Medical training can be a humbling experience. In the classrooms of our second rate schools we might have been stars, but once we start mixing with some of the best and brightest Britain can produce, well, it dawns on you that you might actually be an intellectual nobody. Inconsequential. Someone who simply fades in to the background. Don't get me wrong, I was still a Type A personality, still competitive, still driven. But those were the days when it was all about the male hierarchy; oh yes, an endless parade of fat-headed public schoolboys with entitlement coursing through their veins. Hot on their heels were those sarcastic, spectacle-clad, know-it-alls from the provinces; my goodness didn't that spotty bunch have an awful lot to prove?

I'll admit it though, I struggled; to be continually overlooked was utterly galling. Take most of my fellow students out of med school, and they wouldn't have known their arse from their elbow. I was sharper, keener, and just as determined but you simply have no choice other than to get used to being talked over, your questions waved away, your opinions summarily dismissed. It rankled even more because I was a good student, I worked hard, I was desperate to learn. But despite all my efforts, I seemed locked into the lower third percentile of the year. Where others seem to take their presence in the hospital for granted, I felt like I was clinging on with all the strength I had. Slogging my way through fourteen hour days, studying long into the night.

And, my god, I was even more aggravated by the special ones, the anointed as I liked to call them; the honours students, the med school prize winners, the emerging superstars to whom everything came so easily. Of course our Professors knew their names yet I remained anonymous. Their place in their chosen specialty seemed a fait accompli whereas I couldn't see my future past the middle of next week. Lying awake at night, I suffered through the ignominy of knowing that, somewhere, they were already being allocated that most coveted of prizes, the hospital car park, their names hand painted in gold upon the sign. Fellowships, Harley Street rooms, Key Note Speaker invitations to prestigious conferences across the globe. All theirs by right, a thousand opportunities theirs for the taking. They were feted, they were privileged, and most of all, they were gilded. And Martin Ellingham was shiniest of them all.

It was on the very first morning of rounds, that I noticed him. Despised him on principle truth be told. While we waited for the consultants to arrive, as usual, I'd been forced to the back of the group, and I was milling about, fighting humiliation by pretending that the silent, serious international intake I was surrounded by were in fact close professional colleagues. Confidantes. Even friends. But the truth was, I didn't have any time for that. No point pretending otherwise, we were all adversaries really, fighting over the same sprinkling of tiny worthless scraps. It was the school choir all over again, First XI hockey, pulling hair and pinching flesh in the bedroom I was forced to share with my sarcastic younger sister. I'm not ashamed. As far back as I can remember, winning had meant everything, even the prefects room had seemed to bring out the cut-throat side of me. I'd been Dux of course but not Head Girl; what friends I'd made I'd simply had to sacrifice along the way.

It was seven in the morning and the glare of the strip lights had reflected off the shiny polished linoleum floors. It was dazzling and my head ached with the dull throb of missed meals and lack of sleep. My flat was too far away, and too expensive. I was always tired. Not that anyone cared. Around me, the low hum of conversation had suddenly died away, and I glanced up just as an upright, impeccably dressed figure appeared from nowhere, literally head and shoulders above everyone else. Obviously, straight away, I knew who he was; he was already making his mark, and I'd wanted to dislike him, muttering disparaging comments about his appearance to the bewildered Sri Lankan junior doctor to my left. I'm certain Martin didn't notice me, but that was nothing new. I was used to being anonymous, just another second-class female. The difference was, this time, as I watched him approach, I was instantly rather on the defensive, and completely out of my depth.

Ward rounds took hours, the senior staff delighting in the humiliation of the flotsam of pretenders drifting along in their wake. It was a bloodsport in those days, and very few of we few junior doctors dared open our mouths to speak. Striding along at the front of the pack though, it was clear that Martin Ellingham was far from intimidated. He would listen, his chin raised, his expression neutral, perfectly laundered lab coat straining across his shoulders as, contemplatively, he'd fold his arms. I can still picture it; a registrar's question met, subsequently, with the most uncomfortable of silences until, inevitably, the Golden Boy provided the answer in his usual dulcet tones. I think I hated him all the more because he was so damn impressive. It was just insufferable the way that he was always right.

A week into training and, as ever, I'd found myself left behind as I attempted to scribble notes, isolated and unsure, having been instructed to inspect an ecchymosis on the forearm of a young adult male. God, I didn't even know how to spell it. Once again, finding my view completely obstructed, I'd edged sideways, first one way and then the other until there was simply nowhere else to go. Wedged behind the tall, broad torso in front of me, in a moment of frustration, I'd poked the human obstruction through his labcoat, jamming my finger into the rock hard muscles of his lower back. For the life of me, I hadn't expected him to jump like he did, to swing around and glower at me ferociously, as if if I had assaulted him, his pale eyes glittering, his mouth contorted into a sneer.

"I can't actually see." I'd informed him, craning my neck to look up at him, attempting helplessness in the face of his obvious irritation.

As if he were taken aback, he had ducked his chin, glancing uncomfortably at me as if he didn't know what to do.

"Oh. " He'd muttered, holding his arm out for just long enough so I could push past; I could now make my way through to the bed and observe the patient unimpeded.

But I noticed the pristine French cuffs first, and the gleam of enamelled cufflinks. And the broad wrist encircled by silver Roamer watch; compared to the Tag Hauers of the Orthopedic Surgeon wannabes, it was a touch of understated elegance that took me by surprise. Turning my back on him and squeezing past, I was suddenly aware of his presence now in a way that didn't bring bile to my throat. His size, combined with an impression of power and confidence, was something that I really should have resented. Yet, in that cut throat world, his was a tiny act of kindness, and one that assumed ridiculous significance to me. Behind that haughty frame there lurked the manners of a gentleman. Looking back now that was definitely the moment I started to fall for him. Quickly. Heavily. Completely.

From then on, I set my sights on the biggest prize someone like me would ever hope to land. And while I found him physically quite attractive, there was an element of reflected glory that I admit I was desperate to attract. I'm not ashamed of it, someone had to claim him so it may as well have been me as anyone else. We were bound to have so very much in common. We were both devoted, obviously, to our careers. But I soon understood that I would have my work cut out for me. He may have been the most promising medical mind of a generation, but I was quick to discover how oblivious he was, how unsusceptible to feminine charms and the temptations of the flesh. And it was impossible to accidentally bump into him socially, I started to believe that, other than to come to work, he never left his flat.

Not for Martin the stress relief of a night at the pub with his peers, not the Climbing Club, nor indoor Soccer, nor Jazzercise classes at the Hospital Gym. He never ate in the cafeteria, he never lingered beyond his shift, in fact he was often like a spectre; an enormous presence in the ward one minute, then having disappeared the next time that you looked. In the end though, it was death that helped me finally catch my mackerel; rostered on to emergency, I'd been part of a re-sus team that had watched a teenage girl exsanguinate before our very eyes. I mean, things happen like that in medicine, but it was challenging to deal with your first irreversible death; she looked so much like me. Alone in the midnight silence of the gloomy staff room, all it had taken was a haphazard pile of magazines to crash to the floor to elicit a torrent of frustrated tears.

And that's how he'd discovered me: undignified, lacking in restraint, collapsed cross-legged on the floor, head in hands, my body wracked by ferocious sobs. He always did move like a cat, the leather of his soles oddly soundless as strode across the room. I felt a hand on my shoulder, light and encouraging yet somehow urgent.

"Are you hurt?" He'd asked and I'd shaken my head vehemently.

"Come on now, get up…." He'd added after a moment, briskly but not unkindly. "Stop crying, umm…?"

"Sophie." I'd barked, struggling to catch my breath, fishing in my sleeve for a non-existent tissue. "Sophie Trent."

"Mm." He'd replied uncomfortably, and I realised he was pressing his handkerchief into my tightly closed and trembling fist.

Odd how, until Naveen Shuklar mentioned him the other day, I hadn't thought about Martin much in years. But you know, sitting here in a Truro hotel room, my marriage in tatters, my husband in the French Riviera, enthusiastically shagging a woman I considered my best friend, my thoughts inevitably begin to wander. I take a can from the mini bar, vodka and something, I hardly seem to care. Flipping open my laptop, shamelessly I Google him. Unsurprisingly, no Facebook page, no Instagram account, the barest minimum of information about him other than his published medical research. A link to a blurry image in a Cornish newspaper, and I recognise the expression immediately. It was exactly how his face looked when he told me he was moving out.

I'm not proud of it but there's a tiny part of me that will be pleased to hear he's had some sort of breakdown, that his glittering career had stalled and he'd fled to almost the furthest point in the UK. But there's also a part of me that remembers him for his kindness. It wasn't his fault that I fell in head over heels in love and, you know, clearly he just couldn't reciprocate. Perhaps it was my fault that I never seemed to be able to inspire him to any heights of passion. In hindsight he was simply going thorough the motions, while I was blinded by embarrassing romantic dreams. But, we are older now, wiser perhaps and the recollection of his gentleness and his honour makes me start to wonder if we might rekindle what we had.

I message Professor Shuklar and tell him I have plans to pop up to Portwenn. Generously, I offer to visit Martin, to ask him about the key note address in person; obviously it will save the busy professor the journey, besides I know Martin whereas Shuklar patently doesn't. A few minutes later, he calls me back, his tone cautious, confirming the rumours of Martin's breakdown, the resignation, the immolation of what remained of his career. And, though I feel the tiniest bit of sadness at the tarnishing of the great Martin Ellingham's reputation, there's a part of me that can only see opportunity as well. The invention of the Ellingham cup means he hasn't completely lost his marbles, surely, and a supportive shoulder might be exactly what he needs. I surmount Shuklar's obvious reluctance by simply talking over the top of him; I've learned that trick from male colleagues throughout my own career. And before I have even hung up the phone, I have googled Martin's address.

The drive from Truro to Portwenn takes under an hour. I cry off the usual select committee wine and cheese and leave them to it, just this once. I can tell they're surprised but I let nothing on, slipping back to the hotel, showering and reapplying evening makeup. While I wait for the valet to bring my car round, I feel a glimmer of excitement, the strange sort of giddiness I used to feel in the tube when I was travelling to his flat. Perhaps time has dulled my memory of him, maybe he was keener than I recall. He fed me, didn't he, and no other man before or since took such care that I should eat well and get sufficient sleep. It occurs to me then how different my life might have been if I'd managed to hang on to him. I mean, he was often remote, and always antisocial, but, as for being unfaithful, that was never the Martin that I knew.

I pull over on the little waterfront, the tide is in and the air is salty and smells of fish. A woman points me in the direction of his house, up a steep narrow lane way with no parking on either side. I pull in next to a stone cottage, beside a big silver car that I presume is his until I see a child seat in the back seat and my ridiculous assumption makes me laugh. I check my face in the rear view mirror and brush my hair. How strange it is to be meeting an old lover after so many years and I wonder if he will think that I have aged. It's a relief to be able to tell him I'm now a consultant; if we were to meet professionally in a hospital, I'd outrank him by some considerable way. I'm the one who has a car park now, I'm the one with the career.

Standing on the terrace, I glance back at the view. The evening sun sparkles on the water and the fishing boats bob placidly on the tide. It's nice enough I suppose but I simply can't marry the Martin I knew with these surroundings. How on earth did he end up living here? I picture him striding down the hospital corridors, sucking the marrow from every opportunity; the man had a thirst for knowledge, he lived and breathed medicine, his sole passion was to be at the cutting edge of science. And now it seems almost as if he ran away, appearing to take refuge in a tiny cottage that seems somehow an unlikely choice for a bachelor, especially one who was obsessively neat and clean. But this is definitely Martin's practice, there's a brass plaque beside the door. I brush a stray hair from my lapel and press the doorbell firmly.

Within moments the door swings open and there he is, filling the doorway, older now clearly but somehow even more attractive. His hair might now be grey, his face tanned, but the beautifully cut suit is as ubiquitous as ever. I feel a ridiculous teenage flutter in my chest and it takes all my self restraint to address him with any sort of coolness. Of course, I remind myself that I've already driven him away once. I can't risk that again, especially now it is obvious that he is that rarest of creatures, an aging bachelor who hasn't let himself go to seed; goodness, he is taller than I remembered and so distinguished. We stare at each other for a moment, the colour of his suit reflected in his eyes makes the intervening years just melt away.

"Sophie." He says, in a voice like velvet.

"Martin." I smile, my face contorting with a childish sort of delight. "How are you?"

"I'm fine…thank you. " He answers and just for a moment he frowns. "What are you doing here?"

For a split second, I wonder that myself. Though I had no expectation that Martin would ever be anything else but sanguine, it's almost as if he's not that pleased to see me after all. While that doesn't quite fit with the scenario I'd imagined, I'm sure it's a shock to see me after all this time. And, after all, I've had days to think about it, almost fantasising about our reunion, when for him, a ghost from his past has simply materialised at his door.

"I'll tell you if you ask me in." I answer, with just a hint of flirtation in my voice. Well, honestly, life's too short for beating about the bush, isn't it, especially when he seems more pre-possessing the longer that I look.

For a split second perhaps he hesitates and I can't quite read his expression. "Yes of course." He replies and steps aside to let me in.

"Go through." I hear him mumble as I slip past him, and I thank him, his energy suddenly so familiar, mere inches now between us after so many years.

I walk into a reception room and it's nothing like I imagined it would be. In fact I'm surprised by kaleidoscope of beige, a collection of uninteresting furniture and shabby bric-a-brac that doesn't seem to fit at all with the Martin that I knew.

"Dark, isn't it? " I say and I stifle a laugh. I think this is one bachelor pad that could certainly use a feminine touch. It's positively dreary.

"Ah..it's..it's the evening…" He says, in a voice that almost sounds uncomfortable, taking up a position on the other side of a large and ugly couch. That familiar stance, that perfect posture, no wonder he always looked so good in a suit. "Would you like a seat?"

"Thank you." I reply warmly, because it dawns on me suddenly, that Martin might be as nervous as me. Stuck down here, no one intelligent to converse with, I wonder how long it's been since he had any decent female company?

I have my answer instantly and it's far from what I expected. A voice behind me says hello and I turn to see a woman leaning through the doorway, her expression quizzical but still surprisingly friendly.

"I'm Louisa." She tells me, with some sort of regional accent and I wait for her to add the housekeeper or the receptionist.

But it's obvious by Martin's manner that this woman is not just household help. Frozen momentarily, I struggle to compose myself, as my head begins to reel.

"Louisa, yes, umm…this is Dr. Trent, an old colleague of mine from Kings…" He says, and instantly he's a man I no longer recognise; softly spoken, polite, almost deferential.

I'm not sure why but it foments in me a kind of fury. Jealousy, I suppose because I am apparently just a minor character from his past. I am Ancient History and, in all the time I loved him, he never once spoke to me like that. Plastering a smile to my face, as if she were just another National Health patient with an endless list of treatment gripes, I hold out my hand.

"Actually, it's Ms. Trent, I'm a consultant now Martin." I remind him, forcing myself to keep smiling as I shake her hand. "Sophie, hi, very nice to meet you."

She beams at me, her whole face split in half by the radiance of her smile. Everything about her screams a woman in rude health; a glowing completion, hair shining like polished mahogany and, even for her age, I have to admit that she is attractive. God how I despise her for it too. I hate her smug contentment, her casual country attire. Dressed in florals that make me feel frumpy and unfeminine by comparison, I feel a sudden fury at the unfairness of it all. Why did no one tell me he had a partner? Why does everything conspire to thwart me in my life?

"Are you a doctor as well?" I ask, clutching at straws, clinging to the faint hope she might simply be his professional partner.

"No, I'm a…I'm a child counsellor. " She admits, casting her eyes downward as if there was anything to fake humility about. A child counsellor. Hilarious. It's the sort of pretend job that prevails in these touchy-feels times.

I smirk at her. "I like your rabbit." I say and she gives me a look of shrewd comprehension; as if she sees right through me, as if she knows I've just had a lifeline float out of my reach.

"It's our daughter's…" She explains, looking down at it, her words cutting me as if she has drawn a scalpel down my breast. "Unfortunately she spilt milk over it."

"How many children do you have?" I ask quickly, and I wonder if she can hear the horror in my voice.

"Two." She glances across at Martin, and a look passes between them; warm and intimate. It's as if she is seeking reassurance from him, wondering if it's safe to tell me about her stupid boring kids. "A boy and a girl, James and Mary…"

"That's right." Martin adds and yet I still can't get my head around it. When I started mentioning having children, for he and I, it was the beginning of the end.

"That must be nice. " I say softly, filled with an almost choking surge of bitterness and regret. "My husband and I discussed having some but, you know, we never quite found the time."

The woman nods at me sympathetically, as if I am someone to be pitied. Why do breeders think they have the high ground over women who haven't reproduced? Almost any fool can have a baby; all you have to do is to lie there to get pregnant, it's not like it takes any effort. And I don't like the way she seems to be dominating every conversation; why doesn't she go and do something housewifey? After all, it was Martin whom I came to see.

"So why are you here?" He says brusquely and it jars me. Just like that, I feel the last vestiges of hope disappearing, draining from my soul like bodily fluids from a cadaver.

"To the point, of course. " I say, feigning surprise, though I smile at him, reminding him that we once had much more of a connection than he seems willing to acknowledge.

I'm about to remind him of more too, that I'm the one with the successful career now, I'm the one offering him opportunities and not the other way around.

"Select committee business at Truro Hospital. I'm still Obs and Gyny there and I knew you were down here…My professor at Imperial wanted me to ask you…if you would consider being the key note speaker at this year's obstetrics conference?"

He looks at me, that expression so familiar. All those times I asked him to come with me for the weekend and meet my parents. He never would play the game.

"It's the fifteenth of next month and, as I was down here, I said I'd ask you in person…" I add. "And, you know, I thought it would be nice to see you again."

"I see. " Is all he says, glancing nervously across at the woman. Why does he seem so ill at ease? Why does he care so much about what she thinks? He never seemed to care about my wants and needs at all.

"It's because of the article you wrote about geriatric pregnancies and the Ellingham Cup…" I add, trying to explain. "Sort of put you on the map…there are a lot of people who are really keen to hear what you have to say."

"Well I'd, umm, I'd need to think about that." He replies and, again he glances uncomfortably across at her. Laura. What a frumpy, old fashioned name.

"Yeah, I understand." I reassure him. She might keep him on the shortest, tightest leash but there's no harm in showing him how understanding I can be. "Don't take too long though. It's a prestigious slot…"

He glances at me and suddenly a haze of suspicion clouds his face. As his expression hardens, he is instantly more familiar. "You could have done this over the telephone…" he says.

"I could, yeah, I could…" I say and, for a moment, I feel vaguely ashamed, my scheme almost exposed. But opportunity now presents itself too, a chance to get my own back, to come out fighting.

"This is slightly awkward Martin…people talk…they wanted to make sure you were in a good place, after your breakdown…"

"What breakdown?"

"Apparently you quit your job, turned your back in medicine, or was I misinformed?"

"Yes, you were. " He says vehemently. "You were! Very!"

"Martin resigned." Laura says, and her expression is pained. "And obviously he's back at work…"

Oh god, how predictable; of course she butts in. I'm sure Martin is capable of explaining his circumstances to me, but neither of us can get a word in edgeways. Typical of her type, she leaps to his defence. How chav, how very Footballers Wives; to get her hooks into a man so far above her station. How deflated she must have been at the loss of it, I mean, what constitutes to her a social prestige peak.

"That's excellent then." I say quickly, shutting her down. "I'll look forward to hearing from you then. Sooner rather than later…"

"Nice to meet you Laura." I add ingenuously as I hurry from the room.

Despite the upheaval of the next few weeks, Martin is never far from my mind. There are few quiet moments amidst the turmoil but somehow, lying alone in the wee small hours, the memory of him steadies me. Packing up what remains of my husband's things, it is Martin whom I think about, Martin's loss that I regret. All those nights when he'd help me study, explaining things in his quiet imperturbable manner. And how peaceful it was at his flat, watching him prepare our meals and keep the flat immaculate; I felt better than ever in so many ways but especially because no one else ever looked after me like he tried to do. I suppose, in hindsight, buying me arch supports for my birthday was his way to show me that he cared. Possibly, I shouldn't have been quite so insulted, my response so derisive because I recall he did actually look quite hurt. But, hey, what a girl wants is lingerie and chocolates; what was he thinking gifting me latex innersoles?

I try and remember details but it's simply been too long. When my flat broke up and I was asked to leave, how had he reacted when I'd turned up on his doorstep, case in hand? I vaguely recall weeping at the unfairness of it all, and how he'd stood across the room from me, awkward and unsure, only relenting when I told him I was frightened. Vulnerable. Homeless. I suppose in a way it forced him to confront his feelings for me. Looking back now, did he love me, was he just not equipped to vocalise his thoughts? Like asking him to take me to a club, or badgering him to let me meet his parents; his response was always silence. But you can't deny the place you keep in your heart for your first love, and Martin Ellingham was definitely mine. Not for the first time I wonder if perhaps his discomfort on seeing me last week was simply because he was feeling something too.

I pick up a readymade salad at Sainsbury's and choose a couple of bottles of wine. By the time I get home I'm no longer hungry but the Pinot Gris might just help me to sleep. A full day of consults, too many patients to see and by mid morning I was already running half an hour late. Ungrateful too, most of them; grumbling, self-pitying, complaining about the delay. Okay, they might have endometriosis and waited eleven months for a specialist appointment but what about me? What about the way my life has fallen apart? No holidays for me in France this year, not while my husband is holed up in our petit maison with his lover. I finish the bottle and fall asleep on the couch, waking with a horribly dry mouth at three o'clock in the morning. The house feels so empty and, when I collapse into it, the bed is huge and cold. My yearning for someone strong and reliable to be waiting there for me for is almost debilitating; my legs are wobbly, my head is light.

When I finally arrive home the next night, it's the final insult, an email from my solicitor, and the divorce papers waiting for me in his office. I need something stronger, and soon I am sitting in the dark, helping myself liberally to a bottle of Courvoisier. It burns but not as much as the realisation that I've wasted half my life. I could have been what Martin needed me to be. If only he'd told me what he wanted. I stagger across to my briefcase, lying abandoned in the hall. Booting up my laptop, I Google Laura Ellingham but there's no one of any importance with that name in England. I snort, doesn't that just go to show how inconsequential that she is? And just to make myself feel better, I type my own name into the search bar, and spend an hour reading about myself.

On Friday, Prof. Shuklar texts me to say that Martin has accepted his invitation, and thanks me for my help. For a moment I bask in the association; glad to help, I reply quickly, Martin's been part of my my professional network for many years, smiling to myself as I press send. Stuck in traffic on the way home, I find myself trying to remember what it was like when we made love. Once I'd moved in, I'd hoped for a bit more spontaneity and passion but it was almost like he was deliberately never there. Of course that happens. As Junior Doctors, we worked ridiculous hours, assigned to different wards, and we were often on opposing shifts. I don't recall much detail of how it was to sleep with him but, on my own, without Martin to support me, I knew how it felt for my dream of being a consultant to volatilise into thin air.

A lot of it was his fault; my feelings of abandonment meant I kept making small mistakes. One particularly bad day, all I received were reprimands, the final straw a dressing down from a snotty, thick-ankled matron because she alleged I'd been rude to some bimbo on her staff. Pointing out her own incompetence, and attempting to pull rank, just turned her into a lifelong adversary. I complained to the consultant but he told me I was in my own. The first chance I could, I walked off the ward and down to the public cafeteria, ordering a plate of chips, a battered sausage and a Coke. Comfort food you know, because I had a splitting headache, and once again life was treating me roughly, and no one seemed to care. I cadged a cigarette off an orderly and sat at the table, smiling as I inhaled. God I'd missed smoking since Martin had insisted that I give it up. And there was no fooling him, he had a Bloodhound's sense of smell, so I'd tried to keep my promise but right now I needed something stronger than caffeine. Tapping it on the ashtray with a flourish, I threw back my head to exhale with gusto and that's when I looked up and saw him. Martin was staring me square in the eye.

(If you'd like to read more, some reviews would be encouraging, just saying.)