Harry waited until his bed companion was asleep before he carefully lifted the sheet and stepped out of bed. He stood on the narrow balcony naked, resting his hands on the balustrade, gazing out at the lights of Paris …... or more correctly, the lights in this chiefly residential sector of Paris. It was late at night – the early hours of the morning – and even were the street below milling with people, he felt no need for shyness about his aging body. She had loved his body, kissing it all over, or so it had seemed to him. His body was sated, relaxed, like it hadn't been in years, and his heart was singing. He hadn't been this happy since before she'd left. He had a lot of thinking to do. He had decisions to make. The last few hours had changed everything.

Was it only five months ago that he had met Annabel? It had felt longer that he'd known her. She'd made the first move, of course. They'd been at a conference for security personnel, and he'd only gone along to give himself three days off the Grid. He'd known he needed a holiday, and that this was the closest thing to a holiday he was likely to get this side of his retirement. Annabel had been the security manager at the hotel. She'd begun her working life in the military, and had segued into private security. She was tall – just a little taller than he if she wore heels – 47 years old, blond-haired, smart and street savvy. Harry liked to think she was a female version of himself, but nor did he want to think about that too much.

They had gone to dinner twice before she suggested that, given their age, they had better `get on with things'. In the moment he'd agreed, and had driven them both back to Annabel's town house, Harry hadn't thought too much about the woman he'd watched leave London almost 2 years earlier. He still missed her, he still loved her, but even he knew it was time for him to move on. He needed to move on. Loving a woman he would most likely never see again was bad for his heart, and bad for his body. He needed sex, and he needed it without complications. He needed to fall asleep next to a warm body. Annabel provided that warm body, and the sex was quite good. Any sex with a warm and willing body was quite good. He'd not be prepared to pay for it, but any clean and willing participant was fine with him, and she appeared to enjoy it also, so he was happy.

And then Annabel began dropping hints about spending a few days in Paris, just the two of them, in a small hotel.

"It can be like a honeymoon, Harry," she'd said.

And that is when Harry's inner warning system began to send out alert messages to his conscious mind. Is this what he wanted with this woman? Marriage? Marriage was a big step, a huge step, and he'd never even considered the possibility that he and Annabel might one day marry. Since his first marriage had ended, he had only ever contemplated the prospect of marriage once – to one woman – and she was long gone from his life. Possibly forever.

Since he'd been seeing Annabel, he had learned to compartmentalise his life. He had taken Ruth and his memories of her – precious and delicate – and locked them away in a part of his memory which he could only access when he was alone at night in his own bed. He could not think of her when he was with Annabel. The two parts of his life were totally incompatible, and so he had a need to keep them separate, like two cats which live in the same house, but fight and snarl when in the presence of the other. He could imagine the difficult conversation should he ever call out Ruth's name while he was coming inside Annabel. For that reason, he had had to elicit a degree of self-control whenever he climaxed while having sex with Annabel. It meant that no matter how much he wanted her to be Ruth, and how much he wanted to call out Ruth's name, he had to stay silent.

He needed to talk to someone. The only person who knew about Ruth, and about Annabel was Malcolm. Malcolm talked frequently of retirement, but so far had not taken that step. Harry could see he was tired, as was he. The work they did was hard, and it was relentless, as it was shocking.

"Do you love her?" Malcolm asked, after Harry had carried their drinks back to their table from the bar.

"Who?"

"Annabel. Who else is there?"

At that question, Harry's little locked box deep inside himself opened slightly, and he saw another face swimming in front of him. This face was deeply sad, her large blue eyes showing the sorrow she'd felt on the day she'd left London – and him - for good.

"Your face says it all, Harry. You're still in love with her then?"

"I'll always love her," he said quietly. "When I die, my last thoughts will be of her."

"But you're trying to move on."

"Yes. Annabel wants to spend a few days in Paris."

"But?"

"That only time Ruth and I went out to dinner, we talked of Paris. I implied I'd like to take her with me on a Grand Tour of the cities of Europe."

"Ah." Malcolm sipped his drink, still watching Harry. "Why don't you go anyway? What better way to bury your demons than to face them head on?"

"Do you think so?"

"It's worth a try." Malcolm took another sip of his whiskey before he continued speaking. He noticed how troubled Harry looked. It was time for some things to change. "I have a friend from Cambridge – Antoine Edwards – French mother, English father – and he and his wife run a small family hotel north of the Seine. I stay there whenever I go to Paris. I can't speak for Annabel, but I know you'll like it. It's comfortable, and Antoine and his wife, Emilie are delightful, the perfect hosts. There's a small gallery just around the corner from Le White Feather -"

"Their hotel?"

"Yes. The gallery is called ….. Artemis Sur La Seine …..."

"Artemis on the Seine."

"It's not on the Seine at all. It's a good twenty minute walk from the river, but it sounds good, and it conjures images of woodlands and the river. The gallery has a section on ancient artefacts. I think you might like it."

"I might, Malcolm, although I'm not sure about Annabel. I think she plans to shop `til she drops."

"Then go alone."

"I'd be just one more ancient artefact," Harry quipped, a small smile forming around his mouth. Malcolm noted that this was the first smile he's seen on Harry's face all evening. There was definitely something troubling his friend, and he was about to try to force his hand. To Malcolm's mind, Harry drifting along with a woman he didn't truly care for was doing him more harm than good. A few days in Paris just might tip the scales in one direction or another.

"Just let me know when you plan to go, and I'll book you a room. Antoine and Emilie will organise for you to have the best room."

Five weeks later they were in Paris, in Le White Feather. Antoine and Emilie had been warm and welcoming. Their room was cosy and quaint – Annabel had commented that it was `ridiculously small' – and there was a balcony which overlooked the Seine in the distance. Harry had fallen in love with the hotel on sight, knowing that he'd rather be there with another. On their first night there, Annabel had put her hand across under the sheets, and before she had a chance to touch him, Harry had pushed her hand away. This Paris hotel had not put him in the mood for sex with Annabel. She was the wrong woman.

"What's wrong, Harry? We haven't had sex for almost two weeks, and normally you'd be jumping me by now."

"Perhaps I'm no longer feeling normal," he said quietly into the dark. He was laying on his back, his hands tucked under his head, and he was staring at the ceiling, it's ornate plaster work still visible in the dark.

"What the fuck does that mean?" Annabel exclaimed, shuffling back to her own side of the bed.

"I'm not sure."

"Did you book us dinner at that little restaurant?"

They had gone for a long walk after they booked into the hotel, and on their travels, Harry had mentally noted the address of Artemis Sur La Seine, which he intended visiting the next day, whether Annabel accompanied him or not, and they had passed a small restaurant which served provincial French food, something they both enjoyed.

Eventually Annabel turned over, mumbling something about him being `past it', and he stayed staring at the ceiling. It wasn't going to work with Annabel, that was clear. Perhaps Malcolm had encouraged him to take her away for a few days, knowing that any cracks in a relationship become massive crevices when the relationship is put under pressure by being constantly in the presence of the other. He had come to terms with the fact that the only good thing he and Annabel had shared was sex, and he had now even gone off having sex with her. He no longer wanted just sex. He would settle for nothing less than making love with a woman he loved and cherished, which narrowed down the possibilities to just one. Harry eventually fell asleep, his back turned to Annabel, his thoughts rich with images of Ruth.

In the morning, after they'd eaten, Harry allowed Annabel to make reservations for them at the Bateau sur l'eau – Boat On The Water. The roof of the restaurant was shaped like the prow of a boat, but again, it was twenty minutes walk from the Seine, the nearest body of water. He stood under the shower for a long time, and by the time he stepped out of the bathroom and into their room, Annabel had gone shopping.

While under the shower, Harry had decided that their dinner at the boat-shaped restaurant would be the perfect opportunity for him to tell her it was over between them. He had had enough. Deep inside himself, where the Real Harry Pearce lived, he felt like a liar and a fraud, and he also felt like an adulterer, which was ridiculous, given he wasn't married. To continue this fatuous charade with her, calling it a relationship, was hurting them both. She wouldn't be happy. He surmised she'd rather be the one doing the dumping. No-one wants to be the dumpee.

Harry ambled down the lanes near the hotel, happy for some solitude in the city he and Ruth had planned to visit together …... although whether they'd actually planned to visit, or had each had private fantasies about visiting Paris together was a detail which had blurred over time. Why had his love for Ruth not blurred also? He asked himself this question often. He hoped it was because she was The One – the one who was born to be with him, to be his `other half'. He hoped it wasn't because as he'd aged, his memories of her had morphed into something larger than life, something barely resembling a reality.

He had lunch at a streetside café, spending upwards of an hour watching people, while he sipped cup after cup of coffee. If only …... If only he and Annabel had had more in common, she would be sitting there with him. No, that wasn't what he wished for at all, although were it so, it may solve at least two of his problems. Knowing that the gallery closed at 4.30, he paid his bill, and retraced his steps back to Le White Feather. Artemis Sur La Seine was two narrow streets closer to the Seine than the hotel. Inside the gallery, he entered another world altogether. The air was quite cold, due to the air conditioning maintaining a constant temperature of 18ºC, to protect the artefacts. It was also darker than the streets outside, and it took his eyes some minutes to fully adjust.

He wandered through the different sections – Egyptian, Middle Eastern, British, Scandinavian, North American, and then to the French section. He hadn't taken much in, because he had a sense that he was heading somewhere important. When he reached a cabinet which displayed some coins and other artefacts of the Knights Templar, he stepped close to the cabinet in order to get a better view of what was on display. The first thing he noticed was a note added to the description for the display. The note was written on heavy white card, in thick felt pen, in freehand, in French, and the writing looked so familiar, as though he had written it himself. He felt his skin flush, and his breathing become shallow and strained. He knew he wasn't having a heart attack. He'd received a shock. He knew that writing.

Harry turned suddenly, thinking he'd heard someone behind him. He left the display cabinet, and followed the source of the sound, down a dark corridor, at the head of which he'd read the sign in French which told him he was in an area for staff only – but he was undeterred. He walked quickly along the corridor, coming at last to a large set of double doors. He pushed open the doors, and found himself in a darkened alleyway which ran beside the gallery building. He stepped on to the paved lane, and looked in each direction – ahead of him, to his left, and then to his right. There, bustling along the lane, her head down, her arms carrying a pile of books, was a small, dark-haired woman, her hair curling softly against her neck.