Cyprus – 29 April 2016
He has waited ten years to return it, and as he sits on the bed of his hotel room, gazing down at the necklace in his hands, he can't help feeling overwhelmed by emotion. In a few hours, he will see her again, speak to her, feel the warmth of her gaze, see the smile on her lips and the dimples in her cheeks. He's waited so long for this moment. So long.
After she'd left, in order to survive, he'd forced himself to put her out of his mind, carefully packing away his memories of her in a corner of his mind. He would pull them out from time to time when he desperately needed them, when everything and everyone was conspiring against him, when the world seemed to be crashing down around his ears, when his will to go on was shaken and almost lost. Then he would remember her – her wisdom, her determination, her brilliance, her beauty, the way she used to look at him, the softness of her lips, the smoothness of her skin, her grace, her love, his everything.
Many times he'd tried to move on, telling himself that it's the right thing, the healthy thing to do, and every time he'd failed. And he knows that at the back of his mind had always been the hope that they'd meet again some day, but while many times he'd thought to look for her, he'd always managed to talk himself out of it in the end, knowing, hoping, that she was safer and happier in her new life away from the poison of the Security Services.
He'd cleared her name. It had been something that he'd promised himself he'd do the moment she'd stepped off English soil as he'd watched her slip away down the Thames. He'd owed her that much and he'd never stopped trying until he'd eventually succeeded more than five years later. He hadn't known how to contact her, of course, how to tell her she's free to come home if she wishes, and by then, he wouldn't have known where to even start.
His surprise then when he received an email from her less than a month ago, asking him how he's enjoying retirement, is impossible to describe. He'd been in France at the time, Paris to be precise, just beginning his journey through the large capitals of Europe, his Grand Tour that should have been their Grand Tour, thinking of her every step of the way, his memories of her no longer needing to be confined to the corner, but allowed out into the open to be treasured and enjoyed every moment of the day and night.
They'd exchanged a few emails through which he'd learnt that she's now living in Cyprus near a town called Polis, where she teaches English and the piano, and where she has a wonderful step-son. That part had come as a bit of a shock to him despite telling himself for years that she must have met someone else and moved on, being the young, vibrant woman that he remembered her to be, but he'd dutifully expressed his joy and best wishes for the boy and for her, always for her. That had been when she'd suggested that they meet, telling him that she'd love to see him.
And so here he is.
In Cyprus.
On her birthday.
He sees her the moment he turns the corner into the street that runs along behind the beach despite the fact that she's a good distance away; he'd recognise her anywhere. She's standing at the end of the jetty, gazing out to sea. A more conspicuous place she couldn't have found if she'd tried and it warms his heart to see it, this evidence that she's left the life of a spy so far behind.
The town clock chimes somewhere, causing her to snap out of her contemplation of the sea, and she turns to scan the land, her eyes alighting on him almost immediately and her face breaking out in the widest, brightest smile he's seen in a very long time. His steps slow as he watches her, mesmerised for a moment as he softly smiles back, his heart racing and flooding with joy. She waves happily and practically skips down the jetty towards him, causing him to snap out of his stupor and begin striding towards her once more.
She reaches the end of the wooden structure and turns in his direction, moving quickly along the shore until there are just a few yards left between them. Both of their steps slow then, their eyes running over each other quickly before settling on each other's as they come to a complete stop an arm's length apart, under the shade of a large plane tree.
"Ruth," he whispers softly, almost overcome by emotion.
"Hello, Harry," she smiles in return, her dimples flashing once more. "It's so good to see you," she adds and leans forward, placing a soft kiss against his cheek as she wraps her arms around him.
Surprise overwhelms him for a moment before he gently reciprocates, embracing her and holding her against him for a moment, fighting hard to remain in control of himself and his emotions. He takes a deep breath to steady himself, but the feel of her in his arm and the scent of her, the essence of Ruth, are so overpowering that he has to pull back and turn his head away, lifting his right hand to quickly wipe away the moisture from his eyes. "Sorry," he murmurs.
"Don't be," she smiles. "The wind's strong out here."
She's lying, of course. The wind is but a tiny breeze, just taking the edge off the heat of the sun.
He looks at her, seeing the mischief in her eyes, her lips smiling broadly, and he can't help smiling in return. "I never thought I'd see you again," he confesses softly.
It's true. He's always hoped he would, but he never really believed it. Good things happen to other people, in his experience, not to him.
"So the flowers are for someone else then?" she teases, her playfulness disarming.
He hands her the bouquet, murmuring softly, "Happy birthday, Ruth."
"You remembered," she says, her voice conveying her pleasure. "Thank you. They're gorgeous. I love daffodils. They're my favourites. Where did you find them blooming so late?"
"I might have brought them with me," he confesses, "from Paris."
"You smuggled them in through customs?" she asks in surprise, her eyes wide with disbelief. "Harry, you could have been arrested for that!"
"But I wasn't," he shrugs.
She doesn't seem to know what to say to that, so she just shakes her head at him before sighing and murmuring, "They are beautiful though. Thank you for them… and for remembering."
"Always, Ruth," he replies gently, gazing into her eyes. He can't seem to help himself. His self-control is nowhere to be found today… that is until he remembers that she's married now and he quickly wrenches his gaze from hers and looks out to sea.
"You never told me," he says as he puts down his glass, grateful for the cold water on such a hot day. "How did you find me?"
"It wasn't that difficult," she smiles at him over the top of her coffee cup. "I knew where to look. Plus I never really lost touch," she confesses softly as she returns the cup to its saucer, surprising him. "I'd set up a pretty good network, you know, under various aliases, some of them unofficial, just in case. Malcolm also gave me the details of a grade A asset he has with whom I was to use a certain phrase on an internet blog every six months or so, to make sure no one was onto me. He'd reply with another seemingly unrelated post, containing pre-agreed code words, letting me know if there was still interest in finding me, or if someone had found the trail. It was very reassuring to know Malcolm was monitoring things so that any hint of interest in my whereabouts would reach me before someone got too close. It took me a year to trust it, but then I found myself here, I got myself a good job at the local hospital and I loved it and wanted to stay, so I did." He nods in admiration - a born spook. "Then after that, I used my network from time to time and with great care, wanting to stay abreast of new developments, make sure Mace hadn't wormed his way back into favour or something... and make sure you were all right, not busy getting shot or anything."
He smiles at that, feeling his heart overflow with the knowledge that she still cares for him even if she no longer loves him.
"So last August," she continues, "when I made my usual enquiries, I discovered that you'd retired and I realised then that I wanted to see you. I managed to get in contact with Malcolm, who told me you'd cleared my name and gave me your email address, and the rest you know." She smiles and then adds, "Thank you, by the way… for giving me my name back."
"It's the least I could do, Ruth, after you went into exile to save me," he murmurs, looking away to hide the pain he always feels at the thought of all she suffered because of him and his love for her.
He feels her hand on his arm and turns to look at her in surprise. "I chose to do it, Harry," she says gently, yet firmly. "There's no need to feel guilty."
"How can I not, Ruth," he sighs, "when the reason they targeted you in the first place was me?"
"Because it minimises what I did, Harry," she insists, her gaze turning steely for a second before her eyes soften and she adds, "and why I did it."
"Minimises it?" he frowns. "It was a huge, colossal sacrifice, Ruth, and I-"
"Won't let me own it," she finishes for him. "I made the choice to take the blame. I insisted the team put me back in the picture. I made the call. It was an operational decision and it made the most sense at the time because we couldn't lose you, Harry; we couldn't lose our leader. Mace would have made mincemeat out of the rest of us, probably completely dismantling Section D like he'd tried to do before. You know that."
He nods and looks away again.
She's right.
She's always right, his brilliant Ruth.
Except she's not his any more.
He needs to remember that. "I still feel..."
"I know," she smiles, rubbing his arm and causing his eyes to turn back to hers, "but you need to stop. Feeling guilty doesn't help. It doesn't solve anything and it stops you from enjoying what you have, poisoning it and turning it sour." It's her turn to look away now and he wonders what she's thinking, what happened to her to have caused her such pain. He wants to ask, but he has a feeling she'll not say, or if she does, it'll be something he's done and he's not quite ready to face that now. So he changes the subject.
"I have something for you," he ventures, and reaching into his pocket, he brings out the red gift-box he'd picked out at the airport.
"Oh Harry," she smiles, "another present? You shouldn't have."
"Actually, it's not," he replies, placing it on the table between them. "It's something you left behind that I know meant a lot to you and I thought you might like it back."
She frowns at him now, curious as she pulls the box towards her and gently lifts the lid. She doesn't say anything, doesn't make a sound as her fingers wrap around the charm necklace she'd left behind all those moons ago and she lifts her other hand to cover her mouth, overwhelmed for a moment. "You kept it," she says eventually, her voice strained with emotion.
"Yes," he nods, failing to mention how close he'd kept it over the years, a cherished memento of her, of that night, their one beautiful night together. Does she remember, he wonders, does she relive it at all?
She turns her eyes on him then and he can see them brimming with tears as she smiles crookedly and whispers, "Thank you."
"It's almost lunch time," he says in surprise as he glances at his watch. "Would you like to get a bite to eat?" he adds quickly, dreading the thought of her perhaps leaving him to go back to work or go home.
"Good idea," she smiles. "How about we go back to my place? I could toss together a salad and we could have it with wine and fresh French bread and cold ham. I swear the weather's gone mad of late. It's so hot today, I don't think I could manage anything heavier than that."
He hesitates, wondering if her husband and step-son will be present too at this lunch she's offering to prepare.
"Come on, Harry," she smiles encouragingly. "These poor Daffodils will die if I don't get them indoors and in vase soon, and I'm determined to make them last for my entire birthday at least."
"All right," he nods. "Thank you."
They get up and he pays for their drinks. Then they turn back along the shore, his heart threatening to burst when she slips her hand through his arm, softly gripping his bicep as she takes a step closer and looks up at him happily. "It's so good to have you here, Harry," she says.
"Where's your step-son?" he asks at last, unable to bear the suspense any longer. The charming little house she calls home seems too small to hold a family as he'd discovered when she'd directed him to the bathroom as soon as they'd arrived, saying, "Bathroom's right here if you want to wash your hands." There only seems to be one other doorway leading off the open plan kitchen, dining and living room area, which he assumes to be her bedroom.
"He'll still be at school," she replies, as she pauses in the process of tossing the salad to coat it with the vinaigrette and glances at the kitchen clock. It's a beautiful bird clock that makes different bird sounds to chime the hour as he'd discovered a moment ago, at one o'clock, when a nightingale had suddenly began to sing. "I might see him later tonight," she adds, turning back to her task.
"Might?" he frowns, thoroughly confused now.
"Well, he lives in Polis with his dad," she shrugs. "I usually meet up with him at the weekend, so if he doesn't come round tonight, I'll see him tomorrow. He doesn't know it's my birthday anyway."
That surprises him for a moment until he realises. "Of course," he says, nodding. "He has no idea who you are."
"No," she shakes her head, but then hastens to add, "at least, not my real name and birthday. He knows me though, who I am inside."
"Are you not tempted to tell him the truth?" he asks, curious and concerned for her.
"Not yet," she shakes her head. "I thought about it, when I got my new passport, but I've decided to wait. It would complicate things a lot, and they're complicated enough as it is already. Perhaps after he's left home."
"So you and… your husband-" he ventures after a pause when she's taken a seat across from him at the table, desperate to figure out the nature of her relationship with him.
"Ex-husband," she corrects, her eyes on the salad utensils she's using to pile food on his plate.
"That's plenty, thanks," he nods, his heart floating somewhere high above them all of a sudden.
"It's been two years now," she continues after a bit, once they've both got food on their plates and Harry has poured the wine, "since I moved out. The divorce came through almost a year ago now."
"I'm sorry," he murmurs and means it; he would never wish her in pain or to be unhappy. "Were you together long?"
"Six years, give or take," she mumbles through a mouthful of salad. "Sorry," she smiles once she's swallowed. "He's a doctor, works at the hospital where I did some clerical work for a while. He's a good, kind man and a great father, but... I guess it was just not meant to be. Nico, my step-son, is wonderful though. I miss him a lot, but he's fifteen now and hardly ever at home, according to George. In three years, he'll be off to university. They grow up so fast."
"That they do," he nods, thinking of his own children.
"Have you been happy, Ruth?" he asks after a moment of silence, thinking of all the years they've been apart and how many times he'd wished for that for her, softly whispered into the night as he lay awake, thinking of her, "Be happy, Ruth, wherever you are."
"I've been… content," she replies, taking a sip of her wine. "I can't complain, Harry. I've had a good life since leaving England, all things considered, much better than I expected really, only..." she tails off.
"Only what?" he asks softly.
But she shakes her head and changes the subject.
"What about you?" she asks, turning those beautiful, blue eyes on his. "No ring, I see?"
"No," he shakes his head, glancing down at his left hand, remembering Connie saying pretty much the same thing and wondering at it. After their honeymoon, he never wore a ring when he was married to Jane. It hadn't seemed important at the time, just one more thing to remember to take off before a mission and put back on when he returned. He'd wear it now though, he finds himself thinking; if Ruth put it there, he'd never take it off. "Couldn't find one that fits," he murmurs softly.
"Tried a lot on for size, did you?" she grins mischievously.
He smiles, lifting his gaze back to hers. "No need," he says. "I've had my eye on one for years, but it's proved very hard to get."
He sees her blush and drop her gaze for a moment before looking at him again. "Perhaps it's not worth the hassle," she murmurs quietly.
"Oh it's worth it, Ruth," he replies, leaning towards her across the table, his gaze intense as he wills her to understand how much she means, has always meant, to him. "It's worth all this and so much more."
She holds his gaze and he finds himself getting lost in her clear, blue eyes, barely able to breathe as he waits, his heart in his mouth, for her response. Her eyes soften and her hand slips across the table, her fingertips softly grazing the back of his, only for the moment to be shattered by the ringing of her phone.
"I'd better get that," she says, and swiftly gets up.
"Ruth," he utters almost in desperation, but she ignores him, crossing the kitchen and lifting the receiver, murmuring a greeting in Greek, her back turned towards him. He sighs and slumps back in his seat, rubbing his face with his hands and taking a fortifying gulp of wine, trying not to read anything into her withdrawal. She's always had the tendency to bolt from him, but after all this time and the warmth of her behaviour towards him now, he'd hoped that things have changed, and suddenly, he feels frustrated and so very tired of it and more than a little hurt that she's still not sure, still not willing to give them a chance when it comes down to it.
"That was Nico," she smiles brightly, returning to him. "He's coming over in a bit."
"Right," he nods and stands, his heart still smarting. "I'd better get out of your hair then."
"Don't be silly, Harry," she shakes her head, moving to stand in front of him. "I'd like you to meet him," she smiles and reaches up to kiss his cheek. Then she pulls back and picks up their empty plates and carries them over to the sink, seemingly oblivious to the stunned man standing where she's left him as she adds over her shoulder, "He won't be here for another couple of hours yet anyway. It's too hot out and it's siesta time. Everything's closed... Welcome to the civilised world."