(You may wish to re-read chapter 171 if you haven't looked at it for a while. We've finally come full circle and the story below follows immediately after the end of that chapter.

This website is playing up and it's been telling me for the last ten days that not a single person has read any chapters. Since I won't know if anyone is reading this, please leave a comment or, even better , a review.)

That pungent stench of geraniums, last year's butcher's calendar, those horrible paintings in their ugly frames; I've run down these stairs before but never like this, never feeling like I could take the bottom flight in one leap and simply keep on running. I can't catch my breath and I really can't explain, it is simply a sort of compunction, like I'm fleeing for my life. Nothing I've tried to say to him makes the blindest bit of difference. We just go round and round in circles, never resolving anything- I'd almost forgotten what it's like to feel this disappointed, to feel so absolutely crushed. I think I'm out of reassurances, I think my patience has reached an end. I understand that this is hard for him but, for god's sake, I'm not getting any younger.

"Your children, Louisa…"

"Our children, Martin!"

I fling myself through the front door, and fumble with the opening of the little glass porch. A moth flutters frantically against the panes of glass and I know how it feels; I can't get out, the knob spinning uselessly in my hand. The heat in the space hits me then, and the smell; desiccated leaves and rotting potting soil, stacks of yellowed newspapers beneath the benches, a pair of ancient tennis shoes discarded upside down. I look around in desperation but there's nothing in here to help me, a pair of old gloves, a rusty trowel, an empty box. Fighting the sting of tears, I rattle the door but it simply will not budge. This is not how it was meant to be between us, not this weekend when I was so desperate that everything would be alright. I hear a voice then, the handle reefing from my grip and, turning back, I recognise his face at once. Older of course, but still familiar; I am staring into the eyes of Danny Steele.

"Lou Glasson!" I hear him cry, his mouth hanging open in a theatrical double take.

Against my will, I force a smile; glassy and awkward because, honestly, my heart just sinks at the sight of him. Of all the moments to encounter him, to face up to my past, of course it has to be now, when all I want to do is run and hide. I feel another tug on the handle, more urgent this time, his face so near against the glass. The moment is surreal, and he is far too close, the window offering no protection from his proximity, from what feels like an intrusion. The earring has gone, the haircut has sort of been updated but, other than that, it seems he's hardly changed. Slim arms emerge from the sleeves of a crumpled linen shirt; his physique still lean and boyish. And what is that around his neck? Oh, good grief, could it really be a crucifix?

"Stand back!" He orders with his usual over-confidence, putting his shoulder to the door.

In protest, the wooden frame creaks and splinters, and there's the crash of a breaking pane. The door flies open and he staggers in before me, a familiar expression on his face, that swagger he always assumed when he thought I needed saving. Sauntering toward me, he grins, scruffy deck shoes crackling across broken glass; a strutting bantam cock, all baggy shorts and hairy legs.

"Danny! The door!" I hear myself exclaim.

He is smirking at me now like it doesn't matter in the slightest; everything about him just so eager, standing far too close to me in this overheated space. His hair gleams, styled into well defined curls by some oily, shimmery product, and the smell of him is almost overpowering; the cloying scent of aftershave, and deodorant working hard. I can't step backwards and he blocks my escape though he seems, as usual, oblivious. Uncomfortable and desperate to get to the car, I seem to be losing all my composure. Everything is just so claustrophobic, everything is falling apart.

"Don't worry about it. " He insists, still grinning, still gazing at me in that disconcerting way. "Wow. So good to see you, Lou! You look great. Really great! Gosh, I mean it's such a surprise…to see you again. You look…"

I interrupt hastily, greeting him in the coolest tone that I can summon. "Danny. It's been a while. How are you?"

"Couldn't be better!" He says, through a wall of white teeth, and all I can think of is an excitable spaniel, told that it's time for a walk.

Expectant and over-friendly, the way he stares is a little bit off-putting though, and he's so near now I could count every single day-old whisker sprouting from his chin.

"That's…that's...so great…yeah...ummm...so, still living in London then?" I ask, without interest or enthusiasm; his gaze is just so fixed, and he won't give me any space.

"Yes! Of course. Even think of myself as a Londoner these days…I mean, obviously it's been good to me. I've got this great flat in Brixton, walking distance to the tube. Oh, and I started my own practice a few years ago. That really keeps me on my toes. How about you?"

"Yes...still in London…" I tell him, my voice trailing off, my jaw now fixed in a mechanical smile. "Not sure it will ever feel like home though…"

He nods, gravely. "It's not for everyone. I understand that. I suppose we all have different characters, don't we; some have more adaptive personalities than others, it's just the way He made us...But, listen to me banging on about myself…what have you been up to since the last time we spoke Lou? Goodness, it must be close to fifteen years…"

"Yeah, I 'spose it has been that long…" I reply and I frown, feeling somehow as if I've just been insulted; puzzled as I reflect on his insinuations. "Well, I'm teaching...at a great little school in Camden…DP now actually. Lovely kids…the staff are amazing. And, you know, fortunately it's quite handy…"

He nods. "Great! So, where do you live, then? In Camden?"

"Umm...South Ken actually…"

An unidentifiable expression flickers across his face. "Aah. Well I must say I've always preferred south of the river. So much more real I think; grittier somehow. Authentic…"

I can't help smiling. Only Danny Steele could make the beautiful part of London in which we live sound so inferior to his own situation. But, before I can reply, I notice that his eyes are no longer on my face, his gaze now lingering on my chest. As his Adam's apple bobs up and down in his unshaven neck, I regret wearing this ridiculous camisole, I regret the sparkle, I regret the lowness of the cut. Honestly, what was I thinking? The whole day is becoming a nightmare. Certainly, we should never have even come here, Martin and I. The view might be something special but, suddenly, it feels isolated, it is way too far from town. And, while I could probably think of a million more reasons why living here's a terrible idea, the first and foremost stands before me now, his arm hovering in mid air, his hand in close proximity to my breast.

"So pretty." He says, and his voice has changed. "Not like I'd expect a teacher to dress…but it really suits you, Lou…What is it…a butterfly?"

Lost for words, I remember Martin scowling at me across the breakfast table the first time I wore it. "It doesn't look like any specimen of Lepidoptera I'm familiar with…" He'd suggested archly, eyebrow raised, before returning to his paper.

"Yes." I reply, attempting to diffuse the situation, to laugh it off with a lightness I don't feel, hunching my shoulders, dropping my chin, attempting to make myself invisible. I hear Martin's voice in my head, much later as he'd watched me slip out of it, teasing me in that honeyed tone he saves for private moments.

"Martin, umm, that's my husband…he called it an implausible and aberrant chimera…" I add pointedly, twisting sideways, anything to avoid Danny's unwavering stare.

I watch as his hands go to the buttons of his shirt. "Funny, I can't quite get my head around the fact you're married. And to Joan Norton's nephew too, mum said. Apparently everyone was rather surprised….but you've proven them all wrong, haven't you….you're still together so I suppose you must be happy…?"

My face glows and I feel a stab of indignation. This bloody village! I suppose I should have known that there would be endless speculation at the announcement of our engagement but the realisation aggravates me all the same. And I'm suddenly without riposte; tongue-tied and incapable of a noncommittal response. When he looks at me again, my smile is brittle.

"Yeah well, life has its ups and downs, doesn't it?" I say matter-of-factly. "I mean, that's just the way it is…"

Suddenly, his voice is grave, his expression solemn. "I suppose, if he's anything like Joan, you've probably got your work cut out. Mum mentioned that she knew him as a child and he was never easy. What was it that she said about him? That he was aloof and intractable even as a little boy?"

I turn my head sharply away, flexing my jaw. How dare Mrs Steele criticise Martin like that, how dare she even discuss him. To be honest, I'm not even sure what intractable means but I'm certainly not prepared to discuss Martin's childhood or his personality quirks with someone like Danny Steele. A piece of glass shatters beneath my heel and I feel overwhelmingly frustrated; everything feels like a such a mess. Of course, I've wasted everyone's time by insisting on coming here today, especially since the house is apparently oozing something toxic, some sort of radiation called buckaroo. I glance at the upstairs windows miserably, the solid granite walls, the contrast of the quions. It's a beautiful house but there's no point to one this size when we'll never have the kids to fill the bedrooms. God, how that hurts, god how the thought sucks the breath from my body!

I know it then, in my heart of hearts: I will never have a family with a man who can't commit to fatherhood. I could never do that to our children. Not when I see the legacy of absent fathers every day. Not when I know how it feels to be abandoned. The heat is worse than unbearable, the sunroom glass distorting the world outside. I feel sticky and sick and suddenly angry, and so focussed my own unhappiness I've almost forgotten Danny is there. Hiding behind my fringe, I mutter a vague string of excuses; that I have a call to make, that I must retrieve something from the car. I attempt to push past him but, as tears sting my eyes, I find myself doing a double take. Blinking incredulously, I see that blood is seeping through his sleeve; a sharp splash of cardinal red against the light mauve fabric, stuck glutinously to his pale upper arm.

"Oh my god…Danny…you're bleeding!" I gasp and, instantly, his self-satisfied smirk evaporates, he knots his brows in horror and twists his head to check.

"What? Oh, Lord, what have I…oh…Lou…I think...I going to faint." He groans, staggering sideways, his knees flexing alarmingly as if his legs were made of rubber.

"Umm…let's get you sat down… " I tell him, finding my teacher's voice as he throws his arm around my shoulder; his face now a peculiar shade of grey. "And then I'll find Martin…"

He makes little whimpering sounds with every step as we shuffle across the flagstones toward the enormous sagging sofa. "I don't think you should leave me." He implores. "It looks bad…"

I take a deep breath. "I don't think it does, really." I assure him. "But let's get you cleaned up and…"

"You're an angel, Lou." He cries out tremulously, his fingers trailing through my hair as he lowers himself onto the sofa's big rolled arm. "Despite everything that happened between us, Lou, I really must tell you: I always knew your heart was in the right place…"

Before I can roll my eyes, I am startled; jolted by the growl of a voice behind me, low and sonorous, and dripping with contempt.

"Where else would it be?"

"Martin!" I gasp, shaking myself free of Danny's grip, feeling caught like a rabbit in the headlights, adrenalin in my veins, my heart hammering as if it might burst from my chest.

I listen to myself stumble over an explanation in a way that just seems to cause his expression to grow colder; I am disjointed, clumsy in my haste and rendered doubly awkward as he stands with folded arms; his chin raised, his gaze penetrating, and rather unfairly icy. Looming over us, this is Martin at his most formidable, his disdain relentless, not softening an inch, even when understands that Danny has cut himself. I watch as he makes little effort to be gentle, grasping Danny's shoulder and turning him toward the light. Narrowing his eyes in concentration, he looks more like a man discovering his shoe is smeared with excrement, than a doctor examining a patient.

"What happened?"

"The porch door was stuck." I tell him hurriedly. "He sort of barged it with his shoulder…"

"It appears little more than a scratch." Martin announces, staring down his nose at the wound, the hint of a sneer flickering across his upper lip. "However, the porch itself is filthy and I have no doubt that there are thriving populations of aspergillosus, cladosporum and black mould resident on that framework."

He glances at me. "Louisa, if you fetch the first aid kit from the boot, I'll clean and dress the wound. Is there somewhere I can wash my hands?"

"The downstairs cloakroom." Danny says weakly. "Lou can show you where it is…"

I bite my lip and nod, providing directions. Martin's feelings are obvious and I feel a desperate need to reassure him, to distance myself from an old boyfriend who honestly means nothing to me. But his back is to me now as he removes his jacket, folding it carefully across the back of the sofa, his movement stiff, his body obviously tense. Removing his cufflinks and turning up his cuffs, his shoulders flex beneath the fabric. I don't need to see his face; I know it will be like thunder. He will have judged Danny an imbecile, resentful at once again picking up the pieces for people who don't think through their actions. But it's his expression as he strides from the room, the frosty glance across at me that really telegraphs how he's feeling. Behind the haughtiness, the surgeon's arrogance, I recognise the icy glitter of suspicion.

When I return from the car, moments later, Danny asks me for a glass of water, his tone pitiful, his eyelids heavy. Martin watches him, his mouth curving superciliously as he slips his hands smoothly and easily into his surgical gloves, his movement as always so crisp and efficient. I wonder what he's thinking as his patient raises the glass to his lips with unsteady hands. We both hear the sound as the rim strikes his teeth; the of vibration of glass on enamel, the slurp of a trembling lip.

"I was a bit tired of this shirt anyway." He says after a moment, handing the glass to me. "And I'm Danny by the way. Danny Steele…"

I notice his upper lip gleaming with sweat and I say nothing. And of course Martin doesn't answer because he really doesn't care. He pulls a stool from beneath an ugly Jacobean table and lowers himself elegantly down to Danny's level. Watching them both, I feel myself flushing with discomfort, wanting this to all be over, desperate to be back in the car and on our way to the village, because suddenly it has dawned on me: if this introduction feels this awkward, how do I explain to Martin that Danny and I have a past?

"Sorry, umm…Danny, this is Martin…Martin Ellingham. My husband."

I sound nervous, my speech is garbled, my throat dry and tight. "Martin, this is Danny's house. Or at least, you know, his mum's..."

But Martin's attention is entirely on the first aid kit and he merely grunts dismissively, without even raising his head. I'm aware that his focus will be entirely on the medical procedures he intends to carry out but I can't seem to stop talking. I always did feel uncomfortable at times like this, when the atmosphere could be cut with a knife.

"But he grew up here…didn't you Danny? We…"

"I'm going to have to cut your sleeve as it's partially stuck to the wound." Martin interrupts crisply, apparently ignoring me entirely now. "And it may hurt."

"I think you'll find I have a very high pain threshold…" Danny replies, with the sort of smugness that is bound to cement Martin's already poor opinion of him. If only he would shut up, but of course he never could.

Martin's face is a mask of concentration and I can't tear my gaze away, fascinated by any opportunity to see him work. Such a paradox of a man, so confusing, so frustrating yet it is the moments when I see him practice medicine that he just makes perfect sense. So capable and so articulate, everything about him just comes together. The scissors look ridiculous, so tiny in those enormous hands, yet he wields them with such precision, even as Danny jerks and shudders at his touch.

"Keep still!"

"Sorry Martin, mate, cold steel against hard flesh, bit of a shock." He explains, and he glances across at me. "Lou can back me up on this: I've always been super sensitive…had ultrafast reactions…"

Martin's face is impassive as he proffers a container of clear liquid.

"The wound has clotted sufficiently, but irrigation will enable me to see what's going on…" He explains gruffly.

Later, he will tell me that he had never wished so sadistically for a large bottle of mercurochrome to pour into a cut, almost disappointed to have only saline solution at his disposal. Shifting in his seat, puffing out his chest, Danny almost looks to be enjoying himself now, but I suppose he did always like being the centre of attention. Just his luck too, to cut himself and have one of the world's most lauded vascular specialists on hand to see to his minir wound. Oblivious as that surgeon's grip tightens on his arm, Danny's flesh is white where Martin's fingers assert their hold, his hand easily encircling the limp bicep below the ragged gash.

"Do you think I'll need stitches?" Danny asks suddenly, in a tone of mild alarm.

I see my husband's shoulders rise and fall in a silent, impatient sigh. "No I don't. But I do need to insure there are no glass fragments remaining in the wound, and that would be a lot easier if you could possibly manage to sit still."

Danny murmurs an apology, grimaces at me, and fixes his gaze straight ahead.

"Lucky you were here, eh Martin, with all your tricks of the trade…ooh. Ow! OW!" He cries, wincing even though Martin's tweezers are nowhere near his skin.

For the first time, Martin shoots me a glance; an incredulous raised eyebrow, the hint of a contemptuous sneer. Relieved, I respond with an acknowledging smile; fleeting thought, in case Danny should notice. He's revealing himself as faintly ridiculous, and all that matters is that Martin and I are sharing the joke.

"You know, it's really got me thinking…" Danny expounds, bending and contorting himself in order to look at his cut. "Perhaps I should arrange for some First Aid courses at the Youth Group I run. You never know when basic stuff like this might come in useful…"

As Martin soaks up the liquid running down Danny's arm, he rolls his eyes, his expression now sardonic. A bloody swab falls to the floor, and then another, until a small pile forms around Danny's foot. Why hadn't I ever noticed before what small feet he has, what impossibly slim ankles. And why is he wearing deck shoes when, like me, he always hated getting on a boat? You know, he always was so fraudulent, he never quite knew who he was. What a contrast they make, one ex boyfriend and one husband; one man living his life as a chameleon, the other true to himself through and through. For some reason, the observation makes me want to burst out laughing but, in attempting to suppress my amusement, all I do is let out an audible snort.

"Sorry? What's that? You're involved in a Youth Group? Where?" I ask, attempting to regather myself, and realising I am slightly disbelieving.

"It's under the auspices of the church I belong to." He replies, with more than a hint of smugness. "The Glowing Life International Christian Ministries…our remit is to provide growth space for disadvantaged young people."

"Gosh.. well…That must be rewarding." I say brightly, not daring now to look at my husband.

"Well it would be if a few more of them realised how much they need to grow. Still, I mentor a few kids, fatherless boys mainly. It's very rewarding. Guiding them through the maze."

The tweezers clatter to the floor. Martin makes no attempt to retrieve them, pushing them away disparagingly instead, with a large, highly polished shoe. It's a gesture that reveals exactly what he's thinking: that Danny is everything that he detests.

"Oh, wow, that's really…generous of you." I reply weakly, attempting a smile.

"I like to give back. And I think it's important to share all the wisdom I've gained over the years. Show these kids how to deal with adversity, how to be humble, now to find a gracious path through life, following in the footsteps of our Lord, Jesus Christ."

In the silence, Martin snorts derisively, throwing Danny a look that would curdle milk but he doesn't seem to notice. And, while I agree wholeheartedly that positive male role models are essential for boys, all I can think of is Danny as a child. Even as a young adult, every whim was indulged by his parents, any blip in his passage through life was smoothed by his mother, every difficulty paid off by his father. As far as I'm aware, he hasn't triumphed over anything, he certainly hasn't succeeded despite an emotionally neglectful childhood, he hasn't made it to the top of his profession through skill and strength of character. And I don't want to sound churlish because, you know, I'm happy that he's found his place, but I can't help but be perplexed by this newfound spirituality, his mysterious find in religion.

"Being a teacher, you'd probably understand. I really feel that being down with the young people gives you tremendous insight into the way they think. Take a bus trip with a dozen adolescents and you quickly learn what it takes to be a successful parent…none of this authoritarian malarky, the most important thing is that you're their friend…"

I look at him and open my mouth, not knowing quite where to begin to deconstruct his statement from an educationalist stand point. Telling me how to loom after children. Blimey, he really has a nerve. How can anyone be so lacking in self awareness? And what's the word I'm looking for? If it's not exactly pompous, the definition certainly comes close.

"Right." I answer weakly as Martin fights to clear his throat, tearing open a sterile dressing packet, the muscles of his jaw clenched and well defined.

Like the boy Dalai Lama, Danny smiles at us from his perch, his benevolent gaze sweeping around the room. "Personally, I can't wait to be a father, I truly believe I'm gonna be a brilliant dad…"

For a moment the room is utterly in silence; no coastal breeze rattling the windows, no distant birdsong drifting gently in from the garden. A spotlight has been turned upon us, Martin and I; we both feel it and, for me at least, it brings with it the emptiness of failure. In my ears, I hear my pulse, my airways shocked and burning as if I had taken smelling salts. The thorn in our side pressed, the blister popped. We were both unwanted children in a way, our parents unable to accept the responsibility that came with that title. Yet an absent mother has changed nothing for me, I still feel such a strong instinct to parent. And the awful truth that I must face is that Martin argues simply that he doesn't.

"Right, we're done here!" He announces coldly, kicking the stool away.

His eyes glitter with disgust as he takes one last look at his glibly oblivious patient, issuing a series of instructions through gritted teeth.

"Thanks but I'll be fine." Danny counters cheerfully. "I've got an amazing immune system, haven't had a sick day in years. Ask anyone. I don't even have a GP at home…"

Martin pauses and looks across at me, suddenly thoughtful. Wordlessly, I bend down beside him, intent on picking up the debris, but he insists on doing it himself, muttering something about his wearing gloves, and gently moving me aside. His closeness makes everything feel so suddenly hopeless, that our situation is unresolvable, our wound is as raw as the one on Danny's arm. The lump in my throat chokes me into silence because loving each other isn't enough any more. I mean, when you both want such different things, where do you go from here?

Martin's long strides crunch rapidly across the gravel, leaving Danny trailing in his wake. I can tell by his haste to escape exactly what he is thinking, though he will tell me in no uncertain terms later: that he could take no more the self absorbed arse, an interloper utterly insensitive to the repugnance of his intrusion. He even follows us to the car, talking without taking a breath, chatting away as if we were old friends reunited. How much fun he has with the kids playing football, how he's teaching them to sing Kumbaya while he plays the guitar. There's four chords to master, he tells me in earnest, as if he was the new Johnny Marr. And all the while Martin simply ignores him, hurling everything into the boot; a folder and a handful of papers, the first aid kit and even his suit coat.

I take one long last look out across the sea, taking in the patchwork hills and offshore islands, squinting in the sunlight, feeling sad and utterly devoid of hope. The wind catches my hair and Danny laughs, reaching up to push it off my face before I quickly fend him off. Martin opens the passenger door and I sense it; he is willing me into the car but yet he won't say anything. All our communication seems broken, our wires double crossed.

"When are you starting a family, Lou?" I hear Danny ask and, instantly my resolve begins to crumble. "Mum always said…I mean, I always assumed, well…that your intent was to have a brood of children…and start young, like your mother…unless somewhere along the way you've changed your mind?"

It's all too much for me. I stammer inarticulately like English isn't even my first language, hesitating before diving for the safety of the car, desperate to avoid this conversation at any cost. And I can't help myself, I look up at Martin through the open window as he closes the door thoughtfully. It's strange to see him not only here, but in his shirtsleeves, cuffs rolled up around his elbows, his skin golden in the midday sun. His hand lingers on the doorframe, his long strong fingers, tapping distractedly along the edge.

"Not that it's any business of yours but Louisa hasn't changed her mind." He says suddenly, his voice velvety and unflinching. "She's always supported my career while simultaneously expressing a desire to raise a family in the village she grew up in. And now we're looking at houses in the vicinity of Portwenn. I'd say that was a simple equation to solve, Mr. Steele, even for someone like you."