I hope this makes amends somewhat for The End of the Affair! Sorry folks, but it is finished so that particular story won't be getting a happy ending. Thanks for reading.

Tossing the folder into his out tray with a weary sigh, Harry glanced over at Ruth's desk. It was in darkness; the computer off, the desk top clear. He hadn't expected anything different, but that didn't mean he'd got used to it.

Although the recruitment process had initially been delayed in the interests of 'efficiency savings', Ros and Adam had now sifted through those longlisted for Ruth's post; Diana Jewell had further weeded out those whom she feared were not up to the emotional rigours of a job in Section D, and next week he and the DG would be interviewing those who remained, a prospect he far from relished. Adam and Ros had all but come to blows doing the shortlisting, Ros adamant that they needed someone who would also be a capable field agent, Adam insisting that Ruth's analytical and language skills were what the section sorely needed. And then he'd committed the cardinal sin of compiling a list comprising solely women. Still, Harry reflected, Adam did finally seem to be getting over Fiona's death, and Ros's anger at his failing to get a more lenient sentence for her father had faded. And as for Jo and Zaf... Harry smiled to himself. There was definitely something going on there. Life on Section D was good. And had Ruth still been there, it would have been perfect.

His car home requested, he pulled on his coat and made his way across the deserted Grid and downstairs to the front door. He'd barely had time to register that there was still light in the sky, a reminder that spring was finally on the way, when the Lexus pulled up in front of him.

'Take me to the Chinese first, will you, Mike? Not really up to cooking tonight.'

Forty minutes later, laden with a feast fit for a king and a bottle of Laphroaig, he let himself into the house. He heard the skitter of claws on the wooden floor, then a small, white, furry bullet launched at his midriff. Tucking the malt under his armpit he bent and ruffled the dog's head as she manically rebounded off him, so excited to see him that she was oblivious to the much more interesting content of the bags he was carrying.

'Hi you.'

He straightened. She stood in the doorway to the living room, barefoot, and clad in one of his work shirts and the jogging trousers he'd bought when, in a moment of delusional good intentions, he had joined the local gym. The shirt strained around her swollen belly and was spattered with what looked suspiciously like paint.

He put the whisky down on the hall table. 'Hi...um...have you any idea how much those shirts cost? And what the hell are you doing going up and down ladders anyway?'

She grinned, and as she padded towards him he could see splashes of paint in her hair and on her cheek.

'Or perhaps you don't need...mmmm...' she is kissing him, 'to climb up...ladders to do a self portrait?'

She drew back. 'What?'

'Looks more like you've been painting yourself.'

She laughed. 'Anyway, Sir Harry...how was your day?' and she resumed nuzzling his neck, nibbling his earlobe, her hands wandering places they had no business going while he was clutching a rapidly cooling takeaway.

'As per.' He held up the bags. 'I've...got...Chinese,' he announced, between her kisses.

'Great. We can...reheat...it.'

'Mmmnnnn...no!' He extricated himself. 'You and your pregnancy hormones, woman! I'm hungry and I'm tired and I'm frankly incapable.'

Her eyes pointedly lingered on his groin. 'Are you sure about that?'

He kissed her forehead. 'Positive. Now let's eat.'

For the first time in years, he now enjoyed his evenings. With Ruth no longer in the Grid there was no incentive to stay there til the small hours, the only alternative to a long, lonely evening at home listening to music and working his way through a bottle of malt. Now he would grudgingly admit to a liking for television programmes he'd previously never known existed, and they talked for hours, mostly about something and nothing, sometimes about films or books or philosophy or history. He often played devil's advocate purely because he loved the fire in her eyes, the flush in her cheeks, the waving arms as she defended her corner. He smiled. Who'd have thought his assertion that Flaubert was overrated would have such implications nine months on.

Truth be told, he no longer had the energy to spend 16 hours a day on the Grid anyway. For weeks he'd slept badly; she was now so restless, being too big to be able to sleep in any comfort, and the baby pressing on her bladder had her up several times during the night. 'All good practice,' she said ruefully as she clambered back into bed, kissing his sleep-rumpled cheek. She shuffled onto her side and he spooned against her, his hand resting on her bump.

'Harry...'

'Mmm.' He was drifting towards sleep.

'I think I'll go and sleep in the spare room. This isn't fair; you're working 12 hour days on next to no sleep.'

'Don't be silly,' he muttered into her hair. 'Anyway, as you say, it's good practice.' To reinforce his words he snuggled in closer. 'Just don't get the idea that I'm up for any 3am sex.'

The DG picked up the carafe, raising her eyebrows at Harry. He shook his head, and she filled her own glass.

The look on his face troubled her. 'Harry, I know that you weren't particularly impressed by any of the candidates, but do you think it's possible that you're judging them by Ruth's standards rather than by the essential criteria of the post? She was a very capable but also very experienced officer and budgets being what they are we simply can't afford to recruit at her level.'

'And there's nobody we can filch from Six?'

"Let's just say I think Six got rather fed up at the one way traffic and have rather battened down the hatches.'

Harry smirked.

'So, if I were to put a gun to your head?'

'If it takes a gun to my head to get me to choose, don't you think that perhaps suggests we might be better off ripping up these applications and starting again? My mother used to say something along the lines of, if you can't make your mind up between two women, neither is right for you.'

'You're the one who's been jumping up and down about the delay in recruiting. And we're looking for an Intelligence Analyst, not a prospective life partner.'

Harry spread the forms out on the table on front of him. His index finger jabbed at the first one. 'She was flirting; she's out.' The third one: 'Obviously highly intelligent but she knows it. I got the impression she thought she was doing us a favour by being here.' The fourth one: 'He addressed all responses to me, even when you asked the questions. One misogynist in Section D is more than enough, believe me.'

The DG looked startled. 'Misogynist? Who?'

'Ros.'

She laughed. "Right enough, now you come to mention it. She never did get on with Ruth, did she?'

Harry shook his head. 'Jo she tolerates for some reason, but Ruth...Ros did eventually realise how good she was at her job, but she still had a pretty low opinion of her as a human being seemingly for no other reason than that she had too many X chromosomes.'

'Well, so long as she didn't let it affect her job.'

Harry grimaced. 'I'm not sure she was always entirely squeaky clean on that score. And I don't want to hire someone who's likely to be just as bad, worse even, and who will rub her up the wrong way.'

Drily. 'He'd only do that once.'

'True. But my choice would be two, five or six. What do you think?'

She shuffled through her copies. 'I'd be happy to go with five.'

'Sally Bernard it is then. I'll set the wheels in motion.' He tidied the papers into a folder. 'Well, I'd best get back to the Grid. See you anon.'