Set somewhere around 9.3, post proposal amidst bickering H/R.
Forget the past.
Ignore the future.
Think only of the here and now ... of Christmas present.
It is a thought, a plan … a resolve which comes several days early, before the normal date due for resolutions.
And so she knocks on his front door.
"Ruth." The surprise is evident.
"Hi," she says quietly, thrusting forward a bottle of red.
She waits, hopeful of a positive reaction, hopeful of a smile, hopeful of being let in out of the raging gale that is blowing what's left of her hairstyle to the other side of Greater London.
She doesn't get a smile but she is allowed in.
He takes the wine, his hand briefly catching against her icy fingers.
"You need gloves," he says simply.
"I'll ask Santa," she replies.
At last the smile, not full blown, but there.
"Maybe you should open it," she suggests, "it may need time to thaw a little."
The smile is gone. Evidently he himself has not thawed enough. He hesitates.
"I'm not sure this is a good idea."
"Why, Harry? Because I said no, or because we've hardly managed to be civil to one another for the last few weeks?"
Her candour surprises him.
"Because we should keep this restricted to work."
"Harry, it's work we're struggling with."
"Oh," he murmurs. "You've come to talk about work."
"No, Harry. I've come to talk about us. That's what's causing the problems on the grid."
"There is no 'us', Ruth, you've made that clear and like I said we move on from it."
He turns away to the kitchen, bottle still cradled in his hands.
Frustrated she shouts after his retreating back.
"But you can't Harry."
He turns accusingly towards her but says nothing.
"You may have tried but you can't move on and that's why we're struggling."
"You're wrong, Ruth," he catches his own words, smiling slightly, "That's not something I say very often, is it?"
"Well, maybe you should."
"Should what?"
"Should say it, Harry? Maybe you should have said it when I told you we couldn't be 'more together'."
He looks at her, the bottle drops to his side.
"Were you thinking it? Were you thinking I was wrong?" she demands to know.
"Yes," he says quietly.
"Then why didn't you tell me?"
"In my experience, Ruth, when you are determined upon something then you're not for turning."
"I'm not Margaret bloody Thatcher."
"Besides which, how desperate did you want me to seem? Never taking 'no' for an answer."
"I wanted you to tell me the truth, Harry."
He looks at her a moment before speaking.
"And you still want that now, Ruth?"
"Yes, I do."
He walks back to her, pushing the bottle back into her hands.
"You were wrong, Ruth, you were so very wrong. We may not deserve to be together but we could be. It's taken years to get to where we are now, years of hesitation and self denial, years where fate barged it's way through, years to say the words. Years Ruth. And you decided in a heartbeat, whilst telling me about the 'thousand of times' you would have said yes. You didn't even think about it, you didn't even ..." He stops, turning away.
"What? What, Harry?"
"I wanted you to say yes. I didn't expect it. I don't know what I expected, but I knew if you said no then at least I'd asked, at least you knew." He takes a breath. "And if it's a 'no', it's a 'no', if I'm not what you want then that's fine, but if I am and you're scared of the future, scared of being more together then yes, Ruth, you're wrong."
"Very wrong?"
"Yes, totally, irrefutably, undeniably wrong."
"That'll be me wrong then?" she half smiles.
His lip curls gently, "I'd say so, Ruth."
"So ... now that we've established that, do you think you might actually get around to opening this?" She proffers the bottle once more.
"Why? Do you think we have more to talk about?" he asks and the hope is evident.
"I'd say that you've made a convincing argument to tell me how wrong I am and that perhaps now you need to explain to me what the right thing to do would be."
"The right thing?" he asks stepping a little closer.
"Yes, Harry. The way we can move on past this."
She sees at once the doubt shadow his face, his movement halted, his breath still and she knows she better spell it out. They've had enough misunderstandings, enough words unspoken.
"You better start explaining how we can go back to work and be civil and how, having done that we can manage to stay civil if we're together."
"Together?" he whispers.
"Why do you keep repeating everything?"
"You want us to be … together, Ruth?"
"Why else would I be standing in your hallway on Christmas Eve with a bottle of wine?"
He smiles and the warmth of it spreads over his whole face and radiates it's heat to her.
She offers him the bottle once more.
"My present?" he asks, taking back the wine.
"No, Harry," she smiles, taking his face in her soft, cold hands, "this … is your present."
And she kisses him.