Perhaps I should have mentioned her previously but the truth is I'd never had a reason to bring it up. And I stand by what I told Louisa, that the relationship was a very long time ago. Nevertheless, I realise I handled it poorly, though in my own defence, I was rather taken aback by Sophie's appearance on the doorstep. My wife's instinctive and unerringly accurate grasp of the situation had only added to my dismay. For the first time in many years, I'd felt the return of that familiar panic, the sensation of having my feet swept from under me; once more a man utterly out of his depth. And there was a vulnerability apparent in Louisa's reaction too, the way she tugged awkwardly at Mary's little rabbit. It dawned on me she feared the past repeating itself; reminded perhaps of the difficulties posed by Edith's reappearance in what was then a very fraught time in our lives?
Surprised and somewhat suspicious, as I faced Sophie across the living room my first thoughts had been somewhat ill-humoured. For goodness sake, were other people forced to deal with the ghosts of past liaisons, turning up uninvited at their door? And, with every word she said, with every inflection of her voice, the spectre of our affair came more keenly into focus. I recalled how ghastly the end had been; her tear-stained face, the way she'd clutched at me and implored me not to leave. But I must take my share of the blame too; I knew there was something amiss yet I packed my things and simply departed, rejecting my duty of care somewhat regrettably. Youth and inexperience are my only defence for walking away so coldly, for finding her lack of pride so utterly mortifying; her loss of dignity too uncomfortable to bear.
And now the passing of time has rendered her a stranger yet I recognise something of her brittleness, and the way so much of what she says is flavoured with resentment. As is my habit, I observe her appearance, noting that the intervening years appear to have left her embittered and with a mordant cast to her point of view. But what concerns me most is how physically frail she seems, how pallid and dull, her demeanour devoid of any spark. At one time I had thought her rather pretty, with intelligence enough to stimulate interesting debate, but circumstances appear to have depleted her and, deep inside, to my surprise, I experience a flash of what will take me sometime to realise is compassion.
I have insufficient time for a more detailed assessment however because as quickly as she arrives, she is gone; a mercifully short visit and one that would actually have been rather inconsequential had it not been for Louisa's obvious suspicions. Of course, my wife saw my stammering incoherence, and the fact I'd never mentioned Sophie previously, as indications I'd been hiding something significant. But, to me, it was ancient history, none of mattered in the slightest yet, apparent in the wariness in her expression, it seems Louisa saw it differently. But did she seriously imagine the contentment we had worked so hard to achieve could be threatened by someone of whom I had not thought for over thirty years? It was ridiculous, totally and utterly implausible; in fact, now that she's gone, I cannot imagine ever thinking of her again.
But, as dusk descends, I realise the reason for Sophie's visit is not as readily dismissed as our past relationship can be. She may be forgotten with ease but, in the days that follow, the speaking invitation she'd delivered saw me unusually indecisive. And, as for her suggestion there were rumours I'd had some sort of breakdown, frankly that was a sharp and festering thorn lodged deep in my side. In between patients, I sat at my desk and ruminated moodily. Mentally fragile? Was that really how I was remembered by my peers in London? I've never really cared what others thought of me but I was uncomfortable at how much that realisation stung.
And so I was forced to examine my feelings quite closely. What were my motivations? Was consenting to be the key note speaker simply an embarrassing attempt at recapturing the glories of my distant professional past? Because, to be honest, the recognition I had received thus far all felt somewhat fraudulent; everyone in obstetrics was well aware that the ventouse had been in common usage since the nineteen fifties. And I know my contribution has been merely to make a few simple modifications, aimed at reducing the risk of a subgaleal haemorrhage. Furthermore, my paper on geriatric pregnancy and managing the incompetent cervix was simply the result of an overlap in professional and personal interest, at a point at which I had considerable time on my hands. And so it niggles away at me as I lay awake at night; a voice that sounds rather appallingly like my mother's suggests I am unworthy of such a prestigious invitation.
The soft morning light goes some way toward easing my self doubt however; an inbox of emails from across the globe force me to acknowledge that my paper has been rather well received. Even Sophie, never one to pay a compliment unless it might also be construed as an insult, has stated that a lot of people were interested in what I have to say. But there is another hurdle: I really do detest conferences and, in my experience, any value obtained from listening to a keynote speech is little compensation for the tedium of small talk, and the horrors of mingling. But, as I prepare breakfast, I watch Louisa carry Mary in from upstairs; sleepy eyed and singing softly to a beautiful baby girl to whom she has gifted so much genetically. I feel that familiar stab in my chest and I know: it is immaterial how inconvenient I will find the experience. If sharing my research helps even one geriatric pregnancy through to term, then I must accept the invitation.
Needless to say, I plan to interact with as few attendees as possible. I will slip in and out of the venue, mixing only as much as is absolutely necessary, and utilising the rest of the time to catch up on essential reading in the silence of an empty hotel room. It seems a good compromise. Evenings in a busy household are not conducive to the study of medical journals, and Louisa takes a dim view of me retiring to my surgery the moment the children are in bed. But, of course, it seems she has a different plan, announcing she'd like to join me and, despite my initial protestations, I do find myself rather buoyed by the idea. Odd how the tedium of travel, of overnighting in a wretched hotel, and being forced to eat in restaurants; none of it seems quite so onerous with Louisa at my side. And she is correct in her assertion; since James' birth we have had only one night away together, our utterly disastrous attempt at a honeymoon, so I must admit her point is absolutely valid. And so, as the regulator strikes eleven and the house is swathed in darkness, I sit at my desk, hesitating over whom to include in the recipient list before emailing Naveen Shuklar, typing a succinct acceptance of his offer, advising him, and he alone.
When the actual day of departure arrives, I wake at dawn, noting what feels like tension lurking beneath my diaphragm. When eventually we are on the road, we strike heavy traffic at the roundabout on the A39 and the drive takes slightly longer than the predicted half hour. Then, of course, what should have been an uneventful eighty minute flight to Gatwick turns into a farce, directly attributable I will point out, to the over consumption of alcohol, and leaving me with what I fear initially is a fractured eye socket. The subsequent taxi to the conference venue in Chelsea is a stop/start affair that adds over an hour to the duration of our commute yet, despite all of this, Louisa maintains an air of what can only be described as cheerful anticipation, alternatively thrilled or surprised by everything she sees.
On the King's Road, her hand goes to my thigh as she cranes her neck; gazing at the endless parade of shops beyond the taxi's windows. Wide-eyed with wonder, her smile is as luminous as the most powerful operating theatre lights, one hundred and sixty thousand lux. In a low breathless voice she informs me that it's been a while since she was last in London before, suddenly, she pauses, biting her lip ruefully as the significance of her statement dawns uncomfortably on us both. On the rare occasion that period in our lives is mentioned, my response is usually an awkward, weighty silence but having her here is such a fillip that I search my mind desperately for something comforting to say. I reach for her hand just as it slips from my knee and envelop it tightly in mine. To this day I am conscious that, try as I might when she was pregnant with Mary, I couldn't never make up for the way things were when she was expecting James. Sometimes there is nothing one can do to change the past, despite how desperate one is to make amends.
It does not escape me either that my own absence from this city, this acknowledged centre of medical excellence, has also been of some duration. But, as I note familiar landmarks, I do not allow myself to dwell on how being at the helm of it all slipped away so horrifically. It was a lifetime ago and one glance at my reflection in the window illustrates graphically that I am no longer that self-assured young man, the rarest of creatures, the surgeon with the alleged Midas Touch. As strange as it may seem, returning to my birthplace, I realise that I have become as unaccustomed to the hectic pace of life as I have to being at the forefront of medical research. And when we finally check in to our hotel, and Louisa points out that my name is, figuratively, in lights, inwardly I find myself filled with apprehension. So this is what it all comes down to: a second crisis of confidence, twenty years after the last.
Once we are in the quiet of our suite, however, my equanimity starts to return. I stand in the doorway, fighting my urge to warn her of the potential for an ankle sprain as she removes her shoes, hops from one foot to the other and wobbles precariously across the carpet. Of course, her footwear is forgotten instantly, discarded inevitably as a trip hazard in the middle of the room. But there is something about her joy in being here that is infectious enough that I say nothing, nudging her rope soled wedges to one side without comment as I lift our bags onto the luggage stands. As she disappears into the bathroom, even I must admit that, as accomodation goes, it all seems rather satisfactory and, though I hesitate by the bed, it is not parasitic intruders that are my chief concern. Instead I find myself distracted by the wallpaper, a delicate rendering of carp, in the traditional Japanese style, shimmering like the most exquisite, antique cloisonné.
"Martin, it's a lovely!" I hear her breathe, with almost childlike delight, and she comes to stand next to me, throwing her jacket across the end of the bed. "We should do this more often. I know I could actually get quite used to it…"
She laughs and stretches out an arm, tracing a finger around the tactile curves of the gleaming koi.
"I must take a photo of this to show James." She adds and suddenly her voice lowers. "You know, after your lecture about Doctor Fish, I thought he might have lost a bit of interest but it's funny, it seems to actually have had the opposite effect…"
"My lecture on what?" I frown at her, momentarily perplexed, and she shakes her head disbelievingly.
"You don't recall your conversation with our six year old son about Janice's pedicure fish…carrying the thing you said was related to cholera…? Showing him images on the internet of an infected bowel, just before we sat down to supper…?" She shakes her head. " No? Not ringing any bells…?"
"Aah…" I murmur pointlessly as she folds her arms and fixes me with that stare. "The incident with the Vibrio bacterium…."
"Yes. That one. Anyway…speaking of Janice, I said we'd phone at six…"
"Mm." I reply quickly before clearing my throat.
I tell her that I'd like to run through my presentation one last time tonight, before suggesting we have an early supper. She glances at me speculatively but I am loathe to explain. In my current state of mild unease, it seems wise to avoid adding to my discomfort by going to bed with a full stomach, but I feel no need to confess my state of apprehension. Turning away, I am now anxious to open up my laptop.
"But, don't you think we should really go the drinks reception…?" Louisa asks and I glance across at her, surprised. For the first time since we landed at Gatwick she is frowning and I think I detect a note of disappointment in her tone. "Martin, have you thought that it might just be a good way of, you know…well, easing into your presentation I suppose. Getting the lay of the land, getting to know a few faces, that sort of thing…"
Taking a deep breath, I concur reluctantly. I suppose she might have a point if I were one of her anxious, seven year old clients faced with addressing a school assembly but I've presented to audiences many many times larger than the one I'll face tomorrow. So I suspect the main reason for her encouragement, and her rather earnest tone, is that she herself would like to attend and, for many reasons, I feel loathe to disappoint her. I'm more conscious of it now: The Portwenn Players Dance, Spanish night at Bert's restaurant, all the places she wanted me to take her only for me to idiotically decline; how different might things have been had I only the good sense to accept. She bites her lip and, for a moment, it is as if I am seeing her again for the very first time. An unusual phenomenon and, as my heart rate quickens, I wonder if it has a name; I am sure the Germans have a word for it: observing someone outside their usual surroundings, and it rendering them so new, so vivid, and so utterly arresting.
"Martin, it'll be alright." She says, and her hand goes to my lapel; gentle and yet undeniably reassuring.
For a split second my breath catches and when finally I manage to speak, my voice is low. "Umm…yes…okay. Yes."
Yet instantly her smile returns and, with it, that softness; that incandescent glow; a glimpse of which was enough to sustain me for days, all those years ago. I might recognise it now but I am still devoid of understanding. I admit that I had been apprehensive, warning Louisa that she would be bored when first she expressed an interest in accompanying me today. Yet I found myself oddly relieved when she pushed aside my objections. I couldn't tell her either, I couldn't explain that, unlike most of my colleagues, female companionship at conferences was something I have considered a distraction at best, an encumbrance at worst. Yet I can't help but wonder how my life may have been different had I known such belief and support existed. Gazing down at her now, watching as she smoothes away the faintest ripple in my tie, I am engulfed by a wave of something that renders my voice the hoarsest whisper; the most profound gratitude that she is here with me.
And so, steadied, invigorated, I leap into action. I hang up my suit bag, and my clean shirts, and place the rest of my clothing in the top drawer of a series built into the wardrobe. Satisfied, I open my laptop and reach for my notecards, spreading them in a grid pattern evenly across the table. Glancing up from my screen, I am aware of Louisa orbiting the room. Apparently, unpacking her suitcase consists of draping various items of clothing across the back of chairs and dangling them over the edge of the bed. Eventually, she disappears, emerging some time later in her undergarments, swathed in a light mist of fragrance, her hair swept up into a dampish bun.
"Shower's lovely…" She enthuses. "I think it's one of those instant hot water ones…maybe we should think about installing one, you know, if we ever get round to doing up the bathroom…"
"Right." I say, trying not to stare too long, aware that since she gave birth to Mary, she's been needlessly self-conscious.
She slips into a dress I haven't seen before; bright and feminine; a perfect fit in so many more ways than simply the way it is cut. As she brushes her hair, it dawns on me that this trip is so much more than delivering the keynote address at a medical conference. Six weeks post-partum, four months of poor sleep, and the tustle of getting a tiny newborn into some sort of sustainable routine. Fatigue has been a constant presence in our lives; Louisa may bristle at the term geriatric but I've felt every inch of the word when we've had particularly difficult nights. And then there is the little boy who misses nothing, who has the hearing of a bat and is likely to discern the telltale squeak of a bedspring no matter the time of night, or to burst through our bedroom door at dawn, with such innocence and enthusiasm he is impossible to reprimand.
In the time it takes her to locate her shoes and slip them on, I have changed into a fresh shirt and tie, compartmentalising my thoughts quite successfully but not without first noticing an slinky affair of creamy satin that lies smooth and gleaming at the bottom of the bed. For a moment I am taken aback and my collar feels rather warm and tight. It had never even dawned on me that Louisa might have anticipated that sort of overnight excursion. I suppose her mood has seemed somewhat heightened; she does appear emotional and rather demonstrative but I have attributed it to the excitement of the journey. Chin on my tie, I gaze at her thoughtfully. Should I remind her that her long abstinence from alcohol during pregnancy and breastfeeding will have lowered her tolerance inevitably?
"Shall we go?" I ask and she nods, her quick smile a flash of brilliance. I stare for just a second, deciding to say nothing and simply keep an eye on her consumption.
As we descend the stairs, Louisa keeps to her schedule and telephones the children joyfully. But, while I am aware that she is speaking, I am incognisant of her words. For the unmistakable buzz of a crowd rises up to meet me; the clamour of conversation, the clinking of glasses; louder and more boisterous the closer in proximity we get. I've always thought architects idiots on the whole, incapable of grasping the science of acoustics, meaning we are all to be deafened; as by necessity each voice grows more booming and emphatic, more shrill and cacophonous, simply in order to make themselves heard. But it is not the decibel level that stops me in my tracks tonight, it is not even the sheer volume of people in attendance, clustered in groups of four and five, animated and enthusiastic. With a flash of anticipation I realise: it is the thrum of intellectual debate, the reverberation of education, of fact, and science, and scholarly opinion.
"Martin…you nervous?" Louisa asks and, still staring at the doorway, I demur in my response.
"Right?" I murmur eventually, and I am. From the moment she slips her arm through mine.