December 25, 2010 - London:

She quickly ducks below the window ledge, hoping he hasn't seen her. She is still holding her breath when she wonders, given it's so cold out here, how it is possible for her face to be this hot. She breathes out slowly. No huffing and puffing and blowing his house down. She takes a moment to reflect.

Did she just see … what she thought she saw? And is she brave enough (and foolish beyond any foolishness she has so far imagined) to chance another look?

Ruth breathes in deeply, adjusts the strap of her large shoulder bag, and then lifting herself to her full height of 5' 4" she finds herself staring through the glass into the hazel eyes of her section head, and would-be lover, although perhaps would-have-been-had-she-been-braver better describes their personal relationship.

Oh, shit!

Does he know she's been out here, in the cold, under his kitchen window for the best part of five minutes, debating the wisdom of being here in the first place, her bag bursting with Christmas goodies?

Does he know the planning which has gone into her being here during his time of suspension?

Does he realise how much she has risked, just by entering his back garden?

Does he know she'd watched him while he'd sliced onions, celery and carrots?

Does he know … that she knows .. that while he was in his kitchen chopping vegetables, he was wearing nothing but his bemused expression?

She'd arrived at the back door of Harry's house via a gap in the fence between Harry's garden and his neighbour's. Rather than trying the door, or (God forbid) knocking, Ruth had decided instead to engage in a little reconnaissance, and how better to do that than by peering through the kitchen window, hopefully unseen? What she'd seen inside the kitchen had rendered her speechless. Harry had been standing at the counter chopping vegetables, his attention fully on the task. Her gaze had wandered to his broad shoulders, and then down the side of his body to his buttocks, remarkably firm for a man in his fifties. She'd been about to drop to the ground when he had turned towards her, and she had seen more of Harry than she'd ever expected to see. While she knows she should have immediately turned away and left, leaving Harry to whatever-it-was-he-was-up-to, she had been unable to move, unable to take her eyes from his body.

She had watched in fascination as he'd strolled towards the sink, the object of her interest bobbing slowly from side to side in time with his stride. Jesus, Mary and Joseph – (and Ruth only ever cursed in biblical characters on Christian holidays, and then, only in her head) – he's walking this way, and when he lifts his head, he'll - And she had dropped to the ground beneath the window, ignoring how her nose was half way to being frozen.

So that by the time she had again sneaked a peek through the glass, Harry was staring back at her, his shock clear. She continues to stare, and after a minute or so she notices he is no longer the other side of the glass, so she steps away from the window, ready to return by the way she'd come.

"You're not leaving, are you?" Ruth stops. She can't turn around. To see Harry naked without him knowing is one thing, but to have him standing in the doorway sans habits is a step too far in their burgeoning relationship. But … she is curious, and if she waits too long, keeping him standing in the cold … well, that would be cruel. "It's all right, Ruth. You can turn around now."

So she does. As well as a wide smile, Harry is wearing slippers and a thick dressing gown which reaches below his knees, his hands stuffed into the deep pockets of his gown. For a brief moment in time, Ruth wonders had she imagined him naked, and if she had, then why had she imagined him to be thus proportioned. What did that say about the deep recesses of her mind?

It says that she's just like any normal woman .. a woman with curiosity about a certain man.

"I … I was just -"

"I know what you were doing, Ruth, and it's fine, although I'd much prefer us to be having this conversation inside."

And so she does as he suggests, feeling the warmth emanating from him as he stands aside to allow her into his kitchen. Now she knows how he was able to stand around naked on a December day. His house is warm, perhaps a little too warm, and she feels her face flushing all over again. She stands with her back to him, and takes rather a long time to remove her gloves and coat, and then place her bag on a chair.

"Ruth? Is something wrong?"

Wrong? Why should there be anything wrong? Like any woman with passions, Ruth has often wondered what Harry would look like without his clothes, and now she is armed with that information, she is unable to look Harry in the eye.

According to statistics (gleaned from numerous women's magazines, so they're bound to be accurate, right?) Ruth has had only a few lovers. Before George there had been only five, and one of them was so short-term as to barely register a mention. All, other than George, were below average in the trousers department (according to those same magazines), while George was definitely just a bit … larger than average. Harry, on the other hand, belongs in his own category altogether, and not only does she not know what to do with her memory of seeing him naked, she can't give him eye contact. What if he knows she was watching him through the kitchen window? What must he think of her?

She slowly turns. "I have a fruit cake, mince pies, chocolates and wine, and I even have a small gift for you," she says quickly, speaking to his feet, the only part of him she can bear to look at.

"Ruth .. look at me," he says in his soft, honeyed voice, the one which always melts her from the inside out, while at the same time annoying her no end.

Manipulative bastard!

Very slowly, Ruth lifts her eyes to his, avoiding eye contact until the very last second. "Is it because I'm not dressed? I could run upstairs and put something on, but ..." Ruth sees his smile, and thinks that Harry can sometimes be a little weird. "After my shower I was hot, so when I came downstairs I removed my dressing gown, and began dinner preparation ..." Which is when Harry's expression changes. Ruth calls it his `the lights have come on' expression. "Ruth .. did you, by chance, happen to … see me before our eyes met through the glass?" Ruth has been contemplating the romantic connotations of `before our eyes met through the glass' when his face breaks into a grin … a rather proud grin at that.

At that moment of Harry's realisation that she had been witness to his being (literally) a naked chef, Ruth has several options open to her. She could:

1) Act cool, like she sees naked men every day, and he's nothing special, so why doesn't he just get over himself;

2) Deny everything;

3) Burst into tears, and confess that despite wishing to look away, she'd been watching him with some relish;

4) Grab her stuff and run.

"I …," she begins, still having not chosen her preferred option, when Harry interrupts.

"Ruth, it's fine if you did. I'm not ashamed of my body. To be honest, these days I'm the only one who sees it. I can't remember the last time a woman saw me naked."

She lifts her eyes to his, to see that he's quite serious. "I find that hard to believe," she says quietly.

"Which bit?"

"The bit about no-one having seen … you … like that … for years."

"It's true, I'm afraid. There's now only one woman I wish to see me naked, and alas, she has continued to convey her disinterest ..." `Until now' remains unspoken, hovering uncomfortably in the air between them.

Now he has her attention, because she is (almost) sure he is speaking of her. "So … why does this woman not want to …?"

"I really don't know the reason, Ruth. She won't talk to me about it. I'm sure she … would like …to see me … you know, but … she's mercurial."

They watch one another for some moments. Ruth has forgotten that beneath his dressing gown Harry wears nothing. She has forgotten the image of him naked, an image she'd been afraid would be burned into her memory for evermore, taunting her each morning when first she wakes. Her mind is racing ahead. "Would you perhaps ..." she begins, "like me to speak with this woman? Maybe I can … convince her that you are ..."

"I'm a changed man since I've known her, Ruth. And I can guarantee to love her, to give her a good life, a comfortable life." Harry hesitates, his eyes flicking away from her for a moment. Ruth is sure he has taken a quiet step closer to her. "You should also tell her that ..." He stops, clearly unsure of himself.

"What, Harry? What else does she need to know?"

"That what she saw … when I was chopping vegetables for dinner … well, I know how to use it … for her pleasure." Ruth feels her jaw drop. Bloody Harry! He'd known all along that she'd peered through the window earlier. "As soon as I saw you trying to leave, Ruth, I knew you'd taken a peek." This time she is aware of him taking another small step closer, until he is almost close enough to touch her. "And as much as I believe I should go upstairs and put on some clothes, I don't want to risk you leaving while I'm gone."

This time it is Ruth who takes a small step closer, reaching out to grasp his hand, which is very warm; she feels his fingers curl around hers, capturing them so that she can't move away, even had she wanted to. She has spent years searching for a place to live, a place where she can feel at home, at peace, and in that one small gesture, as Harry curls his fingers around hers, effectively tethering her to him, she knows that she has found her home. Her home is with him. "Then don't," she says softly. "Stay here .. with me."

"Do you mean that? Do you mean this, Ruth?" and on `this', he gently squeezes her fingers. Ruth nods, the power of speech having temporarily left her. "Share dinner with me. I've made enough for two." He smiles down at her. "Perhaps I knew you were about to turn up."

"Perhaps."

"We are … connected, Ruth."

"If you say so."

"And we can try some of that wine -"

"And the mince pies and cake."

Harry nods, and then as she lifts her face to his, he leans down and places the softest and gentlest of kisses on her mouth. Ruth is so surprised that she forgets to close her eyes.

"Can you do that again?" she asks. "I wasn't paying attention."

"After I've finished cooking the chicken and vegetables … and after we've eaten … and after the wine … then we can kiss some more."

She's disappointed, of course, but now she has something to look forward to … after the chicken, and the cake and the mince pies are eaten … and after the chocolates and wine. In a move which is uncharacteristically bold for her, Ruth grasps Harry's other hand, and leans against him, pressing her body against his. She nuzzles her face into his neck, breathing in the unique smell of him, before she presses her lips to his skin. She feels him shudder, and then he takes his hands from hers, and wraps his arms around her, holding her to him. In that moment, Ruth doesn't much care if she never eats again. She could stay like this, wrapped in Harry's arms, until one of them dies.

They stay that way for several minutes, until she feels it, a stirring against her stomach. Again, she is faced with several options, none of which seem quite right somehow. The idea of acting outraged, or embarrassed, or (God forbid) running from him, just doesn't fit the moment, so she stays where she is.

"You know I can't help my response to being this close to you," Harry says, his mouth against her hair.

"I know. At least, now I know that ..."

"… it works as it should."

Ruth has to suppress a giggle. This is no giggling matter. "You make it sound like a lawn mower, or a toilet cistern."

"That analogy is .."

"… ridiculous," she says, her voice muffled against his neck.

"I was going to say it's rather accurate. There's little more frustrating than attempting to start a lawn mower, only to have it fail to kick over." He waits while she absorbs his words. "And I was also meaning to ask you what you'd brought me as a gift."

Ruth lifts her head, and looks Harry in the eye. "You have to wait until after we've eaten everything, and drunk -"

"- the wine, yes. I'm a bit embarrassed, Ruth. I have nothing for you."

"Oh, I think you underestimate yourself, Harry. You appear to have … something for me."

Ruth watches him as he masks his surprise. "Then stay. After dinner, stay with me … here."

"But I didn't bring anything to wear … to bed."

"You won't need anything, Ruth. Just you, me, and my bed."

"After dinner."

"Yes. After dinner. After we eat – the chicken and vegetables, and the mince pies, and -"

"Harry ..."

"Yes?"

"Please stop talking."

So he does. They stand there in Harry's kitchen, holding one another, his body pressed against hers, a promise of what is to come swirling around them. Who needs food, when they (at long last) have each other?