2004

We are staying, as usual, at the Port Gaverne hotel. He opens the boot, and insists on carrying the bags, pausing just for a moment to gaze down the harbour to the dark blue sea beyond. Assailed by the same sort of memories, I know exactly what he's thinking, and it's funny to imagine Martin being so sentimental, even romantic I suppose, in his own particular way. As for this place, nothing much has changed, and I breathe in the sharp sea air, invigorated as we walk, swinging my handbag back and forth. When we get to the door, he lets me go first, casually removing his sunglasses and slipping them into his breast pocket as I pass. I smile up at him gently, my hand lingering on his lapel; even though it must be fourteen years since he led me across the road, in many ways it could have just been yesterday.

This time though, there's an obvious saunter in his stride, a flourish as he presses the desk bell. There's even a bit of swagger in the way he folds his arms, raising an eyebrow at me as we linger at reception. I mean, he knows me well enough now to recognise my mood. And, of course, he's right; I am full of expectation, and I never was any good at hiding my excitement. It's just that this moment seems to have been such a long time coming, there's been so much water under the bridge for us as a couple; I've built a career, and Martin's is stratospheric. But I always knew his word was his bond, and it all just seems so perfect somehow, to be back here when this is really where it all began.

The tide had been miles out, the wet sand shining like steel plate, clumps of blackened seaweed scattered across the shore. In vain I'd protested: we weren't dressed for the beach, the sky threatened rain, the snug little bar was so warm I really didn't want to venture outside. But he was so earnest and, in the end, I'd given in, abandoning my seat by the fire to follow him out to where the breeze ruffled the surface of the rock pools, and scythed through the yellowing vegetation clinging precariously to the rocky cliffs.

An attractive young woman bounces out to the desk, oozing confidence; perky and polished in that way young professionals all seem to be these days. She hesitates and, even though her appraisal is subtle, I notice how she checks him out. I suppose I don't blame her at all, I mean Martin is imposing, he's hard to ignore, and I know from bitter experience that well groomed, cultivated men are a bit of a rarity around here. As usual though, he's oblivious; shoulders back, chin raised, gazing down his nose at her with an expression close to disdain. And, actually, I love him for that, I really do. When I see what some of my friends have to put up with, the way their husbands behave around other women, I'm quite grateful that mine is so unusual. Though I admit that it's sometimes a bit begrudging, I have always admired his integrity; he's never anything but Martin, honourable and decent, like a stick of rock, through and through.

"Good afternoon." She says pleasantly. "Welcome to the Po…."

"Reservation for Ellingham." He barks at her.

I'm so used to his impatience with small talk that it barely even registers with me, but I do notice that she is taken aback, fumbling with the pages and mumbling to herself. Without thinking, I find myself beaming at her enthusiastically, nodding in the conciliatory way I've become adept at over the years. Soothing feelings, smoothing out ripples, acutely conscious how Martin is so often perceived as rude. While he has never cared for the opinions of others, insistent that he doesn't need apologising for, I don't like to upset people, especially when they're just doing their job. As she notices me, she rallies; her cheeks bright red as she lowers her eyes to the ledger.

"Umm, yes, here we are. Mr. and Mrs. Ellingham. Three night stay. Is that correct?"

"Thank you." He replies briskly, passing his credit card to her; a perfectly manicured hand and an immaculate cuff, and I smile at his choice of his grandfather's cufflinks. Honestly, no detail escapes him; he has the memory of an elephant.

"And will you be dining with us this evening sir? Madam?"

He and I glance at one another then, and he ducks his chin, his expression now fastidious. I lean around him, my fingers splayed out, my weight upon the desk.

"Yeah, hi…umm…there should be a table for four booked?" I say, almost apologetically, watching anxiously as she runs her index finger up and down a page of names. Please let our reservation be there, I think and I bite my lip. Things will be so much easier for both of us if this weekend can just go smoothly.

But, instantly, his hand is on my arm, and he looms over me, exhaling loudly and pointedly; his inevitable response when he suspects incompetence. And now, of course, the poor woman is flustered and that's clearly not helping, so I whip my head around and glare at him, in the way I know he understands. Our eyes meet, and I give a tiny little shake of my head, a little reminder if you like, that he might be the big chief at St. John's, running a large team, flattered and fawned over by an endless procession of managers, peers and subordinates but, here in Cornwall, he still needs to work on his interpersonal skills.

His eyes widen. "Yes…" He mutters, clearing his throat, and turning his head away, apparently chastised.

Of course I notice the cautious sidelong glance he shoots in my direction, aware that he'll be worried now that I'm cross. But, honestly, it's for his own good. The more successful he has become, the more it seems one of my most important roles as his wife is to help keep him grounded in the face of the accolades that just keep coming. One of the most talented surgeons of his generation, a brilliant medical mind, and every bit as skilful; the sort of plaudits that could so easily go to his head. But that's the thing really. I mean everything Martin is, everything he's achieved professionally, is really what makes this visit so extraordinary; it's such a selfless act. So, I reach up and touch his back, rubbing lightly between his shoulder blades, just to reassure him that I'm really not upset.

"Yes, here it is, someone's just put it in the wrong column! Four people. Six o'clock." The receptionist squeaks, and she sounds so relieved I struggle not to smirk.

He holds his hand out, wordlessly demanding the key, scowling at her as he realises it's affixed to a pretty big chunk of driftwood. Then, without even waiting for directions, he gathers up our bags and simply strides away. Left in his wake, I nod at her and murmur my thanks, but she's not even looking at my face. Actually, it's not that uncommon that people are distracted by my hand and, honestly, I do understand. I'd been exactly the same myself; staring down at it, and then back at him; incredulous, speechless, and just completely overwhelmed. But now, back in the village, I feel oddly self conscious, and a little bit embarrassed really; sliding it deep into my jacket pocket as I hurry away. She calls after me, a reminder that breakfast is in the dining room from seven, and I turn and smile, and thank her breathlessly, focused on my pursuit of Martin, discovering him waiting restlessly at the foot of the stairs.

I'd clung to his arm, and we'd walked in silence, minding our footing on the slippery rocks, the empty seafront entirely to ourselves. The sun was setting and it was obvious how weary he was, how spent. His day had been long and intense and, clearly, needing to explain the horrors of the Imperial situation had left him just exhausted. I'd bitten my fist, trying not to interrupt, desperate not to cry. How long had we been sitting there? I had no real concept of time. I'd simply listened in tremulous silence, the welling of a thousand questions emerging from my throat as a series of horrified gasps.

How I ached for him when he admitted the involvement of his parents, reaching for his hand and squeezing it between both of mine as he tried to explain; so stoic, so matter-of-fact, so completely devoid of self-pity. It was me that was more upset, chewing my lip as my eyes brimmed with tears. I mean, how could something so unjust happen to a man the calibre of Martin, someone so brutally honest? It was just unthinkable. But the worst thing of all, creeping over me as a crushing, humiliating sort of realisation, was that he'd kept it all to himself. That he hadn't been able to find a way to tell me, that he'd been crippled by the fear I'd judge him, or desert him, as if I didn't know a lot about rubbish parents myself.

"Martin, I love you," I'd assured him vehemently, tears rolling down my face. "And none of this matters, honestly, none of it would have made any difference to the way I feel about you!"

The stairs are steepish, creaky and narrow, and he insists I go first. I've long since given up arguing with him over things like this; perhaps I can't be bothered, perhaps I've just learned to pick my battles. He unlocks the door, pausing on the landing to sniff the escaping air; the nose of a bloody Alsatian when it comes to detecting cigarette smoke. But it's a lovely sweet-smelling room, just as I remember; a sea view, a king sized mattress and a sparkling clean ensuite. I drop my handbag onto a chair and peel off my jacket, tossing it onto the bed, cheerfully triumphant as I claim the first use of the loo. When I return, he is sitting on the edge of the mattress, his face a mask of concentration, palms pressed flat against the duvet, bouncing tentatively up and down. There's a ripple in the covers, a sure sign that he's already reconnoitred for bedbug infestations just as he has done in every room we've ever stayed in, for reasons that he never will elaborate on. He looks up as I emerge and, instantly, his expression softens.

"Will this do?" I ask him, pausing in the doorway, folding my arms, and raising my eyebrows.

"It will." He replies in a low voice, and he holds out an arm toward me, a subtle flicker of mirth returning the dimples to his cheeks.

Hopping on one leg, and then the other, I pull off my shoes, teetering towards the bed, and stopping just in front of him, steadying myself with my hands upon his shoulders.

"Looking forward to tomorrow?" He asks, gazing up at me, his hands encircling my waist.

I ruffle what there is of his hair, cut brutally short for our weekend away, and smile at him, suddenly nervous and assailed by a very giddy, teenage sort of anticipation. "Yes. I think so. I mean, it is a lot to take in but, I dunno, I suppose it just feels right really. "

"Mm." He says, sliding his arms around me, his cheek against my chest. "And…Louisa…I just want to say…umm, that I appreciate your patience. I'm very aware things went on for so much longer than we'd planned…"

"Well, we're here now, that's the important thing…" I reply gently, and I feel him relax, the tension ebbing from his neck and jaw as, absently, I rub his temples; his hair smooth and suede-like beneath my fingers.

Staring at the wall above the bed, I think about our situation for the millionth time. So many concessions made, those first few years a crash course in compromise. But I'd always known a life with him would never be ordinary, and that was never what I wanted anyway. So I remind him of the thing that kept me going, the understanding that made it easier to just get on with life; never dissecting and never dwelling, determined to resist anything that felt like resentment.

"Anyway, It was never about anything other than what was best for us, Martin. For both of us, you and me."

He grunts in agreement, a low, velvety sound that says more than an hour of conversation ever would, his grip tightening as he holds on to me with arms so firm they might be cast in bronze.

On the edge of the stony little beach, he had stopped and turned to face me, holding my hand, keeping me close beside him.

"This place is significant." He'd said.

I'd glanced around, bemused and none the wiser; rough patches of grass, and a hollow in the ground half filled with brackish water. "Okay" I'd replied, laughing at him. "I'll believe you."

A faint smile had softened his expression; his eyebrows raised, that split second glimpse of amusement that sparks a warm glow deep inside of me.

"It's where we met for the first time…"

"Oh." I'd replied lamely, surprised that something like that would ever matter enough to him that he might commit it to memory. "Gosh."

I'd made a little pirouette then, taking in the surrounds, a little bit alarmed at the distance I'd wandered from the cottage high on the hill above. Focusing so much on child safety in my everyday life made it all just a tad confronting actually; a ditch near a road, admittedly not a busy one but, still. And those steep, briar-clad cliffs with no obviously safe pathway up or down, the wandering dogs and, not too far away, the ocean swell pounding against jagged outcrops of rock. Had it been much different back then? Had there ever been a track through the rampant undergrowth? Though, obviously, I couldn't recall the occasion, one thing was horribly clear: whatever the route and whatever the reason, by venturing this far alone I had certainly put myself in quite a lot of danger.

"I suppose, if you squint, it might almost be romantic." I'd said, pulling a face, and, for the first time in ages, he'd actually laughed.

We fall into the familiar ease of couples who are used to travelling together; Martin putting his clothes so precisely on hangers, laying out his toiletries, choosing a side of the bed and placing his makeshift pyjamas under the pillow. I sigh but I say nothing. Even though it was a false alarm, all it took was an evacuation from a Vienna hotel at midnight and I'd lost that battle forever, at least now when we travel away. For my part, I'm far less ritualistic; if I don't need to hang it up, it stays in my suitcase, just because I find I leave far fewer things behind that way. As usual, when everything is stowed, he will press for a walk, and I'm fine with that, honestly; capacity flights and long car journeys can be pretty uncomfortable for him with those long legs and that big frame. Besides, it's a nice way to orient ourselves in the city we've just arrived in, especially since, at busy conferences, it's usually the only chance we get.

But every inch of this ground is already familiar to me, a stroll to the Platt from here is literally a walk down memory lane. I slip my arm through his, giving him a little affectionate squeeze as we pass the spot, even though the ditch is no longer there. As we start the ascent, without a word he shortens his stride; glancing suspiciously at my footwear but, thankfully, managing to keep his opinions to himself. Most of the time, he remembers that it's better not to spoil a moment just for the sake of making a point. Besides, I think he knows how much I love walking with him, especially at this time of year, the brisk air an excuse to snuggle against him, fondling his arm through the soft cashmere of his coat. When we first were together, attempting to even hold his hand it in public had been the cause of so much angst between us. But, when I reach for it now, I can trust it will be there; warm and strong and so secure.

Up on the coastal path, the wind gusts are far more icy, and I hang on to him tightly. Below us, the tide has turned and the sea is rough, wild waves smashing into the grim black cliffs beyond the seawall. There's a gleam in Martin's eye, too, as he takes it all in, as if the impending storm really appeals to him. Approaching the shortest day, the sun is so low in the sky that much of Portwenn is already cloaked in shade, yet Lobber Point seems to float above it all, illuminated and dazzling like an enormous bar of gold. The bright summer colour that dominates my memory of the village has disappeared; brown bracken now clothing the hills, yellow lichens stippled across the cottage roofs. I think winter gives Portwenn a charm of its own but then I am a bit biased. But they say it's important, don't they, not just to view a place when it's at its absolute best.

His stride slows as we round the bend above the harbour, narrowing his eyes and staring in disapproval at a cottage that we all know as a local landmark; a characterless bungalow, yet neat as a pin. To one side, netting and wires criss-cross a square of olive green lawn; a few boring shrubs, trimmed into squares, standing like sentries at each corner. The roof ridges and window sills are capped with anti-bird spikes, a plastic falcon sits atop the chimney, and decoy kites flap in the breeze, strung securely to a monstrous tv antennae.

"What on earth?" Martin says in disbelief, and I giggle.

"Mr. Thornton has a bit of a thing about seagulls." I explain, in a stage whisper. "Years ago, he even started a petition to try and have them banned."

He looks at me dubiously.

"Yup." I say, glancing sideways, my face a sly smirk. "He's always been an odd one."

We stop for a moment, Martin like a statue, frowning in concentration, and then he clears his throat. "I suppose he might have a point. It's a well known fact that the common species of gull are as bad as pigeons as vectors of disease. Psittacosis…Histoplasmosis..Cryptococcosis…E. coli…"

"They're birds Martin, and they're everywhere." I interrupt firmly. "And you know what? Most people find it's just easier to learn to live with them…"

"Nnyes." He says briskly, before goose-stepping into stride, throwing his shoulders back as we hurry away.

"When I was little, we had seagulls nesting on our roof, and the screeching used to keep me awake." I tell him, as we fall into step. "My grandad used to say their cries were the voices of dead sailors, drowned at sea."

He glances down at me, askance. "Really? How utterly charming. Perpetuating ridiculous folklore for the express purpose of terrifying small children…Unbelievable."

"Oh, Martin, it's alright. It didn't do me any harm…" I insist, and I laugh. But in that split second I can tell what he's thinking, and he's right: both of us endeavour to be philosophical, uttering those sentiments far more often than we should.

His eyes were the colour of the ocean, greeny-grey, and shining brightly as he reached for my hands, clasping them so earnestly that I felt a surge of love for him that was just ferocious. I mean, there was never any doubt about it for me; from the first time we met, he was like no one else I'd ever known. And hadn't I seen it that very day, in the street in front of me; so clever and capable, so calm and decisive, saving Mary Large? Yet he'd just confessed that for months he'd been under a cloud, and his role at Imperial was now tenuous at best. It just seemed so wrong, a man who had always spoken of surgery as more a vocation, his brilliance and skill universally respected, yet with no idea where his future might lie, or even if it would still involve medicine.

And while I couldn't fathom his situation, I could recall, with sickening detail, how he was in those last few weeks before I left; a shell of himself, a shadow, a husk. And I now knew that he was a man that would work himself to death rather than admit he needed help, a man that had hit rock bottom yet his overarching thought was that he must keep it all from me. Me, the person that loved him, the one he should be able to tell everything to, the one he should feel he could share everything with. And that's when it hit me, staring helplessly at him on a freezing beach, wilting under the spotlight that had been turned on our relationship, my chest squeezed to breaking point by a harsh and miserable truth.

Martin sits in the armchair, flicking idly through the newspaper, while I change for dinner. Like everything else this weekend, it feels crucial that the restaurant leaves him with a good impression; I want him to realise that, while Portwenn isn't London, it's not entirely devoid of sophistication either, and that there are benefits, more than just copious amounts of every sort of fish. I want us both to have a lovely weekend and, with the success of the evening in mind, I'd bought a new dress, a fitting floral silk I'd found in a boutique in South Ken. Of course, I knew it was seriously impractical for the middle of winter, but, because it felt so gorgeous on and, since I'd reasoned I wouldn't be wearing it outside, you know, I just decided that it was worth the risk.

He glances up as I walk into the room, intent immediately on folding his newspaper, his expression fastidious. Knowing how he will insist on being punctual, I hurry over to my bag, rummaging about for my favourite heels, excitement fuelling my cheerful monologue; just a little bit breathless and eager about what we'd seen on our walk this afternoon.

"Will you be warm enough?" He asks, his tone concerned. "Perhaps you should wear your mac."

For a second I freeze, and then I exhale, and carry on. It used to bother me so much, I'd be so hurt by Martin's reluctance to ever pay me a compliment. And I mean it was crushing, to have made an effort, to hope you look nice, just to seem invisible. But now I am content to turn away, having learned to be aware of his subtle clues: the furtive sideways glance, the distracted tug of an ear, the way his chest puffs up a little when we walk into a function and I am on his arm. And, like now, when I am suddenly conscious of the weight of his covert stare.

"Come on, then!" I tell him, with a look that dares him to say a word about my shoes.

At the end of the corridor I pause, and his hand goes to the small of my back, curving around my hip, his breath warm on my bare skin as he heaves a sigh of resignation. A meal with his oldest friend and yet his first reaction is always reluctance. I don't remonstrate with him, I won't let it affect my enjoyment of a night because, eventually, he will reach for my hand beneath the table. In the restaurant, it's not hard for us to spot them; they're the only other people in the place. Chris scrambles to his feet and comes halfway across the restaurant to greet us, smiling and shaking Martin's hand before pulling me into an exuberant hug. Heavily pregnant, Helen stays where she is. When I extricate myself from her husband's hold, I bend down and kiss her on the cheek. She smells of hairspray and face powder and liberally applied J'adore. But, my goodness, pregnancy really suits her; her hair so thick and shiny, her skin so soft and clear.

"My god, it's been ages! When was the last time we saw you?" She asks, and she smiles.

"I was just thinking about that actually, on the way down!" I tell her. "And I think it must have been Martin's fortieth? Could it have been that long?"

"Good grief! I think you're right. Yes, because we moved down here not long after that…" She replies, and she looks genuinely surprised.

Martin clears his throat pointedly and I realise he is holding the chair for me. As soon as I sit down, Chris shifts his heavy wooden seat noisily across the flagstones toward me, flopping on to it like a schoolboy at the end of a long hot day. I watch as he slops water from the carafe unevenly into everyone's glasses, his tie askew, his shiny face pink with excitement. I've always been fond of him, even if he occasionally drinks too much and is just a little bit inappropriate sometimes because, the thing is, he is one of the few people that Martin actually trusts. And he has stuck by Martin through thick and thin, never more so than that crucial weekend just before Christmas. I recall so clearly how I felt, sitting quietly on the couch in the Kensington flat, hugging my knees and listening as he and Ruth devised the plan that resurrected Martin's career. I was then, and still am, phenomenally grateful that we had two such shrewd and clever people in our corner, and my opinion of both of them just soared exponentially. From that point on, our lives had sort of become interwoven for a while; he'd insisted Martin be best man at their uproarious wedding, and he and Helen had been the witnesses at our rather more solemn one. Yet, despite all that connection, as we walked from our room tonight, Martin's message had been insistent and crystal clear. Telling Chris or Helen why we are down here would be impolitic and premature.

I'd felt like I was in quicksand, breathless with love for him, dazzled by the part of him that was absolutely brilliant, and desperate to find a way for us to make our differences work. But, as much as I was drowning in need and desire, standing there, deep down I knew it wasn't enough. The breeze whipped my hair around my face, and huge raindrops stung as they began to lash my skin. Unable to breathe, I'd wanted to run but he'd stood like a statue, holding my wrists, the expression on his face like nothing I'd ever seen before.

"So, where do we go from here?" I'd croaked as he clung to me, my throat suddenly constricted, my words almost wiped away by the buffeting breeze.

"Drive back to London with me, tomorrow." He'd said, his expression so hopeful, so childlike; a beautiful innocence so completely at odds with his endless complexity.

"I don't know if I can…" I'd told him, conscious of the desperation in my voice.

He'd sighed. "Louisa, I have no choice, I have to be back first thing Monday, and you…well, you'll need to get back to college at some point. Even the faculty of Liberal Arts surely has some basic requirements for attendance…"

But I'd shaken my head at him helplessly, feeling utterly bereft as the words just came tumbling out. The loneliness, the isolation, the never ever going out; I just knew that loving him was never going to be enough.

"Martin, what I mean is…I can't come back. I just can't, not if things are just going to go back to the way they were."

He'd stared at me, his mouth open, any semblance of happiness and anticipation draining from his face. He'd replied slowly, his voice raspy and dull. "I see."

I'd shrugged, not quite sure if he did see, doubting he would ever understand. "You know, I love you, I really do, but I just don't see how I can have a future with someone who wants to be so separate, who keeps everything to himself."

"No." He replied, and he swallowed hard, cautiously moistening his lips.

For a moment I'd felt total despair, shaking my head at him hopelessly. "I'm sorry but that's just not the sort of relationship I want. i just know we'll never be happy. It's not a partnership, it's not trusting someone, Martin, it's not supporting each other. It's not even friendship. It's just, you know…"

And he just stood there, staring at me, oblivious to the raindrops that glistened in his hair. When he eventually spoke, his voice was thick and strangled and, as I freed my wrists and turned away, I'd never felt more horrible, or more bereft in my entire life.

"Louisa?" He'd said, but I couldn't have stayed, desperate as I was that no one would ever see me weep.

Neither Helen nor Martin are drinking but we seem to already be at the end of our second bottle, a buttery Oyster Bay Chardonnay that's going down just a bit too easily. I'm having a lovely time, chatting with Helen about their kids, and her work, and how she's found living down in Truro but Chris is persistent, always bringing the subject back around to Martin and me. The alcohol hasn't loosened my tongue, and I've been suitably vague about the reasons for our visit, but now he's keen to know what we've been doing since we arrived. I tell him that we had a lovely brisk walk up Roscarrock Hill, and that we sat on the bench and looked at the view, until it got too cold and we had to come back. Conscious of my husband's scrutiny about what happened next, I omit the part about the big house at the top by the coastal path being for sale, and how Martin's eyes lit up when he saw it. For a moment I wonder if perhaps Martin and I hadn't been as obscured by the enveloping dusk as I'd assumed. Perhaps we'd been spotted when, sensing his carefully veiled interest and finding it totally contagious, I'd thrown my arms around his neck and kissed him, fervent in the way you are when you allow yourself to hope.

So, to change the subject, I tell them that the biggest surprise had been the For Sale sign in front of Doctor Sim's tiny cottage. I'd heard from Joan, of course, but it hadn't registered I suppose until today, when I'd come to a sudden halt in the middle of the lane. It seemed to all have happened with what Martin terms indecent haste; I mean, Jim Sim can have been dead for barely a month. Experiencing a wave of nostalgia, I'd expressed my surprise, but Martin had barely managed a perfunctory glance, his interest piqued only when I explained what the cottage was, and who had resided there.

"It's very small." He'd observed and I'd nodded, conscious of the demanding detail of the spreadsheet he'd worked on for several preceding weeks.

"Martin, I'm not suggesting we look at it." I tell him impatiently. "Especially when the only one of your criteria it meets is: A View."

"It is an exceptionally good view." He'd conceded quickly, taking my elbow and hurrying on past on our way to the top of the hill.

As Chris fills my glass, I mention how surprised I am that Fern Cottage is already on the market and, to my surprise, he bows his head, and removes his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as if he is in utter despair.

"Bloody inconvenient of the old sod to die on me." He says, dismally. "Have you any idea how difficult it will be to replace him? No one will want to move here."

Martin looks at me but says nothing and, self consciously, I bite my lip. I've spent months on an intensive program of reassurance, attempting to convince him of what a wonderful place Portwenn really is. And, though I do know something of what motivates consultants in their career moves, I am pretty clueless actually, of what constitutes professional advancement in General Practice. Glancing nervously at my husband, suddenly I'm alarmed, waiting for Chris to put his foot in it as usual, to say something that might really put Martin off.

"Too quiet, too isolated, too far from National Rail, everyone says the same thing." Chris sighs. "I'm not sure what I'm supposed to do about any of those impediments unless it's to build a bloody multiplex next to the main carpark, and divert the Great Western Railway through the village. But, you know what they're like. Of course, the Trust will demand the post is filled. They're not interested in the details. They only want boxes ticked…"

"Oh, please Chris!" Helen cries out. "Can we not just have one evening out that's not about the P.C.T? Honestly, I'm sick to death of hearing about it!"

Martin and I glance at one another, and he ducks his chin in discomfort. As awkward as it feels, her outburst is a bit of a relief actually, an unexpected distraction from the perceived deficiencies of living in Portwenn, and I find myself smiling, though I'm more than a little bit sympathetic too. Goodness knows, I have spent my fair share of evenings in restaurants, usually amongst strangers, feigning interest as yet another unfathomable medical debate takes place around me. And Martin only attends those functions he deems absolutely essential, whereas I imagine Chris would be out networking every night of the week if he possibly could. It must be quite exhausting to be married to someone as social and gregarious as Chris, and so I give her hand a little understanding squeeze and ask her how she's managing, juggling pregnancy and the demands of two children; thinking particularly of their eldest, Dan, whom I recall as being quite a handful.

"Well, I'd have to say it's definitely less daunting the third time round." She says, and she grimaces. "Even if I do feel exhausted most of the time. I mean, I can't deny it; pregnant at thirty was a breeze, pregnant on the wrong side of forty is another thing entirely. "

"Well, honestly, you don't look exhausted!" I assure her. "And it can't be easy with the boys the age they are, and trying to maintain a career, and Chris away such a lot. I think you're amazing, Helen, I really do…"

She smiles at me, glancing over at her husband to make sure he has heard me. His shoulders slump and he pretends to collapse on to the table in a theatrical display of despair.

But Helen ignores him, shifting uncomfortably in her seat.

"Have you two given any thought to starting a family?" She asks casually, trying unsuccessfully to retrieve her napkin that has fallen to the floor.

About to assist her, I am suddenly frozen to the spot. Perhaps it's my imagination but the table seems plunged into a heavy, suffocating silence. In the distance pots clatter in the kitchen, the wind howls around the eaves beyond the window and the low hum of conversation drifts across from the only other occupied table.

"Oh, I don't know…" I say helplessly, and I feel myself start to blush, reaching for my glass and swallowing half of the contents.

After what feels like an eternity, Chris chuckles, reaching over to touch my shoulder. "Don't let her bully you, Louisa, it's no one else's business but yours! Not that any of us could ever picture the great Martin Ellingham as a father anyway. Perish the thought, eh Mart?"

Typically just a bit over familiar, Chris' hand is in place far too long and, for several seconds, all I am conscious of are his fingers, plump and slightly clammy, lingering on my collar bone. It's awkward, and a bit embarrassing, the way he gets like this when he has had too much to drink. I glance at him and give up a couple of uncomfortable shrugs of my shoulder, hissing his name under my breath until his hand slides down my arm and back into his lap. And I don't even need to look at Martin to know that he will consider this a conversation topic that is absolutely off limits and I cringe internally as I imagine his expression: haughty, aloof disdain.

I notice that he is placing his cutlery together, precisely and pointedly, on his half eaten plate and like a surly, disapproving Jack-in-the-box, he is suddenly on his feet.

"Right, it's been a long day and we've an early start." He growls, looking at no one, his expression severe. "So, if you don't mind, I will say goodnight… Louisa?"

There was no purchase on the slimy rock. I'd wobbled along, desperate to flee but he'd caught up to me in less than a few strides, wrapping his hand around my elbow and growling my name insistently.

"I know things can't go back the way they were." He'd said, staring down at me. "And I'm aware I must change. But please, Louisa, I beg of you. Stop running away from me."

For a split second, his breath condensed but the wind stole it away. It stung my eyes, and made them glassy. And through a film of tears I saw him then, really saw him for what he was, as if I was looking at a diagram, as if I finally understood. An exceptional man, as difficult as he was brilliant. Principled, impatient, well-meaning, aloof. As he searched his pockets, I'd just stared at his face, transfixed by it, his expression beseeching, his eyes just so crinkly and sad. All the things that mattered hugely and quite a few that probably shouldn't have mattered as much as they did. But you can't help what you are attracted to and there was no one else that looked like him, or spoke like him, and there were very few men as tall or as broad or as immaculately dressed.

He'd glanced at me then, pulling his closed fist from his inside pocket; his lips parted, and frowning so hard his brow was like the crevices in the rocks beneath us. And all it had taken was glimpse of his softness, of that wide-eyed hesitancy, that innocent caution. Because, in it, I'd seen his essence, I knew who he really was. God, how love makes you want to try, and try again. It strips you of logic and resolve, and it makes you second guess yourself until all your doubts disappear, or are forgotten, or don't seem to matter any more.

"Okay." I'd breathed eventually, pulling my jacket around my chest, and hugging myself from the cold.

Behind him, a fierce sea surged, colliding with the sheer stone cliffs, the waves booming like distant canon fire. The rain was coming in sideways, splattering against the leather of my jacket, and trickling in determined rivulets down my arms. Inside my boots, my feet were wet, and I'd helplessly begun to shiver.

He'd said something then, almost inaudible, not really comprehensible, and I'd simply thrown my head up and stared. The clamour of the storm was nothing compared to the tempest in my head and it seemed to take forever for my mouth to whisper: "What?"

"Marry me." He'd repeated, taking a step forward and pushing a tiny box into my hand. "Please Louisa, I can't bear to be without you…"