Harry sits in his favourite chair, glass in one hand, while the other rests on his thigh. He stares ahead, barely seeing the window, or the garden beyond. He is past being upset. He is beyond anger. He is even beyond hurt.

Harry is sour. He is morose. He suspects he may be depressed.

Ruth is back. She has been back for over a year. He had spent almost three years missing her terribly, perhaps more than he should. After all, they'd not ever been lovers …... just almost. He'd see her in crowds on the street. He'd see her in his dreams, and first thing on waking, he is sure he'd see her lying in bed next to him …... but only for a moment. He'd see her on the Grid, a shadow in his peripheral vision …. elusive, ephemeral.

And then she came back, and the events of her first twenty-four hours in London almost broke them both. They had taken a long time to again become close. Nothing has been the same as it had once been, and he'd almost given up hoping it ever would, when she'd asked him for a drink after work. They hadn't made it to having that drink, and she hadn't asked again – and nor had he – but some deadlock had been broken, and again his heart had filled with hope …... his first small sip of water after his long trek across the desert.

And then after Ros' funeral, he had suggested she marry him. At the time, he'd thought it fair, and appropriate, and he'd been sure she'd agree. They were not people who made grand gestures, like getting down on one knee with a rose in one hand, and a ring in the other. He had not really thought it through, and perhaps he should have. But should he? After all, they'd again become close friends – confidants – and all that had been missing had been …... cohabiting, commitment, intimacy …... and sex. He had wanted all of it – he still wants it all - and he'd been sure she would agree. After all, she'd lived with George ….. shared his house, his bed, his life. She knew what to do, how to be, and surely she'd known that's what had been missing between them.

Somewhat regretfully, she'd said no.

She'd said something else, too, something which still has him flummoxed. She'd said they couldn't be more together than they already were. Her words had assaulted him, like a verbal slap. He hadn't known what to say, what to do, how to make it right, so he'd said nothing. He now wishes he had said something, even if it had been, `Ruth, I don't agree with you. Can we talk about this?'

Now he has words stuck in his throat, words which he'd like to be saying to her. He takes another sip of scotch, swirling it around in his mouth before swallowing. Then he carefully places the glass on the table by his chair, picks up his phone, and presses the first name on the speed dial.

Three miles away, the subject of his contemplation has been standing at the sink, scrubbing the frying pan. She'd made scrambled eggs for her dinner, and had forgotten to use spray oil on the pan. She'd scrubbed and scrubbed, and while she scrubbed, her thoughts had strayed from the frying pan to the conversation she and Harry had had on the roof balcony. She'd suggested they were fine as they were – working together closely, being good friends, sharing an exclusive working relationship. She'd always viewed their working relationship as being intimate. She and Harry are like a married couple. It's just that they never go home together, nor do they share a home or a bed, and they'd never had sex.

So …... is that alright with her?

Since her return from Cyprus, she'd not asked herself that question. She'd not been brave enough to ask herself was a working relationship with Harry enough for her. Why is that? Because she already knows the answer. Her answer will always be the same. Her answer will be -

No!

Ruth stops scrubbing, and decides to leave the frying pan to soak for a while. Her answer surprises her like nothing else has surprised her in the past week …... not even Harry's clumsy and unexpected proposal. Ruth grabs a mug and a teabag and makes herself a cup of tea. She'd rather a glass of wine, but this time she needs her mind to be clear and focused, and most of all she needs to be honest with herself.

She takes her tea into the living room, where she sits on her sofa, contemplating the one glowing bar on her gas fire. She's always wanted Harry. Ever since the EERIE exercise seven years earlier, when she'd called him a bastard, she has wondered what intimacy with him would be like. She'd been shocked that morning by her response to his deception towards his team. She'd been shocked by the power of her grief over his inevitable death ….. a death which was not - after all - inevitable.

She's entertained fantasies and daydreams about Harry for years. Even when she was in bed with George, kissing George, responding to George, writhing underneath or on top of George, more often than not she'd be imagining him to be Harry. A sexual relationship with Harry had only even taken place inside her head. When she had kissed him goodbye that cold morning before she'd gone into exile, she'd felt free to do so because she was leaving, and would never see him again. They were an `almost' which could never be more. That made kissing him safe.

Were she to kiss him now, he'd want more, and she wouldn't be brave enough to be more than his close friend at work. So …... if she wants him that much, why doesn't she tell him? It's clear to her that he'd not say no. While she's thinking about that, she makes herself another cup of tea. She even has another go at scrubbing the frying pan. Anything to take her mind from where it is clearly headed.

After she finishes her second cup of tea, Ruth decides to ring Harry. They have to talk. Where they are is nowhere at all, and it is all her fault.

It takes Ruth a while to find her phone. She has to trace her steps from the moment she'd arrived home, until she finds herself back in her bedroom, searching for her bag. She hears her phone's ringtone – a muffled sound from inside her bag, which is underneath her jacket, both of which she'd flung on to the bed. She tosses aside her jacket, opens her bag, and retrieves her phone. According to some universal law of electronic communication, just as her hand grasps her phone, it stops ringing. She looks at the display to see five calls, and two voice mail – all from Harry. Well, if it's a red flash, he can go to hell, she thinks. She is in the middle of her own personal emergency. She presses his name to return his call, and he answers almost before the first ring has ended.

"Why haven't you been answering your phone?" He blurts out the words, and Ruth knows him well enough to hear the panic behind them.

"I only just found it. It was upstairs, under a pile of stuff."

"You're upstairs now, though."

"How ….?"

"I'm outside. In my car."

"Why?"

"I was …... worried about you. I need to talk to you."

"And I also need to talk to you."