His arm is still warm from where she'd grasped him through his coat. She has already left his office, off to do what she does in her own time, whatever that is. There was the telling off given him by Ros – mostly deserved, as he sees it – and then the comfort offered by Ruth. Harry considers it reasonable for him to be feeling he's been riding a roller coaster these past few weeks. The highs are always followed closely by a low of equal magnitude. Wasn't it Newton who theorised that every action is followed by an equal and opposite reaction? He knows that when Newton created his third law of motion, he was talking about bodies in motion, and not the ups and downs of people's private lives, but the principle seems the same, regardless. He is sure that Sir Isaac, were he still alive, would forgive him just this once his creative indulgence. His personal life – the one which takes place inside his head, and where Ruth features prominently – is a series of attractions and equal and opposite repulsions, and he is exhausted from waiting to see how it is – and why - Ruth will reject him next.

So when Ruth once again slides open the door to his office, and stands there, her hand on the door, her body still partially hidden by the door, he could never have expected her to have uttered the words, "Harry, would you like to go for a drink?"

He stares at her for a while, trying to find another meaning to those nine words. She can't possibly mean it as it sounds. Can she?

He'd asked her to dinner, and despite him being sure she'd say no, she said yes.

They went to dinner, and they had a lovely time. He'd enjoyed her company immensely, and he was sure she'd enjoyed being with him. When he'd walked her to her front door, he'd reached down to kiss her cheek, and at the last minute, she'd turned her head towards him, and captured his lips in hers. It was a brief kiss, and they had both been a little embarrassed, but it had been delightful, her lips soft and warm and giving on his, and when he'd asked, she'd assured him she'd consider going to dinner with him again.

The following day she'd declared another dinner with him would be out of the question – their work colleagues were gossiping about them - and so as suddenly as his heart had begun to open, it had been dashed, and Ruth had ground her heel into the shattered remnants of his hopes and dreams for them both.

Then there was the conference at Havensworth. They'd worked closely – and successfully – and he'd felt her opening up to him – to the idea of them. So that when she'd walked away from him as he'd approached her in the hotel corridor late at night, he'd felt the pendulum swinging in the opposite direction, as she opened the door to her room, and bid him a curt goodnight. He'd sighed heavily as his unexpressed desire for her left him feeling exhausted and defeated.

So, does this invitation to have a drink with her represent another action, a movement by her towards him? If so, it will be followed closely by an equal and opposite movement away from him, and he doesn't think his heart could take more rejection from her. Despite his decision to turn her down, to feign being busy, he hears his own words as if spoken by another.

"I'd love to, Ruth," are the words which tumble from his mouth, as he smiles shyly at her, and Ruth takes a step into his office, a small smile on her face, as she looks up at him through her eyelashes. There isn't a man alive who could say no to her when she looks at him in that way.

They walk together, side by side, through the London evening. Harry is walking on air, and he wonders would she mind were he to hold her hand. He resists the urge to touch her, not wanting to ruin the evening before it has begun.

Together they decide that The George would not be the most private of venues, given the rest of the team had loudly announced that they were meeting there for a post-Havensworth piss-up. Ros would no doubt be giving the night at The George a miss. Harry had declined, stating he was too busy, and Ruth had claimed she needed to get home to feed her cats.

They needed to go somewhere where they'd not be recognised, where no-one would be watching their every move. Harry has decided on Dieter's. The name of the pub is something with Oak in it, but he can never remember what, although he knows it's not The Royal Oak. Dieter Schmid is the manager, and a friendly, generous man. Harry has often visited Dieter's when his whole life has been collapsing around him. Hopefully, tonight will be different. Hopefully, tonight will be the beginning of Dieter's having happy memories for him.

"This is nice," Ruth comments, as he leads her to a booth at the back of the room. The bar area is crowded and busy, but further into the room the lighting is dimmer, and there are fewer people. "It's rather intimate," she adds.

Harry lifts his eyes to meet hers, and sees the flush appear at her throat, moving up to her cheeks. He helps her off with her coat, and then removes his own, laying them across the bench next to him.

"White wine?" he asks her, and she nods.

He returns to the table with a whiskey for himself, and a white wine for Ruth, and a complimentary bowl of pork scratchings.

"It was me who asked you for a drink, Harry. I should at least have bought the first one."

He smiles at her, noting her slight discomfort at this small breach in social protocol. "I'll let you get the next one, Ruth. If that's what you want."

He lifts his glass to her in a salute, and then takes a sip, his eyes never leaving hers.

"I don't mind really," she says, her words not flowing as easily as she would like. "It's just that …... I was the one who asked you for a drink, so …..."

"I know what you mean, Ruth." Harry takes a substantial sip before he speaks again. "Why did you ask me for a drink? It's just that …... at Havensworth …... you were not exactly …..."

He regrets the words as soon as they are spoken. He, who is used to measuring every word, every syllable before he speaks, has just blurted out the question to which he really wants an answer, and in so doing, may have blown the whole evening.

"That was work, Harry," she says, looking at the wine in her glass, "and to have continued from …... where we were that night …... well -" She lifts her eyes to his, and he sees that she's not annoyed, or angry, or even embarrassed. She seems interested in him. Her eyes are flirting with his. "I didn't want the others to know about …... this …... us …... so I thought it best …..."

"You needed to have said that at the time, Ruth." He keeps his voice low, intimate.

"You didn't know that's why I …...?"

"No. I didn't. I took your actions as …..."

"The same as when I turned down your second dinner invitation."

"Yes." The word is barely more than a whisper.

"I'm sorry, Harry."

He waits, not even able to take another sip of his drink, for fear this moment in time will be lost forever.

"I …..." Ruth begins, and then she drops her eyes, and fiddles with the stem of the wine glass.

"What, Ruth? Tell me. I need to know."

Ruth grasps the stem of her wine glass with the fingers of both hands. Harry moves his hand across the table, and is about to reach her fingers with his own when they hear a voice from behind them.

"Harry! I thought it was you. And you've brought a friend this time. Good, good."

Annoyed, Harry looks up into the grey eyes of Dieter Schmid, the pub's manager. Never has Dieter's timing been worse.