(Thank you everyone for continuing to provide such thoughtful reviews. It's lovely to see some new reviewers too so a big welcome to any recent readers too. As always, I'm very interested to hear your ideas.)

"Are you ringing from home?" She said, when she finally picked up the receiver.

"Yes, I'm in Martin's study, why?"

There was a pause and I heard her sigh, dreamily.

"….I just can't imagine what it's like to have a telephone in your actual flat… no standing in draughty corridors with all sorts listening in….no stinky phone boxes…all full of graffiti and such like… oh, Lou-Lou, it must be so amazing…"

"Just how far from your lodgings is your phone, Isobel?" I interrupted, a tiny bit curious about her circumstances, trying to understand, I suppose, why I'd had to hang on for a good five minutes before someone had eventually located her.

"Not that far really…not that anyone ever rings me these days anyway…"

I'd closed my eyes then, clenching my jaw to contain the impatient groan that gurgled in my throat. Her self-pity was not only a bit irritating but, now I came to think about it, it actually seemed quite pathetic, really. I frowned, trying to remember if she had always been like that. I see her on our morning walk to Portwenn Primary, in a threadbare Wombles t-shirt and a pair of elastic-waisted jeans. She would eat her lunch on the way and spend the rest of the day complaining she was hungry. If you played Hide and Seek, she would forget to come and find you, if you lent her her your pencil-sharpener, you'd never see it again. I bite my lip and try and recall the good things, the positive things that her friendship had brought into my life.

"Yeah, well, you know…it can be quite hard to meet people when you move to a big place like this…" I'd pointed out, in an attempt to be conciliatory.

"And I can't find a job. I thought there'd be literally hundreds going but every single advert wants you to send in a application AND a C.V so that's me ruled out straight away…"

"Wait, Isobel, are you telling me you don't have a C.V?"

That was a signal for her to inhale dramatically and I was aware of what was coming, listening with a glassy smile as she launched into a another woe-is-me tale of muddle and misadventure. Of course, someone had used her last copy as a coaster, and it now her painstakingly-typed resume had coffee rings all over it, rendering it totally unusable. Funnily enough, that calamity was quite plausible really because she was always careless with documents, and homework, and notes sent home from school. I once spent a week on a joint project with her only to have her mum use it to light the fire, and any magazines I ever lent her always came back coloured in, courtesy of one of her younger sisters. But, for all my impatience and frustration, the thing was, Isobel was still an old friend and, actually, I understand how it feels to be short of a quid, and friendless in a big new city. I breathe deeply and remind myself again: isn't that why I called her in the first place, because I was feeling just a little bit lonely too?

"Well, I've got a word processor…" I'd told her cheerfully. "So, I mean, if you wanted to come over on Friday, we could sort you out with a new C.V…I could put it on a floppy disc for you then, and you could run out as many copies as you needed…what do you think…would that help?"

"You've got a computer thingy?" She says, and I'm sure I hear her gasp. "Lou Lou, how on earth'd you afford one of them?"

I winced then, accidentally biting the inside of my cheek, instantly regretting offering to help. Because of course I had to admit to her that Martin had bought it for me, and I will say this for Isobel, she is nothing if not predictable. How many times will I have to endure this suggestion, I wonder, how many times will I have to stomach her slightly resentful implication that I was just soooooooo very lucky. I'd shaken my head as she informed me, almost proudly, that her last boyfriend was so cheap he was reluctant even to shout her a supermarket pastie. Worse still, she and the one before that had booked up hundreds of pounds worth of furniture on HP before he had not only dumped her but left her with all of the debt. As I listened, I did actually start to feel a bit sorry for her to be honest, but it also made me wish I hadn't invited her to the flat. I'm a firm believer that we make our own decisions and, as I listened, my patience started to wear very thin.

"Well anyway Isobel, I was thinking, I mean, since you're new in town, how do you fancy a night out? Be a great way for you to meet people…" I butted in, convinced that an act of benevolence on my part might actually benefit both of us.

"Yeah? Okay…where were you thinking?"

"Well, actually, there's this new band I've been hearing lots about, called Suede actually, and they're playing at UCL next weekend…

"Suede? Umm..I don't think I've ever heard of them…" She said, hardly overwhelming me with her enthusiasm. "What songs do they sing then?"

"Well, I don't know any of their actual songs because they're really new, but heaps of people are banging on about them…they're even in Melody Maker…"

The line had gone silent for a moment. In the background I could hear a baby crying, and what sounded like someone doing the hoovering. Isobel sniffed once or twice but did not speak. I could imagine her so clearly, twisting her hair around her finger as she gazed distractedly into the distance, and every second that passed saw me a little more aggravated and quite a lot more disappointed. Why would you move to London and not want to see as many gigs as you could? I felt sort of dismissed when what really rankled was that I was the actual one being generous, I was the one inviting her out.

"Isobel?"

She'd sighed heavily and the sound was suddenly jarring, like the crackle of cellophane at close quarters, or the tedious testing of a microphone, the repeated tapping and blowing, and the screeching of feedback.

"Umm, I just don't know really, I mean, what if I don't like them?" She said and her voice was surprisingly plaintive and piteous, not at all as grateful or enthusiastic as I'd just imagined she'd be. "I'll be stuck there because you won't want to leave, plus I'll have wasted quite a few quid on the cover charge…"

"I don't think the cover charge will be much…" I'd interrupted again, a little tersely, stifling an incredulous laugh.

"Well, maybe not to you..but, I mean, we don't all have ri…" she said defensively, stopping herself abruptly, but not before I recognised clearly what she'd really wanted to say.

Once again I felt stung, I felt myself blush, my skin prickling and burning. Resentment started to bubble inside me and I struggled to keep my temper, insulted that everyone seems to think I'm a kept woman, and that I can't take care of myself. I mean, yeah, sure, Martin buys things that I wouldn't ever dream of purchasing for myself but I could totally have lived without a television, or even a computer, and it wouldn't have been a problem at all. I was suddenly so furious that I could barely listen to her twittering on, my chest was heaving so hard with indignation, and my breath hissed as it surged through my nostrils with the heat and fury of an outraged dragon. All I could think about was how ridiculous it was to think I could turn back the clock, shocked at how far she and I had grown apart, staring furiously at the certificates on Martin's wall, and biting my lip in frustrated silence. I couldn't get out of seeing her on Friday now but, trust me, that would definitely be it.

"Listen, Lou Lou, do you know that spooky old cemetery in Chelsea…umm…Han…Hang…" I heard her say, after a moment, suddenly airy and animated again.

"Hanwell?" I replied, cautiously.

"Yeah I think that's the one…have you ever been?"

I grimace, and sigh, recalling a pleasant autumnal stroll with Martin, on a crisp sunny day, when I'd hooked my arm through his and we'd wandered along the tree-lined streets finding ourselves eventually in that very still and silent place. We'd sat on a park bench and I'd stretched out my bare legs in front of me, desperate to soak up what little remained of the sun's rapidly waning heat. Martin's arm was across the back of the bench and every so often, he would reach across, scowling gravely, and push an errant lock gently behind my ear. For for a few short minutes, it had felt like the loveliest afternoon ever, the mildest of breezes determined to liberate the loose strands of my fringe, and Martin equally as resolved to keep them in place.

A couple had approached, pushing a stroller, and I'd smiled at the baby as I'd watched them go past. It's dear little face had lit up with a gummy grin and I'd been reminded again just how much I adored happy, chubby, little infants. But when I turned back to face Martin, still smiling gleefully, his expression had changed and he'd started banging on like a madman, about the inventor of Chloroform being buried somewhere amongst all of those headstones, in an unmarked pauper's grave. The look I gave him, he seemed to mistake for interest, and he'd proceeded to elaborate, graphically, on the absolutely gruesome manner in which the poor bloke had died. Thinking about it, even weeks later, all I could I do was take deep breath and shake my head in total bewilderment.

"Lou-Lou?" Isobel says and her tone is demanding,

"Umm, sorry…yeah, I have been there actually. Why do you ask?"

"Well, apparently, the local Folk Club sets up there of a Sunday lunchtime, sort of an open mike thingy…lots of people go and I've heard it's not bad really. Plus, it's free to get in…"

It would want to be, I think to myself, and I can't even pretend to be interested. I mean, going out at night to listen to a band is one thing, but spending an entire afternoon with hippies, and twitchers, and wearers of corduroy is another thing entirely. Worn down by harmonies and earnestness, bored half to death by lutes and accordions, it would just be my luck that Martin would get some time off and I'd be stuck, miles away, in a inescapable nightmare of flat caps, and muslin, and hand-tooled leather belts.

"Oh, wow, I mean…it's sounds…it sounds…gosh…it's just that…well, sorry Isobel, but you know, folk music really isn't my thing." I said, grimacing apologetically, even though she couldn't even see me.

If she was disappointed, she didn't let on but I'd felt a sudden irresistible urge to get away from her. I muttered a few excuses about having things to do, gave her my address, and recommended a couple of possible routes to her. We agreed to meet up mid-morning but, as soon as I hung up, I felt a confusing sense of dread. At first I told myself off for being a bit disloyal but in the end it became so intense that I had to give myself a sharp little lecture on the importance of doing the right thing. You know, Isobel's mum had barely two farthings to rub together but how many times did she eke out a meal so that I could join them at their wobbly little table? How many times did she send Isobel to check on me after yet another of my parent's noisy, drunken public disputes? The fact was, I owed it to Isobel to do what I could for her; I mean, hadn't our village survived for centuries because we knew how to stick together, because we knew how to help one another when life got really difficult?

I presume that she will want lunch so, on the way home from college, I duck into the off license and select a few bottles of wine. In the supermarket I buy some crisps, and some biscuits, and a packet of frozen sausage rolls. Tomato sauce is an abomination to Martin but I slip a small bottle in to my trolley anyway. I mean, it's not often I can justify frowned-upon groceries by saying that they were actually for a guest. On my way to get a tin of beetroot, I notice that garlic bread is two for one, and there's a new type of fish finger filled with cheese. Adding them to my mounting selection, I head for the drinks aisle and grab a few bottles of lemonade. I'm not sure what possesses me to choose the enormous pineapple from the top of the display but at least it's a vegetable of sorts I think. As I wait in the queue at the cashier, I thumb through the magazines, until the manager glares at me and so, guiltily, I toss Cosmo and the Radio Times atop the counter too.

It's only as I'm tucking my card back into my purse that I realise I might have over estimated my weight carrying capacity. My fingers have turned white before I'm even out on the main road and, only a hundred yards towards home, I'm sincerely regretting choosing such a wide selection of Chardonnay for tomorrow. Nursing my bandaged hand sees me rather unbalanced too and the only thing I'm grateful for is the fact I wore flat-soled boots this morning, as I heave and clunk my way unevenly along the footpath. I press the zebra crossing button with my elbow and my shoulders slump as I hover on the edge of the curb, vehicles passing within a few feet of me at speed, the air heavy with fumes and noise and cold. My thigh feels punctured and my hands are numb. Why did I never realise before that pineapples were so very spiky; it will be a miracle if I make it home before the sodding thing slices it's way out of the bag.

Lulled by the steady drone of the traffic, and dampened by weeks of fitful sleeping, I yawn widely. The buzzer sounds, and I step wearily out onto to the crossing, vaguely conscious of shouting and the resounding slam of a car door. I'm aware of footsteps, pounding toward me at speed and, when I hear my name, I realise too that the dead weight of my load is gone from my arms; the plastic slides over my hands and I give a startled cry of surprise.

"What on earth do you think you're doing?" I hear him say tersely and, oddly, I just stand there, waiting for him to tell me the medical condition I'm putting myself at risk of; a hunchback, a hernia or, worse still, an embarrassing prolapse.

But Martin does not have time for a diagnosis, as he shepherds me briskly back into the taxi. Clutching all of the carry bags in one enormous hand, he holds the door open impatiently, silent and serious as we both climb into the back.

"This is a nice surprise." I tell him breathlessly, turning sideways to kiss him lightly on the cheek.

"Mm..n-yes." He mutters awkwardly through tightly clenched teeth, glancing at me sideways for a moment before leans back into the seat.

"How was your day? Busy, I suppose?" I ask him but he merely shrugs and pulls a resigned sort of face.

I wait for him to peer suspiciously into the bags of shopping as he normally would, to quiz me on the contents with an air of sufferance, to reprimand me for my appalling choices or even to remind me of the detrimental effect of alcohol on the liver. But instead, he says nothing, watching me when he thinks I'm not looking, but otherwise bent only on the close examination of his immaculate cuffs. Strictly speaking, I probably should ask whether he minds me inviting anyone to the flat because he is so fiercely protective of his privacy but, really, it is only Isobel. I mean, I've known her forever, I'm doing a good turn and, besides, Martin's not even going to be there. If I mention it now, I worry that he might get all funny about it, and it just feels really imperative not to say or do anything that might cause us to quarrel if we don't have much time to be together. Instead, I slide my hand tentatively onto his knee, hopeful that I might distract him from his current apathetic state, and I smile at him hopefully as our eyes meet.

"I don't suppose there's any chance of you staying home tonight?" I ask, sliding my fingers along his thigh.

He opens his mouth but he doesn't say anything, and though the inside of the taxi is dull, there's just enough light that I can make out the look on his face. There's the facade of his typically brisk manner, theres even the shell of his usual decisiveness, plus a pretty distinct and not unusual air of disapproval. But tonight there is something else as well, and the closest I can come to describing it is that he seems jaded and remote; there is almost a sort of hardness about him, a grim frozen acceptance of everything and everybody including, it seems, even me. Though he was quick to relieve me of my burdensome shopping, he hasn't even asked about my burn when, usually, by now, he would have quizzed me on my condition, insistent on knowing whether I'd developed any new symptoms, or complications, or simply how it was healing.

""Might be quite nice just to curl up on the couch together, see if we can't find something to watch on that flash new telly….don't you think?" I add hopefully.

"Louisa, I'm sorry…" he says, so quietly that it's almost a whisper, and now it seems he can't even look at me.

I say nothing, nursing the sting of yet another rejection. We stop at the lights, the taxi shuddering erratically as it idles. One of the windows begins to vibrate; it's an aggravating noise and he scowls thunderously at it before clearing his throat. In the car alongside us, a ginger Pomeranian leaps up and down, barking furiously, hurling itself at the glass as if it would tear our throats out if only it could get to us. When Martin eventually turns back to face me, I barely recognise the look in his eyes, just as I am unfamiliar with the disturbing tone of his voice.

"Louisa…" he says, this time taut and frigid, causing millions of butterflies to converge on my stomach.

"What?" I reply quickly, and a little sharply, anxiety forcing the word from my throat before I even have a chance to think about how I am feeling. My hand slides from his leg and I pull it into my lap, wondering if he has even noticed it is gone.

"I had a visitor today…" he continues, each word glacially cold and clear, as he reaches into his inside breast pocket, withdrawing a bulky brown envelope, folded in half. "This, apparently, is for you…"

We are moving again, lumbering along in an stale, unhappy silence. There is an accusatory air about him now that is as distressing as it is confusing, and I wrack my brains for what I might possibly have done. His expression now seems wounded as if he has given up any attempts at concealing his feelings and yet I can't look away. The package sits loosely in his hand. I hesitate for a moment and then I take it from him.

"He went to a great deal of trouble to find me, so it must be important." I hear him say, and his voice is a sneer.

I look up at him and frown as I slip my thumb into the back and tear the envelope open. "Who did? Who do you mean?"

"Your friend," He replies, enunciating each syllable icily, as if I am deaf, and reading his lips. "Johnny Bamford."

My instant recollection is of a smarmy show-off, a bloke quite good to look at but one who spoilt everything the moment he opened his mouth. And I remember only too well feeling rather insulted by some of the things he inferred as he banged on quite creepily about my appearance, even if I did discover later he was training in plastic surgery.

"My friend?" I bark, laughing uncomfortably at the thought. "I think you've got the wrong end of the stick there, Martin…I..I…"

Losing my train of thought completely, I stare open mouthed at the gift Johnny has apparently sent me. "Oh my god…I can't believe it."

And I honestly can't. Two tickets for the Depeche Mode concert at Wembley Arena next Friday, the World Violation tour, currently sold out. And not just tickets, actual backstage passes too, in little plastic wallets clipped to shiny black paracord. As I gaze at them in disbelief, my hands are literally shaking.

"Did he just give them to you? What did he say?" I ask, my voice shrill and incredulous.

"He interrupted rounds this morning." Martin growls, and he seems both disgusted and incensed, apparently assuming that I share his point of view. "Yes! I know! And of course, he seemed to take great pleasure in announcing publicly he had a..a…present…for you…from him."

"Oh my god, but why? Why me?"

"Forgive me if I didn't feel comfortable asking that question in front of a number of registrars, several junior doctors and a handful of gawping students…" he replies bluntly, glaring at me. "I suppose I presumed you'd already know…"

I scowl at him and give a little shake of my head. "I mean we didn't talk for long. I said something about bands, he said his brother was a promoter…I was just passing the time, being polite…"

Martin's stare remains fixed, and I feel, a little crossly, as if I'm on trial. His eyes are steely and his lips are set in firm disapproval but as he watches me, I notice how the corners of his mouth appear to sag.

"For god's sake Martin, its not like I asked him for anything…I certainly didn't expect…." I say helplessly, my voice trailing off to nothingness.

The taxi turns into De Vere Gardens and pulls to a gradual halt outside the flat. A fine mist appears on the windows and, drearily, I realise it's raining again. We both reach for my shopping, his hand brushes mine, and I snatch it away as if I've been burned

"I can manage." I tell him pointedly, gathering up the bags awkwardly and glaring at him as I clamber out on to the pavement.

It's cold and there's a hint of coal smoke in the air. A cat darts in front of me, moisture glistening on its fur, and, a few yards ahead, I'm startled by a figure moving out of the shadows, crossing the street and disappearing into the distance. A car horn sounds, and I increase my pace, determined to struggle ahead at any cost. The more I think about it, the more irritated I am by the insinuation that I've somehow done something wrong. If Martin suspects me of something then he should come right out and ask me, not just cast silent aspersions, and pull reproachful faces at me. By the time I drag my load up the stairs and into the flat, I am a simmering cauldron about to erupt. I heave the shopping on to the work top and furiously begin to unpack.

"If, as you say, you didn't solicit those tickets, Louisa, then you should immediately send them back." He says, his voice a low, velvety growl as he comes up beside me, lingering a few feet away, his arms folded across his chest, his chin raised defiantly.

I open the freezer and jam the fish fingers in haphazardly, pretending to ignore him. My head is spinning and I'm certainly not concentrating on my task. My favourite band in the world, songs that resonate with me so very deeply, and the chance of a life time, to meet Dave Gahan and the rest of the band backstage after the concert. I feel my heart race and it almost feels as if it's fluttering in my chest, like a frantic bird trapped inside a window. My whole life, I've dreamed of something like this happening to me, sitting in the bath in Portwenn, eyes squeezed shut against my dismal surrounds, dreaming of Tony Hadley pulling me from crowd at a Wembley concert, or being invited to dance on the stage with Morrissey, the floor around us littered with gladioli stems, his shirt unbuttoned to the waist.

"But it's a chance to meet Dave!" I blurt out, and I turn toward him, gazing at him imploringly, clasping my hands to my chest. "You could come with me? Martin? Please?"

Suddenly, he is horrified, screwing up his face, and looking at me aghast, as if I'd been discovered after living in his attic for twenty years.

"No, of course not!" He replies in a strangled voice. "And, quite frankly, I can't believe you're even considering it…"

"Oh, can't you?" I snap back at him, and my hands go to my hips defiantly. "God forbid I should actually go out anywhere, live any sort of normal life, isn't that right Martin? No, much better that I should stay at home night after night, dying of boredom and loneliness, desperate for any crumbs of affection you might toss my way, hmm.."

He stares at me like I am shouting in a language he's never heard of; his face unmoving, unblinking, like a scathing sort of waxwork. With my heart hammering in my ears, I reach for the pineapple and hurl it into the fruit bowl, wincing as the soft flesh of my palm is pierced, swearing miserably as tears fill my eyes.

"I'm going to that concert Martin, and if you don't want to come with me, I'll just find someone who does!" I hear myself cry, my voice petulant and disappointed, choked by anger and hurt.

I push past him blindly, snatching my mac from the hook in the utility room, arms flailing, fired by the most ferocious resentment I ever could imagine. I've given up so many things because he just isn't interested and I've tried not to make a fuss, but this is different, this is Dave, this is something close to my heart and that should absolutely make a difference to Martin.

"Everything always has to revolve around you Martin, doesn't it? Is always about what you want to do, where you want to go." I tell him angrily, fighting my way into the sleeves of my coat. "I fit in around your job, and put up with your notions, some of which are totally Bodmin actually, and all I ask is that, just once, you take me somewhere I really want to go!"

He says nothing, gazing at me as if he's confused, like not a word I've said has made sense to him, as if my logic is impossibly flawed. A flicker passes across his face, a slight ripple in his upper lip, an almost imperceptible incline of his head. His Adam's Apple launches upwards in his throat but still he is silent.

"What?" I demand crossly

"Ahh, nothing."

"No, what?" I growl back at him.

"It's just that….Umm….you've…you've" he mutters, waving a finger vaguely at my chest. "You've missed a button…they're done up the wrong way…"

"Shut up Martin!" I spit back furiously, pulling my collar up around my neck, my boots clattering against the floorboard as I make my way to the front door, down the stairs and out into the rain.