Two
Harry feels slightly awkward as he follows Ruth up the rickety stairs of the little building to the office she refers to as the newsroom. The space is filled with mismatched wooden desks and chairs juxtaposing bizarrely with the state-of-the-art computers and plasma screens on the walls which seem to be tracking BBC news and Twitter trending topics. He glances around, and eventually decides to sit down on a brown leather sofa which sits in one corner apparently at random, and watches as Ruth stumbles past him and plonks her folders down on a side-table. He tries to guess which is her desk, and is surprised to find out that it is the most disorganised one: everything he knows about he suggested that she would be wonderfully organised. She is one of the most intelligent and dedicated people he has ever come across, and having worked at MI5 for almost five years now, he's met his fair share of ludicrously clever analysts. All of them had immaculate, if boring, desks and habits. Ruth, on the other hand, seems to thrive in clutter, and makes the biggest kerfuffle of turning on her computer that he could imagine.
"Do you need a hand?" he asks, smiling slightly. She looks bashfully across at him from under her eyelashes and shakes her head:
"I'm fine, really. I just can't remember the new password." She begins rooting in her handbag and eventually pulls out a small leather notebook, which she rifles through at high speed. "I know I wrote it down somewh – ah, got it!" Her grin is triumphant as she sits down, and smoothes her knee-length eyelet skirt across her lap. She begins clicking and typing, becoming completely absorbed in her work for a moment; Harry revels in watching her. The light of the nearly-set sun catches her hair from the window behind her and causes it to shine in such a way that it becomes hard for him to avert his gaze.
Eventually, she appears to notice that she is being watched, and drags herself from the computer screen. "I'm sorry," she says, "this is very rude of me!"
"Not at all. I accosted you in the street, remember?"
"Ah," she smiles, feigning thought, "so you did, yes..."
"So, do whatever you have to do, and then I'm buying you a drink and talking to you about your novel in the language of your choice."
"So many to choose from!" she grins, turning back to the computer. "I'll only be about half an hour; I just have one story and a couple of photos to place" she adds, and he almost feels genuinely glad, on a personal rather than professional level, that she is going to let him take her out.
"In that case, have you got a kettle?" he grins.
"Oh, of course." She points back through the door they came in. "There's a kitchen at the top of the stairs."
"Can I get you anything?" He asks, poking his head back round the door in the most endearing manner. For a moment, she almost thinks she feels butterflies, but she shakes her head as she sits back down and tells herself that she must have been imagining it.
"Why do you do that, then?" he asks her as she locks the building up on their way out. Pocketing the key, she smiles and shrugs.
"It looks good on my CV!" she tells him.
"You're doing an MSt in Classical Literature and Languages, Ruth." He laughs. "And you speak how many languages? And you were a published author at nineteen. You hardly need to make your CV look any better!"
"Actually," she says, smiling, "it's an MPhil, but that's not important." As he glances down, he cannot help but notice the endearing way that her cheeks are reddening as she says this. It's almost as though she's ashamed of, or embarrassed by, her achievements.
"What is it that you want to do with all of this, anyway?" he asks her, pulling his coat more tightly around him and shivering slightly. The cold November night is bitter, but the company is warm, and the little old-fashioned pub he has in mind is only two more minutes walk.
"I don't really know." She admits, bashful once again.
"Journalism?" he hazards, "with all your news editing experience?"
"Not at all." She tells him. "Not enough thinking involved. No, I... well. It's a bit embarrassing really." She concedes.
"Really?" he asks, holding the door for her as she follows him inside the pub. It's one of those pubs which looks like it's fallen through a worm-hole in time; everything is wooden, and the chairs have read leather tops. A fire roars in the grate, and people are actually talking to each other rather than on phones or laptops. There is no music; there is just good company and decent drinks. Ruth breathes a sigh of relief. This is her kind of watering hole. Harry smiles a little to himself. He thought she'd feel comfortable here, and he was right. Having done so much research about her, it's as though Ruth is a lifelong friend – and maybe something more – already.
"I'll tell you in a minute." She blushes, "but let me get you a drink first...?"
"No," Harry insists, pulling his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans, "I accosted you. I thought we'd agreed."
"Fine," she sighs, "a glass of red, please. I'll go find a table."
When Harry makes his way back from the bar, carrying a pint of bitter and a glass of red for Ruth, he finds that she has settled at a cosy little table beside the fire, and is anxiously picking at the sleeve of her top and her tights alternately. He passes her her glass, and, sitting down opposite her, says "go on, then. Tell me. What's this embarrassing ambition of yours?"
"No." She insists, staring at the table. "No, I can't tell you."
"Why not?" He asks, picking up his glass.
"You'll laugh."
"I promise I won't."
"I don't believe you."
"Fine." He says, putting the glass down. He places one of his hands (which she can't help but notice look very strong and sinewy) on top of hers and looks her firmly in the eye. On top of having very attractive hands, Harry also has very deep eyes. The kind which films might describe as "easy to lose oneself in". Ruth, as a classicist, a realist, and a strong, independent woman, has never set much store by what films might suggest about certain shades in a man's eyes, but she can't help agreeing a little with cliché at this moment. She is already beginning to lose herself. She can feel the heat in her cheeks, and she can tell that she is just moments away from beginning the nervous laughter she is prone to in situations involving herself and attractive members of the opposite sex.
Thankfully, she is saved by Harry's words, which are genuinely sincere and believable. He maintains eye contact, and squeezes her tiny hand slightly as he says "I promise, Ruth Evershed, that I won't laugh. Any ambition of yours will be worthy. I've only just met you, and I'm already blown away."
"Really?" she asks, taken aback slightly. She's not used to being in situations where there's a chance that her feelings might be reciprocated.
"Really." He tells her, and truly means it.
"Alright." She tells him. "I... I was kind of thinking of applying to work in the security services. You know. Analysing or translating." She laughs slightly; "I don't suppose I can, now that I've told you. It's probably supposed to be secret..."
"Yes," he says, laughing outwardly. Inwardly, he's reeling. He's more than blown away. Can she be serious? Could she honestly be any more perfect? Really?
He didn't think so. He didn't think so at all.
Not sure about the ending of this chapter. Oh well. More tomorrow! Thanks for all your lovely reviews so far! :) xxxx
