"Absolutely not!" Harry said, sitting back in his chair in an effort to put distance between himself and his drinking companion.

"Just hear me out," said his companion, having expected Harry's response.

"Do you not understand the word `No'?"

"What's the worst thing that can happen? Answer me seriously."

Harry sighed, and took another gulp of his pint. He regretted not having ordered whiskey. At that moment, he needed the warm rush of spirits to settle his nerves, and to prevent him losing his cool. What was the worst thing that could happen?

The worst thing that could happen would be that he might enjoy himself.

The worst thing that could happen would be were he to be able to move on.

The worst thing that could happen would be for him to lose himself in a pair of blue eyes that belonged to someone other than Ruth.

The worst thing that could happen would be that he may forget how much he loves Ruth, the rush of pain he feels each morning he awakes, knowing that he'll not see her today, perhaps ever again. It is that little rush of pain in his chest which reminds him that he is alive, and still capable of loving another.

"I …..." Harry begins, but he can't say any of that to Malcolm.

"So, you'll do it? She's quite lovely. I'm sure you and she will have a lot in common."

"What did you say her name was, again?"

"Marianne Michaels. She's a little younger than you, but you're quite young at heart, Harry."

"If this …... this Marianne is so good, why don't you take her to dinner?"

"Oh, you flatter me, Harry. I know her very well, and I can assure you that she sees me as a friend, and nothing more."

For a brief moment, Harry wondered that if this Marianne is such a good friend of Malcolm's, why was it he'd never heard of her until now?

"And what if she sees me as a friend?"

"Then nothing will be lost. But," Malcolm hesitated as he moved his coaster slightly to the left, "that's not what worries you, is it?"

Bloody Malcolm. Harry was sure the man has the power see through walls, so easily did he see through him. He slowly shook his head.

It was at that moment that Harry had a sudden and unexpected rush of emotion. He missed Ruth terribly, but he'd buried his true feelings deeply by working all the hours he could. He believed that while he was busy, while the responsibilities of his job kept him occupied, then he'd not have time to remember that it had been just over two years since he'd said goodbye to Ruth by the Thames. He hadn't had time to remember how she'd not let him tell her that he loved her. He hadn't made the time to seriously consider the possibility of getting her back on British soil. He hadn't had time to feel …... until now.

Harry dropped his head, hoping that Malcolm would not see the tears which threatened to spring into his eyes. He bit his bottom lip to prevent its trembling. Maybe Malcolm was right. Maybe he needed the distraction of a new woman, one who – apparently – was highly intelligent, and enjoyed nothing more than an edgy discussion.

Harry sighed heavily. He knew that if he refused this offer, there would soon be another …... and another, and another. His friends, and those he worked with, just seemed to want him to be happy.

"I've often thought of trying to track her down," Harry said quietly.

"Ruth?"

Harry looked up at his friend. "Who else is there?"

"Indeed. Why didn't you?"

"I never made the time, and I only have myself to blame for that, Malcolm."

"I'm sure you'll enjoy Marianne's company. It's just dinner, Harry. If you don't hit it off, you have no need to see her again."

"That's true."

There was a large part of Harry that was curious about what kind of woman it was Malcolm believed could be a match for him. Hopefully, she was not too much like Ruth. He wouldn't be able to bear that.

"I have to tell you," Malcolm continued, "that she is unable to come to London, so you'll have to meet her near where she lives."

"So long as it's not Aberdeen."

Malcolm smiled, his eyes glistening with humour. He was relieved that Harry had not dug his heels in and refused outright to co-operate. "No, it's not Aberdeen. It's Rochester. If you like, I'll make the booking for Friday night at Oliver's in Rochester. You may also like to book a room for yourself for the night."

Harry looked shocked. "Jesus, Malcolm, I'm not thinking that far ahead. This Marianne …... she's not a …..."

"A what, Harry?"

"She's not a hooker, is she?"

Malcolm laughed aloud, something he did only rarely. "No, she's not a woman of the night. She's a working woman, but not in that sense. I was thinking that if you enjoy her company, you might have a bottle of wine or two, and staying in Rochester overnight might be prudent."

"So I don't get caught for driving over the limit."

"Of course. What did you think I meant?"


They'd tried it before, the people at work. Malcolm had a cousin who'd been widowed a while ago, and he'd tried interesting Harry in meeting her for dinner.

"Lucinda. She's a few years younger than you, and is very well read. I think you'd like her."

"My Mum has this friend, Sandy," Jo had begun, " and she's been divorced for a long time. She's lovely, Harry. You and she might hit it off."

Even Adam knew a single woman of about the right age for him. "Fiona and I met her when we were in Greece, and she's now living in London. Who knows? She might be the one you've been waiting for."

That had been around a year after Ruth had left London, and he was as raw then as he'd been the day she'd left.

Now, though, he's still hurt, still lonely, still angry with himself for not at least attempting to clear Ruth's name, but he also knows he needs to move on. What could be the harm in it? He doesn't have to like this woman, but if he does, that might be nice. It's just that he doesn't want to open himself to a new relationship when so much of him still belongs with another.

That's it, really. In a nutshell. He's been afraid to let go of Ruth – his memories of her, the love for her he'd suppressed until it was too late for them both, the hope that one day they will meet again – because to let go of her would be like dying …... and he's not yet ready to die. He knows he has a lot to live for – his career, his children, perhaps grandchildren one day – but no matter how many things he ticks off on his fingers, they still don't bring the scales into balance. They still don't make up for the loss of Ruth from his life …... and he only has himself to blame for that.


He normally prides himself on being on time, but he's already ten minutes late, and he can't find a place to park. He hasn't booked a room for the night. In his mind, that would be jumping the gun. He can't imagine that he will hit it off with this Marianne, and he will not drink very much, and even were he to be pulled over by a representative of the law, he could flash his MI-5 ID, and put on his James Bond act. He'd done it before. They were an impressionable lot, the police. Deep down, most of them dream of being spies.

His car parked (two blocks away from the restaurant, but in a quiet alleyway), he checks himself in the rear view mirror. He looks as good as possible, given his age, and his receding hair line. He'd received a text message only minutes out from the Medway outskirts, and he'd not yet checked it. He hopes there's an unexpected emergency at work, and then he'd happily turn the car around, and head back to London.

The text message is from Malcolm.

I booked your table in the name of Wynn-Jones. Long story. Enjoy your night.

Oh, great.

As he walks towards the restaurant, there is a niggling in Harry's mind. This is all a bit cloak and dagger for his liking, and his spook's instinct is nagging him, trying to tell him something. Were he Malcolm, and were Marianne his own friend whom he was arranging to meet a man of his acquaintance, he'd not be doing it this way. There are easier, safer ways … like meeting for coffee first, or in the safe light of day. He'd offer them each other's phone number, just in case they wished to first speak with one another.

On the other hand, Harry thinks he may be getting too old to be playing games like dating a stranger. It's for people who are younger than he, who still have their optimism, and who have hope that there may still be someone out there for them. He has no such optimism. He lost his hope of finding someone who suited him when the tug boat chugged down the Thames, carrying its precious cargo.

"Table for Wynn-Jones," he says abruptly, as the maitre d' greets him inside the restaurant. Harry notices that the room is almost full. His eyes dart around the room, and he can't see a lone woman at a table anywhere.

"This way, sir," the maitre d' replies.

Harry is being led to the back of the room, through an archway, and into what appears to be a private room. Dear God – what is Malcom doing to us? He's already seeing he and Marianne as guinea pigs in some evil experiment being conducted by a man he has come to trust.

Harry is led to a room off a short corridor. Inside the room is a table which, through a large window, overlooks a leafy garden, itself underlit by lights placed on the ground. It takes a moment for Harry to focus on the woman sitting at the table, waiting for him. When their eyes meet, her face shows surprise and shock. The maitre d' is holding out is chair, and all he can do is stand and stare at her.

"Christ almighty," is all he can say.