It was 5pm on the 17th February.
T minus one hour.
Ruth had a great deal to do. But her mind was not upon it. And yet with the dexterity and clarity that was hers and hers alone, she managed to separate a small part of her considerable brain and do what had to be done whilst running through every conceivable possibility of who her thoughtful, educated, romantic, elusive, rose giver might be.
Zaf, and or Adam, had long since been disregarded: too considered and intricate for them. Past boyfriends, recent or far flung had failed to make the grade.
This was someone new. Someone who had the imagination and the skill to ensnare her in the puzzle and who had faith in her ability to find the solution.
She stared into the glass office opposite. The seat behind the desk was empty.
It was now 5.30. Her heart beat a little faster and it seemed excrutiatingly hot on the grid.
"Just nipping out," she mumbled to Malcolm as she passed him midway to the pods.
"Did you find where and when?" he called quietly.
"Now," she nodded, glancing at her watch, "well, any minute."
Malcolm smiled encouragingly. "Good luck." He watched her nervously scuttle off before his eyes slid to the empty office beyond.
"Jo," he called, "Harry around?"
"In with the HS and the Syrians," she answered, head bent over her desk.
Malcolm hoped not.
He very much hoped not.
It was a cold wind. A brutally cold wind. Her face felt numb, her fingers curled in her gloves trying to borrow some heat from her palms but there was none to be had.
She leant out over the rail of the Millennium Bridge, gazing at the river.
It was 6pm.
She didn't want to look, she didn't want to anticipate, she didn't want to wish. But she did.
"Hello, Ruth"
