"So ... Sunday lunch?" he asked.

"It's Wednesday."

"It's lunchtime ... and the day has many Sunday type qualities."

"It's not even three hours since breakfast."

"Precisely. An age. An eon. An entire morning. Not to mention that we have from now, until three o' clock tomorrow and my culinary skills have already reached their limit. We have to eat."

"Just not all the time," she muttered.

He handed her a small folded piece of paper. It was a leaflet for a political rally, though political was stretching it somewhat.

"John, our concierge, thought we might be interested."

"National Truth," she read and suddenly his desire to go out made more sense than just food.

"Lunch and a walk in the park then," she said.

"Exactly my thoughts," he nodded, "with a realistic sprinkle of fascist insurrection along the way."

"Perfect."

A warm spring day filled with cherry blossom and fresh life and in its midst a cold, sharp blast of insular, nationalistic, hate: all wrapped up as politics.

For them it was repugnant, for Daniel and Helen it was 'refreshing'.

They stood on the edges of the rally hearing opinions that on face value could have sounded reasonable, but which in truth smacked of man's inhumanity to man. They listened intently and revealed little of their sympathies: unless you were truly watching and then you would have recognised the subtle signs of support and agreement.

"Do you think he's here?" Ruth asked quietly.

"Without doubt."

She briefly applauded the latest speaker, seemingly caught off guard in a moment of enthusiasm. Harry slid his right arm around his waist.

"Lunch?"

"Lunch," she nodded.

They sat outside on the terrace of a small restaurant, opposite the park and felt the warmth of the sun upon their faces.

Ruth, menu in hand, was looking out thoughtfully, she caught his eye, his question unspoken.

"I was wondering if he might make contact before tomorrow?" she answered.

"I suspect not, but he'll be watchful. Now choose." He said, poking his menu at her.

She smiled, "a caprese salad."

"And...?"

"Just that."

Slightly unconvinced by her reticence, he gazed back at the menu thoughtfully. The waitress arrived.

"A caprese, the duck liver parfait and the monkfish, please," Ruth said, confidently, glancing at Harry for approval. He merely handed his menu back to the waitress with a smile, "and a bottle of chablis, please."

The waitress, turned away.

"I see after fifteen years, Helen, that I have become predictable in my choice of lunch," he said, a twinkle in his eye.

"Just testing that I've still got it, Daniel."

"Oh, you've still got it," and he smiled a warm smile that for her outshone the spring sunshine.

There was something about John, the concierge, when they returned home. Ruth couldn't quite put her finger on it, but she sensed his unease even before he had time to recognise it himself. She said nothing, it was merely a feeling.

Harry was unlocking the penthouse door when his phone flashed. He stepped aside for Ruth to enter, as he began to read the message.

Apartment compromised...

Ruth felt the hand on her arm, felt herself turned, saw him loom towards her, pushed back, arms surrounding her, hands spread against her, lips pressed against hers.

Harry's lips locked against hers.