Harry introduces Ruth to Dieter, who takes her hand and kisses it. Harry watches as Dieter smarms it up with Ruth. He knows he has no reason for jealousy, but he is annoyed all the same. He and Ruth had been having a private conversation. They had been – at last – getting somewhere. Ruth had been on the cusp of explaining why she'd run from him that night in the Havensworth hotel, and bloody Dieter had walked in and trodden all over the moment.
"Where have you been keeping this beautiful woman, Harry?" And then he turns away from Ruth, having let go of her hand. "I haven't ever seen you with a woman. I'd been wondering if you were …... batting for the other team."
Harry smiles slightly, but for once, he does not appreciate the company of the man, and nor does he like his attempt at humour …... especially not in front of Ruth. He wants him to leave he and Ruth alone. He glares at the pub's owner, hoping his message is clear.
"I'll leave you two alone now. I have things to do, people to talk to, deals to make." And as quickly as he'd arrived, Dieter is gone.
Harry is sad that the moment between he and Ruth is also gone – perhaps forever. He sighs heavily, gazing moodily into his drink. "I'm sorry about that, Ruth," he says after a few moments. "He was ….. crude."
"Don't be angry with him, Harry. He meant well." Ruth's eyes drop before she speaks again. "And I can't imagine why anyone would think you bat for the other team."
And no sooner has she spoken than a bar attendant appears at Harry's elbow with a wine cooler filled with ice, a bottle of champagne, and two tall champagne glasses. "Compliments of Mr Schmid," he says, his face close to Harry's ear. "He asks that you forgive his intrusion."
The bar attendant opens the champagne by slowly easing the cork out of the bottle, his hand covering the cork to ensure that it doesn't pop. Harry supposes that has something to do with Health and Safety. Doesn't everything? he thinks, as the attendant fills the glasses, and then quickly leaves, but not before tucking the champagne bottle amongst the ice in the ice bucket.
Harry has been mute during this, surprised at the see-sawing of the events of the night so far. He looks across at Ruth to see a wide smile on her face.
"I love champagne," Ruth says, lifting her glass towards Harry.
He follows her by lifting his own glass, and tipping it slightly towards her. "Veuve Clicquot, too. Here's to us," he says, touching her glass gently with his own."
"To us," Ruth replies, before drawing her glass towards her and taking a sip.
Harry watches her as she screws up her nose at the bubbles, and then utters a `Mmm' of appreciation after she swallows. He has a moment of envying the champage which slides down her throat, and then squirms uncomfortably in his seat, knowing that while in Ruth's company, he can't be thinking like that. He takes a small sip of the champagne, and then gently places the glass back on the table, still formulating what he should say to her.
"Ruth," he begins, and as he looks up into her eyes, he catches a look of such abandon – perhaps lust - in her own eyes that he is momentarily flummoxed. He quickly looks down, trying to rein in his baser feelings. It is far too early in the evening for lustful thoughts, even if by some miracle, Ruth is having them also. "Ruth," he begins again, "we were talking about -"
"That night at Havensworth, when I refused you."
"Well …... maybe that's a little harsh, Ruth."
"No, it's the truth. I could see you wanted …... and I thought …... I made a decision to not …... because we were at work, Harry."
Harry takes another mouthful of champagne. He's not normally a champagne drinker, but tonight is special – he hopes – and he wants to be seen to be making an effort for Ruth.
"I know what you're saying, Ruth. I understand that. I do. It's just that the incident in the hotel came close on the heels of you turning down my invitation to dinner …... the second invitation."
"And you've put the two events together, and now they spell …... what?"
Harry sighs heavily, wishing Ruth would work it out without his help. He's not used to sharing his private thoughts and feelings with anyone, and especially not a woman to whom he is so attracted. Attracted? Come on, Harry, you're head over heels with this woman. Admit it.
"I thought," he begins slowly, turning his champagne glass around in circles on the table top. "I thought you didn't want to see me any more. Outside work, that is, because it'd be rather difficult for you to not see me at all."
Ruth copies his actions, twirling her own glass around. Harry notices her glass is empty, and so he tops up both their glasses. If all else fails, he surmises, we may as well get drunk together.
Ruth waits until her glass is almost full before she takes another sip of the champagne, and then places her glass carefully on the table.
"I wasn't thinking too far ahead when I turned down your second dinner invitation. I did want to see you again. Do. It's just that having so much scrutiny and gossip unsettled me. I'm trying to put it aside, but it's not easy."
"And Havensworth was work, and we cannot be seen to be fraternising at work."
"Something like that, yes."
Harry is watching her closely, as her eyes flick up, and blue eyes momentarily meet hazel. He smiles at her, hoping he can win her over with charm. It used to work for him …... many, many years ago, when he had more hair.
"It's just that," he continues, "you seemed annoyed by me when we met in the corridor at Havensworth. All I was after was a drink, a talk to wind down at the end of the first day there -"
"Bullshit, Harry. You were after so much more than that. Admit it."
Christ – why can't I remember that I can't lie to this woman? She can see through all the games, the angles, the little white lies. He pulls his pursed lips sideways in a gesture of annoyance.
"And you weren't?"
When he looks up at Ruth, she is sat back against the cushioned back of the bench. Her eyes are wide with shock, and he can see the sheen of tears.
"Ruth," he begins, "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. It was -"
"It was confrontational and rude, Harry."
"It's just that …..."
"It's just that what?" Ruth's voice is uncharacteristically cold. The warmth, the flirtatious manner are gone. She looks hurt and angry.
He sighs heavily as he pushes his glass out of reach and sits back to face her. He is suddenly as angry as she …... and sad, too. He may as well be truthful, if this is to be the last time they spend together away from work. This time, he chooses his words carefully.
"I'll admit to you that I was aroused by your presence, and that I wanted to take you to my room …... for a drink, and perhaps more, but I wasn't looking for anything sordid, Ruth. I thought maybe we could kiss a bit, and cuddle. What I meant was that I noticed you looking at me with the same …... interest …... as I know I was looking at you."
"So you think you could just drag me off to your room for a bit of slap and tickle, and I'd be fine with that. Is that what you were thinking?"
"Ruth – Jesus – I wasn't planning to drag you off. I saw you looking at me with the same …... the same way I knew I was looking at you. It's not a crime to be attracted to someone, you know. It's normal human behaviour – normal, Ruth. And I also seem to remember that kissing is rather nice."
Suddenly, Ruth turns in her seat, gathers her bag and her coat, and stands. Harry stands too, and places himself between her and the door. He reaches as if to touch her arm.
"Don't touch me, Harry. I'm not that sort of woman. There are plenty of single women at the bar. You might be better off with one of them. Now, stand aside."
He steps aside to let her pass. He knows better than to try to reason with her when she's like this. "Ruth," he pleads, "at least let me see you home."
Ruth is a yard past him when she turns and gazes at him with cold eyes.
"I'd rather Jack the Ripper saw me home. Goodnight, Harry. I'll see you at work tomorrow."
And then she's gone. He stands helplessly as she strides to the door, and then through it. He wants to follow her, but he knows how stubborn she can be.
Harry sits back down, feeling the most miserable as he's felt in years. He may as well polish off the champagne, at least.
Newton has spoken again. Harry knew he would.