention on to you. I've seen him at work, so confident and compelling, he would have been impossible to resist. If even half the stories I heard today are true, everyone in his world would know how good he is at his job, how many people he'd saved and, as Chris said, what a Rock Star he is.

I feel too warm again, an anxiety-driven heat that sees me tearing off my coat awkwardly and bundling it into an untidy ball in my lap. We're nearly home, and again Martin looks at me like I've gone stark raving mad, but I don't care. Jealousy and a returning sense of insecurity has taken care of that; I feel dazed, staring miserably at the window, the streets outside obscured and contorted by droplets on the glass. We travel the rest of the way home in a cool, empty silence, the tightness in my chest making it seem almost too painful to breathe.

The rain hasn't abated and I don't hang about while he sorts out the fare. Walking up the stairs to the flat makes me oddly breathless too, and the slight irritation in my throat has become just a bit more persistent. I cough again on the landing as he comes up behind me, and once more at the door, as looks at me askance. I am barely inside, collapsed on the sofa, pulling off my boots, when he produces a thermometer. Dispirited, and feeling worse by the minute, I submit to his fussing without an ounce of fight and, when I admit to a vague ache in my joints, I even agree to him running me a bath.

In the bathroom mirror, my reflection is bedraggled, my skin is pale and my eyes enormous. Lethargically, I strip off my damp clothes and slip into the deliciously hot water, closing my eyes as the light film of bubbles lap at my chin. I tell myself repeatedly that none of it matters, even smiling at him ruefully as he brings me a cup of tea. He returns a few moments later, with my dressing gown and slippers, sitting them just within reach, before scooping up my discarded clothing and tucking it under his arm. As I watch him move around, carefully laying a towel over back of the little pine chair, it's hard to believe we were out in the same weather, exposed to the same elements of wind and rain yet, as usual, he appears immaculate with not a hair out of place.

"Can I get you anything else?" He asks, hovering in the doorway, averting his gaze as I push myself upwards and reach for my tea.

"No thanks." I say and I smile again, hesitantly, his ever present shyness and my increasing sense of remorse making us as suddenly bashful as strangers.

"You're quite comfortable? "

"Yes, Martin."

He gestures toward his study.

"I umm, I have some work to do…" he says. "So, if you don't mind… I might make a start on it now…"

"Good idea…" I say but he is already gently closing the door.

I sink beneath the surface again; the water fills my ears and, cocooned by the warmth and the silence, this flat once again becomes a place of security. One by one, I push all the negative thoughts from my head, listening dreamily to the sounds beyond the room. The comforting tone of Martin imposing order and organisation on his world, the reassuring rhythm of his routine. As I lie partly submerged, the process drifts to me as percussion; the metallic echo of filing cabinet drawers, the screech of sliding files and the steady beat of his footfall up and down the hall. His voice is muffled by the water, a deep sonorous murmur of words I can't discern. There's something about it that pacifies me, though, and I realise that I've behaved like a embarrassing schoolgirl, jealous and hopelessly immature. I can't honestly see him carrying on in the way he described Chris had, like a barnyard rooster or rutting ram. It's just not in him, I should know him well enough by now, its just not in him, I know that in the depths of my heart.

I grab hold of the rim and drag myself upwards, rubbing my face and running my fingers gingerly through my dripping hair. I pull out the plug and reach for the towel, enveloping myself in its luxury, wondering idly how his housekeeper keeps them so white and so very very soft. As a child I'd been known to retreat to the bathroom, plunging my head under the water to drown out yet another blazing row. There'd usually only be silence waiting when I'd finally surface; that and a thin and threadbare towel. I'd wind the pathetic thing so carefully around my head, pretending it was a turban and I was some sort of Princess, or imagining myself as a tribal nomad living somewhere it never rained. And, when Eleanor did finally flee for good, I could do all the washing myself, and I certainly didn't miss having to put up with linen that invariably stunk of cigarettes. It was just another bonus really, just one of so many positives about her inevitable departure that meant I hadn't really cared too much, or for very long. I barely even think of her these days actually, unless it's like now, to recall what a rubbish sort of mum she really was.

He's standing by the window in his office, arms folded, staring out at the rain soaked street. I pause in the doorway, one arm on the frame, and say his name, loud enough that he hears me, husky enough that I don't cause him to startle. His expression is grave, I'd almost say troubled but, when he notices me, his face seems to soften, and I love him for that, for never making me feel like a nuisance or an unwanted intrusion into his life. He turns in my direction and I smile, willing him closer. I watch as he takes a step, so I take one too, drawn helplessly toward him, his worried expression irresistible, his body wide shouldered and powerful, silhouetted against the light of the window.

There's something that I adore about this study; it's a room that's so typically Martin. With glass shelves displaying his treasures, and walls full of serious looking books, it's secure and imposing, just like he is; oak and leather, vellum and gilt. He comes another stride closer and I shiver faintly, feeling that delicious ache of anticipation. But I do not find myself drawn into his arms, instead he stops where he is, slamming the drawers of his filing cabinet closed with a sudden sense of urgency. As I stand and stare, he hurries back to his desk, rapidly stacking the neatly sorted sheets of paper into one large pile and pushing them into a cupboard.

"Am I interrupting something?" I ask him, suddenly an awkward teenager again.

"Nooo…I was just….it's nothing…legal documents and…umm….such like…" he assures me as he comes a step nearer, his movement precise and yet hesitant, like a slow military march.

"How are you feeling?" He adds, raising his eyebrows and contemplating me, as he gazes down his nose. "How is the congestion?"

"Better after the bath actually." I say, and I flash him a reassuring smile. "Must have been the steam…"

"Ah, yes, that's possible, with conditions not considered chronic, ahh, inhalation of warm, moist air can loosen the mucus in the nasal passages…"

I shake my head at him, almost imperceptibly.

"Thank you Martin, not sure I need to know the details actually…"

"Right." He says, averting his eyes quickly, glancing down at his desk, as if he's looking for something.

If I needed evidence that perhaps Martin isn't quite the womaniser that everyone suggests he might be, then it is seeing him now, like this, shy and awkward, and more concerned with rearranging his desk and locking his cupboards than responding to the obvious overtures of his refreshed and repentant girlfriend. Once, the first time I was here, things had become heated between us and I'd been shocked at myself, knowing that I would have, you know, probably even done it here, with him, on his desk. But, ever since then, as a place to make love, he has made it clear that his office is sacrosanct. I don't often come in here, there isn't much need but the fact that this room is almost off limits seems to make the atmosphere even more highly charged than before.

"Martin…?!"

"Yes, umm, I'll be with you in a moment. I…ahh…I need to…just…umm…keep…these…all…in…order…" he replies, busying himself with turning over the papers on his desk and placing his briefcase on top of them.

Impatiently, I slip my arms around his waist, giggling as I enfold him from behind, leaning my cheek against his back as he works furiously to complete his task.

"Are you sure it can't wait?" I ask, fumbling with the buttons of his jacket until they miraculously come undone.

"Nearly there." He replies briskly, and now it feels like a challenge I can't possibly back down from.

I'm always at such a disadvantage at times like this though. My clothes seem far easier to remove than his; I like to tease him that getting him undressed is like trying to break into the Bank of England. Double-knotted shoe laces, buttons, cufflinks, complicated tie knots, braces, more buttons, waistbands with hidden catches and then, finally, when you think you're on the home straight, the fly on his trousers that, even now, feels like it should have No Trespassing sign emblazoned across the front of it.

As soon as he feels my fingers burrowing below his waistband, he spins around, staring down at me almost anxiously, his eyes as wide as an incredulous child. Because this makes him even more innocently and unwittingly attractive, I am seduced, standing on my tiptoes to kiss him, wrapping my hands possessively around his jaw. He shuffles backwards and I follow, pressing myself against him, waiting for him to respond. But, while his mouth is soft and unresisting, I realise with disappointment that his arms are at his side.

"Martin, is something the matter?" I murmur in his ear, running my teeth lightly across his lobe, his hair as soft as some exotic fur beneath the caressing of my fingers.

"Actually, Louisa…" he says, in a strangled sort of voice, reaching down to fiddle with his jacket buttons without taking his eyes from my face. "Ummm…there's something…something I've been meaning to tell you…"