Thank you so much for your patience. I hope the wait was worth it (-:

I have come this far, fuelled by fury, still seething as I slump in my seat, my arms folded tightly across my chest, my jaw grinding and flexing indignantly. Around me, conversation hums; old men cough, doors slam, babies cry. Normality. Everyday existence. Oblivious people, who haven't just had their life turned totally upside down. Beyond the window, as I blink back tears, the countryside slides by as a dull, khaki smear. Here and there, clusters of farm buildings appear as a sort of half-hearted punctuation. Brown and balding hedgerows criss-cross the fields where dejected cattle huddle in corners, heads hung low, legs and bellies caked in mud. The sight of them makes everything somehow so much more forlorn, so dismal that I want to weep. But I must not cry. I will not cry. It doesn't help. It never has.

Almost a whole day has passed and it still doesn't feel real. As I watched him leave, disbelief had made it almost impossible to breathe, and I'd stumbled blindly around the flat, throwing whatever possessions I could lay my hands on into a suitcase before fleeing into the bleakness of a wet London afternoon. Even now, my diaphragm is taut, my stomach in knots, outrage ebbing and flowing as I relive every sentence, every horrible inference, all over again. It had been like a bad dream, Martin an icy, untouchable stranger, the expression on his face one I'd never seen before. First I was stunned, and then I was incensed, unable to even defend myself, the implication of his words more shocking than I could actually make sense of.

Escaping the confines of his flat had helped a little to clear my head but sitting at the station, flipping hopelessly through my address book, had been even more demoralising. I'd simply lost touch with so many people, and the few phone numbers that might still be current were absolutely not the friends I was about to admit the end of my relationship to. I'd felt bitter then, and just a little bit sick; once again I couldn't stay but I had nowhere else to go. Well there you are, I thought to myself in a particularly miserable moment, serves you right for getting complacent, for thinking you could ever really rely on anyone else.

But, once I'd got over that little bit of self-pity, I was determined to rally, smothering the scalding pain of it all with another surge of righteous rage. It lasted long enough that I found a room for the night, in budget lodgings, a silent, anonymous little place in Norfolk Square. My stomach rumbled, my arm ached from the weight of my luggage, and a leering man who had stared at me in the in the stairwell had borne the brunt of my displeasure but at least now I had somewhere safe to sleep. After dragging my case up the three narrow flights, I'd hurled myself down despairingly onto the garish polyester bedspread, furious one minute, fighting back incredulous tears the next. Perhaps I should have wept, maybe raging and flailing over the injustice of it all might have been a relief but the tears, when they came, were sticky and blinding and reluctant to flow. As I lay there, clutching a wad of coarse loo paper in my fist, my heart was thumping wildly, and I felt like I would choke with all the grief. And, worst of all, it was like icy fingers were encircling my heart, tightening their grip as if to remind me: everyone you love leaves you eventually Louisa, everyone you've ever entrusted your heart to abandons you in the end.

It should have been a relief when exhaustion finally overcame me, but I slept fitfully, strange and jarring dreams of loss and fear denying me any sort of rest. And, during that long, miserable night, I became aware of a desperate sort of yearning, an intense longing for kindness, and crisp salt air, where people smile at you in the streets and everyone knows your name. The more I thought about it, the more I ached to hear the sound of the sea, to watch the ebb and flow of the tide, to feel the warmth of the rock pools on a hot summer's day. Dolphins in the harbour, baby seals basking on the rocks, the breeze whipping your hair back as you stood on the cliffs and gazed out at the endless azure sea; like a hound scenting something familiar, I was suddenly fixated, momentarily energised; the answer seemed so simple, so obvious; I needed to go home.

So, for most of the morning I have pressed myself against the carriage wall, watching glumly as raindrops streak across the outside of the glass, their path grimly determined yet completely erratic, as if they were participants in some furious, free-for-all dodgem race. They blur into nothingness, or leap sharply into focus and, as I stare into the distance with glazed eyes, I realise that the fury that spurred me on has begun to fade, only to be replaced by an indescribable feeling, the most horrible sensation I have ever known. I can't bear to contemplate it really, it's like my airway is constricted and all I can think about, over and over again like a mantra, is please don't let this be real. Not him too, not my serious, dependable Martin. Not now, not when I believed we were going somewhere, that we had a future together, that we could make each other happy. How could this have happened, why, when I thought I'd finally found someone that I could rely on?

I lean my forehead against the window. The vibration makes my teeth chatter but the coolness of the glass provides a welcome respite from the airless carriage, if only for a minute. By the time we pull into the station though, I am once again defiant, my jaw clenched, a grim smile fixed upon my face. Caught in the crush to disembark, I manhandle Martin's sensible, robust suitcase down the stairs and glance around me glumly. The summer of my imagination could not have had a starker contrast. The sky is the colour of wet newspaper and misty drizzle hangs low and chilling above our heads. I can barely see to the end of the platform but the crisp, clean air is at least unmistakable, like a spritz to the lungs, and I suck in deep, hungry breaths. The accents, the laughter, the friendly chatter, the undeniable Cornishness of it all is suddenly so welcoming, so fortifying really, and it's really been far too long since I came home to my village.

I share a taxi with two quite lovely strangers, an unfamiliar older woman laden down with shopping, and a portly man, a visitor who informs us cheerfully that he is lunching with a cousin. He clambers into the front passenger seat with great difficulty and, wedged in among the bags of groceries, clothing and haberdashery in the back, I can't help notice the heavy folds of skin at his neck wobbling as he issues a string of instructions to the disinterested driver. Thin strands of grey unkempt hair lie wispily across the man's collar, the bold checks of his shirt a jarring combination with his houndstooth jacket. I feel a sudden pang then, a cruel sort of pointed reminder: Martin sitting upright on the sofa, engrossed in his journals. And me, sliding my arms around his shoulders from behind, feeling his almost imperceptible, yet by-now familiar startle, that moment of tension before he'd exhale and relax against me. For a split second it is too painfully vivid, that inviting contrast between smooth golden skin and crisp white collar, the short hair that feels like suede beneath my fingers, the faint, fresh scent of soap and the cool silkiness of his suit fabric against my bare arms.

The stab of pain I experience is searing and I gasp, wrestling again with the disbelief. It just doesn't seem possible, I mean, how could he think so poorly of me, have so little trust in me that he could think up such vile and unfounded accusations? What have I ever done that would make him so suspicious, what have I said to provoke such horrible allegations? I wait to feel incensed once more, but now there is no fury, no rage, not much of anything really. Just a sharp pang that feels like grief, one that makes my eyes prick at the unfairness of it all, stung yet again as I recall the coldness of his manner, the disgust in his expression. I bite my lip savagely. Martin, not you too, I think to myself as despair tightens its grip on my chest, not you, the only person in the world that I hoped might be different, the only person in the world I was convinced would never let me down. But, my god, his voice was like cut glass, crisp and devoid of any of his usual hesitant softness. I lean my elbow on the windowsill, ducking my head, pressing my fingers into my temples, attempting to hide my welling eyes behind the trembling curve of my hand.

The taxi slows as the street narrows, and the sight of the village does little to raise my spirits. There is no sun in the sky today, nor sparkle on the surface of the sea. The whole world is a dull and somber monotone, matt and muted and without brilliance or reflection. A little colour does become apparent as we descend toward the Platt, but not the blues and pinks of my ridiculous summer recollections. Instead, yellow lichens appear like smears of butter across the slates and stonework, and the winter hue of the bracken fern has turned the steep slopes deep burnt orange above the tightly clustered buildings. A bright red Land Rover parked on the sand stands out like a beacon in the drizzle, but the waves that pound the sea wall roll in from a cold, forbidding, slate grey sea. I shiver then and it dawns on me that I still have nowhere organised to stay. I have neither accomodation nor welcome, no friends and definitely no one consoling to embrace me. Running away has got me nowhere, I'm as alone now in my village as I was in the the largest city in the land.

For a split second, my decision to return seems ridiculous, madly impetuous, perhaps even foolish. In a bit of a daze, I help my fellow passenger unload her shopping and, as she disappears into the mist, I muster what little remains of my resolve. Lumping my suitcase across the slippery concrete, I head instinctively toward the Crab. The brightly coloured dinghies are so familiar, the stacks of crab pots, the territorial posturing of the seagulls, the rust, the damp, the smell. But the Platt seems almost deserted, every face I see is that of a stranger, and my feet seem, involuntarily, to slow. It's suddenly painfully obvious that I have been so focused on putting distance between myself and Martin that I really have not thought any of this journey through.

An icy gust cuts through me like a knife and I pull my jacket tighter across my body, regretful that Karen Freethy's cosy comfortable cottage, where I spent so many happy teenage years, is now let to someone else. Of course, there's always Isobel's mum, but her small, draughty semi at the top of the village holds no appeal at all. I recall how pokey it was, how noisy, how chaotic. The younger girls were always fighting, the tv was always on. I can so clearly remember the sound of pot lids rattling on the hob as she routinely boiled what few vegetables she ever bought until they were a grey, unappetising pulp. I can imagine what Martin would think. He'd be horrified, potatoes reduced to the consistency of gruel, grey peas, and cheap sausages fried until they were black. And, you know, she'd be sure to ask me about Isobel and, right now, honestly, that isn't somewhere I'm prepared to go.

My case is becoming heavier by the minute and I feel a tinge of regret, acknowledging that I have lost touch with Caroline too. She must be somewhere close by, surely, if she is still trying to make a local radio station work, but even if I were to track her down, her parents house is far too far to ever attempt on foot. The evening is closing in, and the rain is so cold now it burns my cheeks like a stinging slap. I wonder what happened to Tom, and his clapped out old Ford Capri. He always drove too quickly around the narrow Portwenn streets, tape-deck blaring, windows down. Hearing the sound of a car approaching, I glance up hopefully, waiting for it to emerge into the open, the whine of the engine reverberating off the solid, stone-walled buildings. But it is just another delivery van, with yet another unknown, unsmiling face in the window. Instead of feeling welcome, I feel like someone who doesn't belong.

I swallow hard now as an enormous lump seems to fill my throat. I know I have one friend in the village at least, I know if I called Mrs, Norton, she'd insist on coming to get me. I know she'd make me welcome too, and that knowledge absolutely breaks my heart. God, I'd been so keen to return to Portwenn but not like this, not on my own. I'd wanted us to visit together, Martin and me, and this time all three of us would really have belonged together, I would have been her actual family too. And, if I am really honest, I'd wanted her to see for herself how happy Martin and I were together, I'd wanted to prove to her how, actually, we were right for each other. And now it couldn't be more awful, more awkward, it couldn't possibly feel more wrong. So I can't face his Aunty Joan, I can't bear the thought of her questions, her quizzical raised eyebrows, her silence that speaks volumes as our misery and failure is laid so horribly bare.

So I stand outside the Crab, hesitating, even though logic tells me I should go to into the bar and attempt to secure a room. As I chew on my lip, contemplating my options, the door opens and a shaft of soft, warm light appears fleetingly, as if to quietly lure me in. But, still, I am frozen to the spot with indecision, paralysed by yet another detail I've deliberately overlooked. Butterflies flutter in my stomach and I give an involuntary shiver, reaching up to tug anxiously at my damp and dripping ponytail. I can no longer ignore it, I can no longer conveniently pretend. There is no denying that I'm not the first of my family to reappear in Portwenn seeking refuge and redemption, I am not the only Glasson to hope for sanctuary and salutation in the familiarity of this quiet little village.

I make my way inside, tentatively. Funny how, even though I'm of age now, coming in The Crab seems just a little bit daring, a little bit naughty I suppose. Two men sit at a table and another at the bar reading the paper but, other than that, the pub is empty. The barman turns to face me and, to my relief, I recognise the curly hair, the narrow shoulders, the pleasant yet unremarkable face.

"Hello John." I say breathlessly, and a slow smile of recognition splits his face in two.

"Louisa," he says, dropping his cloth onto the bar, and reaching up to finger the buttons on his pale brown polo shirt, his nails bitten to the quick. "Well I never. What's brought you back then?"

I smile tautly. "Oh, you know…do I need a reason?" The men at the table have stopped talking and I can feel their gaze upon me, their eyes boring into me in a way that makes me feel just a little bit uncomfortable.

"Course not…" he replies, and I realise he is staring at me now too. "I just thought…"

"Have you got a room then, John?" I interrupt, glaring at the other patrons coldly until they finally avert their gaze. "Because if you haven't…"

"No, we've no bookings at all for the weekend." He assures me quickly in a tone which sounds almost relieved at his lack of patronage. "How long are you thinking of staying?"

I shrug, and mutter in a vague and non-committal way that I hope seems casual and carefree and cool. Because the truth is I have no idea. Nothing is the same any more so how on earth would I know? I am homeless, drifting now like a ship without an anchor, and I have found myself here, without any sort of plan. To make things even worse, I'm aware that John just seems a little too enthusiastic about my return, he is a just a little bit too helpful, he looks at me just a little bit too earnestly, his gaze lingering on my chest as I bend over to retrieve my case. While I'd tried to ascertain the whereabouts of our mutual friends, he'd been more interested in asking me if if I was travelling alone, where I lived in London and, rather horrifyingly, whether I still saw much of Danny.

"Umm, no…" I'd replied, just a little too emphatically, and then because I suddenly felt like such a failure again, very much the abandoned, unloved girl who couldn't hang on to a boyfriend, I'd lied to him:

"My boyfriend's a doctor. We're living together. I haven't seen Danny in years."

John's face had fallen, quite cartoonishly in hindsight, and I'd felt a bit unkind but I still took advantage of his momentary distraction to escape. He'd called after me, offering assistance, his tone flat and almost sorrowful but I'd insisted that I was quite capable of mounting one flight of stairs unassisted, and I'd bolted, slipping gratefully into the sanctuary of my tiny little room. Strange how I'd forgotten how narrow the stairs are in these old buildings, how the low ceilings make you stoop, and how not one wall is ever square. It does make you realise how small the villagers were historically and, really, none of the cottages have the dimensions to comfortably house a man the size of Martin. I try and recall what he looked like in his aunt's farmhouse, which is positively roomy by comparison, and I can see him so clearly in my mind, even now, so many years later. He was so immaculate, with such perfect posture, so haughty and so arrogant in a way that, as a teenage girl, I'd found so devastatingly attractive. But, he'd had had to duck constantly to avoid the ceiling and the memory of him, how imposing he'd seemed, makes me struggle to catch my breath.

I move the Windsor chair in the corner closer to the window and sit down, pulling the counterpane from the bed and wrapping myself up in it, my stocking feet up on the windowsill. In the distance, the vague grey green expanse of the sea looms, through salt encrusted windows a faint orange hue low in the sky marks the sunset, but nothing makes any sense to me, none of it. Yes, I admit, Andrew being in the flat was a horrible coincidence but why on earth would Martin assume the absolute worst? And what was I supposed to say when he asked me whether we had been lovers? How was I supposed to explain that awful moment in my life without simply making things even worse? And besides, I'm not the one who had become impossibly remote, actually, I'm not the one who was aloof and avoiding physical contact, and I'm certainly not the one who refused to talk about anything, and was suddenly working all the hours god sends. If anything, it is Martin who has been behaving like I no longer interest him, it is Martin who has been acting like he has found somebody else.

My heart begins to thump wildly again, a reaction to the most sickening of my fears. It's always like this when I think about him with somebody else, always the same sense of panic, the same breathtaking grief. And the awful thing is, I can't even remember the last time we made love. For so long we couldn't help ourselves when we were alone but now weeks and weeks have gone past and he has barely even kissed me, it's like he can hardly bear to touch me. I can't help myself then, I torture myself imagining his mouth on another woman's throat, his hand on her breast, the urgency of his hoarsely whispered I love you searing her flesh where they touch. She arches her back and cries out his name, and I'm suddenly exhausted, and more miserable than I have ever felt before in my life.

Could that be it? Was everyone right? Men have large appetites, surgeons can't be faithful, and boyfriends don't break up with you, do they, not according to Cosmo, they just make things so untenable and exasperating and unhappy, that it's you that eventually gives up. They push and push and push until they're the victim. Well, if that's the case, he got what he wanted, didn't he, and now he can do what he likes and see who he likes, and eat fish for every stupid bloody meal if that's what makes him happy. Not my problem any longer. I mean, if he wants to be secretive, and sleep at the hospital, good luck to him, the very best of bloody British luck. I certainly don't need anything from him, I don't need his help, I don't need his lectures, I never did and I will be just fine, like I've always been, on my own and happy there. And if there is someone else, whoever she is, good luck to her too because she is certainly going to need it.

And then the thought strikes me: I hope he doesn't bring her to the flat. Oh, god, I can't quite bear the thought of being replaced so quickly and especially not her with him in what I've come to think if as our bedroom. The idea of him showing his tender, gentle side to anyone else makes me feel actually sick. Martin, you wouldn't do that, you wouldn't make everything we had seem so meaningless, would you? I can hardly stand it, imagining him enfolding her, dreamy and blissful, drawing her gently into his arms, reaching out to retrieve the bedclothes, sliding them up to cover her nakedness, careful and solicitous, ensuring she's warm and comfortable, and not exposed to any degree of draught. And then he will fall asleep, listening to her, his voice low and warm and velvety in her ear as he responds to her innumerable questions, stroking her skin absently, and squeezing her tightly for emphasis. And she will come to know him from the tiny glimpses into his past that he gives her as they lie together after making love. She will come to understand that he is shy, and that he is actually soft-hearted and extremely caring under that cold and haughty demeanour. And one day perhaps she, too, will cry herself to sleep in some dismal, distant hotel room when she thinks about everything she has lost.

I notice that the room is in darkness now, a pale luminescence rising from the sparse lights of the platt the only illumination. The heating is on but it barely registers, I stand up still wrapped in the bedding, and shuffle toward the bed. From the bar there is shouting, joyful and good humoured, and the faint odour of frying makes my stomach growl again. But I really don't want to go down there, red-eyed and congested, I don't feel like being stared at, I don't want anyone to ask me about my life. Perhaps tomorrow will be better, perhaps dawn will bring my resolve back because alone here in this room, it seems to have totally deserted me. I feel for the bedside light and rummage in my bag for some nightclothes, it's too cold to get undressed in the open so, just like when I was a child, I slip off my shoes and get into bed, changing into my old mismatched pyjamas underneath the relative warmth of the lumpy duvet.

And then I just lie there, exhausted and bereft, huddled in the foetal position, not daring to move beyond the body-sized warm spot I have created. I am so desperate for sleep to claim me, I need some sort of respite from the sadness, the tightness of my chest, the ache in my stomach, the stinging in my eyes. As hard as I try though, I can't find anything to think about, a topic that just doesn't seem to make everything even worse. I'd started reading a novel so I try to recall it, and thinking about the plot seems to sort of do the trick. But the brief respite of being half asleep is suddenly shattered by a sharp knock on the door; startled, my heart begins to race. For a moment I ignore it and then I feel a ridiculous surge of hope. What if it's Martin, come to find me? To tell me that everything is going to be ok?

Another loud rap, insistent and hard, and now I'm awake and fumbling again for the light.

"Hang on." I call out but the knocking continues.

"Who is it?" I add, as I swing my legs out of bed and tap dance around on the mat in search of my slippers.

"Louisa?" A male voice replies, and my heart suddenly sinks.

The voice is familiar but I know it's not Martin. How bloody stupid of me to get my hopes up, I think, cringing at myself, flushing with embarrassment as I fiddle with the key and wrestle with the stiffness of the lock. When the door eventually opens I'm shocked to feel no real enthusiasm for my visitor. He's shorter than I remember, more egg-shaped, and his hair is liberally streaked with silver. Other than that, it feels quite surreal. Nothing has changed, his timing is still terrible, waltzing back into my life when I am at my lowest ebb. I lift my chin and gaze at him impassively.

"Louisa!" He says again, as he lifts his arms in anticipation, before allowing them to slump helplessly against his sides.

"Dad." I reply flatly, turning my back, and sensing him hesitate before he clears his throat uncomfortably, and follows me into my room.