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Chapter 14 – Old and broken things
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Harry was fairly sure that there was some etiquette to post-coital clinches that involved words, but he was not entirely sure if he was capable. His body felt gloriously empty, the tension he had been distantly feeling, ever since waking up beside her, was finally spent. This had been a long time in the making, he thought, but well worth it. Mind-numbing, heart-stopping sex, which left him feeling beautifully exhausted. The muscles in his shoulders and back felt like water. He only just managed to shift his body off of Ruth's and collapse beside her, before they relaxed completely.
They lay very still, afterwards, panting softly. One of Ruth's hands fell to Harry's chest, its knuckles pressing softly into his skin, but neither of the lovers attempted to speak. Harry's heart was still thundering at an unbelievable pace, within his chest. His head was still buzzing with slightly euphoric thoughts. This was wonderful, he repeated to himself. This was glorious. His eyes skimmed over the lines of his lover's body, taking her in; all sharp collar bones and pricked breasts, the soft curve of her waist leading down to the shadow of her hips, dark hair below. She was so beautiful. One of her legs was still pulled up from where she had cradled him against her. How often had he imagined her legs wrapped around him, Harry wondered, a hundred times, a thousand? More, probably, but never in enough detail.
Lifting a hand, he slipped a finger into her palm and smiled as she wrapped her fingers around him. Her eyes were still focussed somewhere on the ceiling, an expression of distant pleasure lingering in them. He did not do too badly, then, he thought with a little pride. Despite having plenty of practice, over the years, he had been a little daunted by the prospect of them finally coming together. He was glad that he had managed to please her. Glancing over at the clock, however, he couldn't help but wince a little. Nine minutes. He had known it was not going to be a marathon session, by any standards, but still... nine minutes...
Turning back to Ruth, he found that she was watching him.
"That was perfect, Harry," she said, a little breathlessly.
That anyone could use the word 'perfect' to describe him was almost laughable, but something about the way she said it set Harry's heart to warm, instead of his lips to twitching. Ruth's huge blue eyes were focussed adoringly on him and she looked so incredibly content. Happy. He was finally making Ruth happy, rather than sad. God, it really had taken them years to get to this place. For the life of him, now, Harry could not understand why it had had to be so. Why had they missed out on years of this? Body was swimming with adrenaline and emotion, he decided silence was better than some half-hearted reply to her statement. Stroking the back of her hand with his thumb, he gave Ruth a little nod.
They lay together quietly for some time, exploring each other's hands, fingertips running over palms and thumbs, tracing lines across their skin. While they played, the sheen of sweat slowly evaporated off their bodies, leaving them open to the chill of the room. Ruth was the first to admit defeat and let go of their joined hands to squirm under the shelter of the duvet. Harry followed her fairly quickly, surreptitiously wiping himself clean on the farthest edge of the covers. They could get washed tomorrow. The immediate was his concern, right now. And Ruth was his immediate.
Giving a little shiver, she shifted around, getting comfortable in his bed.
"Okay?" he asked her, wondering if she was getting annoyed, yet, by his constant need to check.
She did not look annoyed, as she nodded in reply, but Harry made a mental note to stop asking her anyway. Once or twice meant he cared, four or five meant he was nervous, and seven or eight meant he was irrevocably damaged, insecure and terrified that she would leave him – and he couldn't let her know that was the truth. After tasting this bliss, he didn't dare think what it would feel like to be ripped apart from each other, again. Perhaps they had been wise, then, in taking so long to come together, he thought, as Ruth reached out to trace her fingers across his chest. Imagine if they had grown this close before the Cotterdam incident, or before Lucas had stolen her from him? There were half a dozen times where Harry might have broken, over the years, had they been as close as this.
That thought lingered, for a moment, causing brief anxiety at the back of his mind. Then, Harry stored it away to analyse later. This moment was a happy one. Right now, they were not meant to be thinking about the future and the trials they would face but about the present and how wonderful they were. It was one of the few times, in life, where it was entirely appropriate to bask in your own success. And Harry liked to bask, now and again.
"Sorry that did not last longer," he excused, thinking that he would have been even sorrier if it hadn't felt so bloody good.
Ruth frowned.
"I told you, it was perfect," she chastised, warmly. Her fingers crawled up, tracing the notch at the base of his neck, feeling his throat move as he swallowed. Harry felt slightly like he was being mapped and committed to memory. It seemed the sort of thing that Ruth might do. "Honestly, Harry," his lover said, her voice a little softer, "this was..." she bit at the inside of her lip, then frowned slightly and looked up at him. "I know this sounds completely ridiculous, but I'm just so glad we work well, after all of this."
A short burst of laughter broke free from Harry's lips before he could stop himself.
Ruth blushed and looked slightly nervous again.
"I know what you mean," Harry hastened, to ease her discomfort. "We had a lot of history and expectation riding on this. For what it is worth, though, I never doubted that we would work well together." Reaching out, he stroked an errant strand of hair back into place and then traced the rise of her cheek with one thumb. She was beautiful. Beautiful and delicate and his. "...I don't know why we weren't doing this years ago," he admitted to her, in an almost-whisper.
"Me, mostly," Ruth told him, sheepishly.
"No, that's not fair," Harry reprimanded softly. "I do have terrible timing."
A smile drew Ruth's lips back a little.
"I don't know... I rather enjoy your timing."
"Hah,"
Ruth giggled and turn away as he leant towards her. There was nowhere really to escape to, however, when they were both wrapped in the same duvet, legs laid over one another's, and he caught her quickly. Sliding a hand around her neck, he turned her face gently towards his. The skin across her cheeks was still heated in a slight blush and her eyes were shy, but she looked happy to be where she was. Here. With him. Stretching a little towards his lover, Harry brushed a kiss across her lips.
"I rather enjoyed all of this."
"We'll have to do it again, sometime," Ruth suggested, eyes darting between his lips and eyes.
"Indeed," Harry sighed. "Repeatedly."
Another little laugh escaped her lips and Ruth lowered her forehead, to lie against his chin. Closing her eyes, she nestled her face into the hollow of his neck, her hands slid up his sides as she wriggled closer. Carefully, they arranged themselves around one another, sliding legs into a more comfortable position. Harry took a moment to feel smug, for having indulged in feather down pillows and an enormous luxury bed. Ruth certainly seemed to appreciate it. She was smiling as she leaned against his side. Stroking his fingers through her hair, Harry began to drift off.
Post coital dozes were every bit as nice as pillow talk, he mused, as Ruth's hands traced lazy circles against his skin. Indeed, the moment was far too perfect to ruin with words. There would be plenty of time, in the future, to chat. Right now, Harry just wanted to soak up their new, intimate existence. And sleep, with her in his arms.
They lay together for half an hour, or so, in perfect contentment. Outside, the street slowly came to life, voices and cars sounding as they made their way down the road and into work, the chatter of children as they made their way to school. Inside, everything was silent. The house was large and empty and warmer, as the heating turned on. Harry drifted in and out of it all, engaging in several long and complicated daydreams, which consisted of having to find something in amongst the files on his desk, forgetting what he was looking for, then waking up and realising that he was not at work and that it didn't matter. Beside him, Ruth alternated between tracing his body and napping happily in the sunlight. This had to be karma, thought Harry, for all the times they had been hurt.
Eventually, however, life had to move on. Ruth stretched against him, rolling over onto her back. Noticing she looked a little more interested in getting up, Harry forced himself back into wakefulness. Giving an enormous yawn, he ran his hand down, from where it had been lying on her belly, to gently squeeze her thigh.
"If you want a shower or anything, there's hot water," he told her, his words muffled through a second yawn. "At least, there was earlier, but the boiler has a habit of packing in when you least expect it."
Ruth shot him a smile.
"Old house."
"Ancient," Harry agreed, stretching his legs, feeling his toes press into the side of her calves. "Breaking down, falling apart, completely ridiculous."
"Old houses have strong foundations," Ruth pointed out, ever the optimist.
"Small mercies," Harry sighed.
"Well, I like it," Ruth glanced around the room and back to Harry. "Not that I've seen all of it, yet. Do I get a tour?" she asked. Playfully, Harry realised, looking over at her in wonder.
This was Ruth being playful. It was a slightly different side to her and almost strange but, at the same time, fascinating. Like an obsessive discovering a new angle on his favourite obsession, Harry leant closer, pressing a kiss reverently to her cheek and then her forehead, and then her lips.
"If you'd like," he told her, not quite concentrating on the conversation anymore. As his fingers traced her thigh, over the top and down the inside, they came into contact with the slick wetness he had left behind there and a strange mix of feelings rushed through him. Amusement that she had not wiped it away yet, a little apology that he had not asked her if she wanted him to pull out, a second wave of lust, and then, lastly, a surge of smug possessive pride. She was his.
"I should probably shower first," Ruth murmured, feeling him feel her.
She had a hidden smile in her eyes, which Harry had not seen since their attraction had been new and light-hearted and easy, back before all the doubt and complication slid in. Running his hand back over her thigh, then up against her belly, he swallowed back the need to tell her how amazing and wonderful she was and offered to show her how the shower worked, instead. As Ruth nodded, Harry briefly wondered whether she was the sort to shower with her lovers, but decided it was a little too far to push, on one of their first days together. Instead, then, he slipped out of bed and grabbed hold of his discarded towel from earlier, wrapping it around his waist.
"Right. I have dry towels somewhere in here, too..."
Ruth rolled over on her belly, watching him contemplatively as he searched.
"Here we are." Finding some, he walked back over and stood before her, a little bit unsure of how this was all supposed to go.
Ruth seemed a little more sure. She lay watching him for a moment longer, then sat up and let the duvet fall free from around her. She held her hand out of the towels and Harry handed them over but she did not precede to wrap herself in them. Instead, she swung her legs out of bed – feet touching the floor with a soft double 'tap' – and stepped past him, completely naked. Rendered uncharacteristically speechless, Harry just gaped. Dipping to scoop up the old Oxford t-shirt, she made her way out of the room. Harry continued to stare after her, frozen in wonder and a little bit intimidated. By the time he worked up the compulsion to follow her, out into the hall, she had already located and disappeared into the bathroom.
Padding after her, Harry found her waiting against the counter, the old t-shirt pulled over her head. There was something about seeing a woman wearing his clothing which was unbearably alluring, he thought – something to do with possession, perhaps, or the way it highlighted how much smaller she was. Whatever it was, it roused some protective instinct, deep within him. The fabric was long enough to fall midway down her thigh, but old and threadbare enough that he could see the outline of her waist through it as she stood, silhouetted against the frosted glass window pane. As he falteringly approached, Ruth tilted her chin back, asking him to lean in and kiss her.
It was odd, Harry thought, as her soft skin met his, as the warm wet of their tongues brushed. They had spent their lives together, thus far, avoiding moments and now they made them freely. Odd, yet wonderful.
He kissed her deeply, leaning back against the sink, both of them losing themselves in the pleasure of it as minutes passed. Only once they began to run short of breath did they realise that they had been kissing for some time. Parting from him gently, Ruth lowered her forehead to rest against his cheek, her eyes cast low. Up close, Harry could only see the very edge of blue iris, fringed by her dark lashes.
"Sorry," he murmured, causing Ruth's lips to twitch into a smile, "I was going to show you the shower, wasn't I?"
"It's okay," she whispered him back. Her fingers found his sides, smoothing down him gently. "We have all day."
All day sounded good.
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He eventually managed to show her how the shower worked, hanging around until Ruth asked him if he was angling for an invite. Suppressing a blush, he quickly mumbled no and that he would go dig up some breakfast while she was in. As he left, he caught Ruth smirking slightly again, possibly at how easy he was to rattle.
Cursing his inability to act like a normal human being, Harry made his way back through to his bedroom and dressed, taking a little longer than usual due to a sudden and irrational dislike of all of his inadequate casual clothing. Finally, he found a vaguely presentable blue shirt under the rest and dragged it on. Pulling on some trousers to match, he smoothed his hair and made his way downstairs and went about making more coffee. Beans in, filter in, water in, he toyed with the settings for a bit, suddenly considering them inadequate now that they had to make coffee for Ruth. Ruth, who was in his house, in his shower, naked. Managing, (just), to move on from that thought, he went set the machine to start and turned his attentions to searching through his cupboard for appropriate breakfasting materials.
Being a single man, living on his own, who often had to rush out the door at mysterious hours of the night, Harry did not have a large supply of breakfasting materials. He had bread and jam, and a very pallid stick of butter that he daren't check the date on, but nothing that really seemed adequate for company. He might be an acceptable lover, he thought as he ducked down and began to look through the lower cupboards, but he was really quite naff at this morning-after business. He didn't know what to say, or do, or how to act. It was not surprising, really, that he had reached fifty five with only a string of short term relationships and one failed marriage to show for himself.
Standing in the kitchen, Harry toyed, for a while, with the idea of leaving to go and get food but decided against it. He didn't really know what Ruth would want, anyway. He would just ask her what she was in the mood for when she came down, he decided, and they could go out to get breakfast. And in the future, he reminded himself, he would be better prepared.
"Penny for them?"
Her voice sounded suddenly from the doorway, catching Harry rather by surprise. He had heard the shower turn off, upstairs, but he had not heard her coming down the staircase. Her footsteps must have been light enough not to make it creak, he thought, dragging his eyes over her. She was wearing the same clothes as yesterday, a grey dress and dark leggings underneath. Her hair was towel dried and already forming half curls, very dark against her skin. As she shifted, slightly, on the spot, Harry noticed that her feet were bare on his tiled kitchen floor.
"I see your clothes dried out all right," Harry pointed out, for lack of any other conversation starter.
Ruth smiled.
They had arrived back, last night, soaked to the bone and shivering. Exhausted, Harry's only real intention had been to get dry and curled up in bed as soon as possible. Ruth had seemed only too willing to participate. There had been a semi-awkward moment, as they had stripped themselves of their sodden vestments, when Harry had felt desire for her stir, within him, but it had been quickly masked by weariness. Throwing their clothes over the radiators upstairs, they had appropriated some of Harry's old t-shirts (and pyjama bottoms, in Harry's case) and fallen into bed. They might have talked for a little while, after that, but Harry could not be sure. He had not slept more than three hours in as many days and his body had felt like it was shutting down. He faintly remembered kissing her softly before curling up against her side and sinking into blissful slumber.
He needed to sleep more often, Harry decided, as Ruth smiled and muttered something about her clothes being as good as washed, from all the rain. If he slept more often, he would be able to stay awake and entertain his younger lover.
"I don't have any food here that would be considered edible," he admitted, a little sheepishly.
Ruth did not seem to mind. Giving a little shrug, she walked over to him, bare feet almost soundless on the tiled floor. Harry smiled. Somehow, her having bare feet in his house made the situation so much more intimate. It implied that she was at home here, that she was comfortable, and that was what he had always wanted. She had pretty feet, too, Harry thought, admiring the way they delicately tapered down to her toes. He would investigate them further, sometime, he decided – massage her skin all the way up from her feet to her head. Maybe she would like that.
"It's strange, to see you in something other than a suit," Ruth commented, from a few inches away. Reaching out, she brushed his shirt down, where it had wrinkled against his side.
Harry quirked an eyebrow. "Mm, surprising, isn't it? Contrary to popular belief, I do not fade away whenever I cross the threshold of Thames House."
She laughed, softly.
"All I meant was that I never really see you, outside work and there you seem to have a penchant for expensive tailoring."
"Penchant?" Harry asked, trying his best to sound slightly indignant.
Ruth's hand slid around to his lower back as she tilted her head back, pressing a very soft kiss against his cheek.
"Don't get me wrong," she said, with a little smile. "I like it." Her fingers gave a little scratch through the fabric of his shirt, then she retracted her arm and stepped past him, walking over to the kitchen patio doors and looking out. "It's finally stopped pouring, then," she commented, smiling out at the blindingly bright day outside.
Harry stared after her, hopelessly caught up in the way she moved, the gentle nuances of her voice, the fact that she was in his house on their day off and she had just kissed him on the cheek like it was the most natural thing of the world.
Finished scanning the garden, Ruth turned back towards him.
"I never imagined your house like this," she admitted, with curious eyes.
Harry cleared his throat. Glancing to the coffee machine, he saw it would be another five minutes or so before it was done. They had time.
"Do you want that tour, then?"
"Yes, please."
"Then we can have coffee and discuss where you want to go out, to eat, because I have nothing," he reminded her.
Ruth just smiled.
"Okay, Harry."
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They started in the kitchen itself, Harry unlocking the patio doors and allowing her to pop her head out to get a better view of the garden. It was a large garden, considering where he was, in the city. It was the reason, in fact, that he had purchased the house, many years ago. It curved gently out from the back of the house, heading down to the shed at the far end. Before the lawn, there was a small paved patio which held two chairs, a small table and what had used to be a barbeque before the house's previous tenants had turned it into a bonfire pit. There were still a few scorched pieces of wood scattered around from where Harry had spent a day, a few months back, burning important documents during his garden leave – (assuming, at the time, that he was about to be forcibly removed from his position, following the Albany fiasco).
"It's not much. The shrubbery has intentions on my garden fence," he explained, to Ruth, pointing out where ivy and a nameless other plant had crawled up the side of the wooden slats. "I suppose I should do something about it but I don't feel my social life has descended to the point of gardening, yet."
"It's a lovely garden, even for the area," Ruth stated, softly. "Plenty of room."
Harry felt an unaired question in her voice. He suspected he knew what the question was. This was a large, Victorian family house, on an affluent, peaceful street which housed more couples and children than it did middle aged bachelors. He had a garden and spare rooms. He had a whole garage full of boxes of his children's things.
"This is where my family lived," Harry explained, softly, eyes darting between Ruth's as he said it. "Before the divorce."
A strange expression flitted across her eyes. Harry could only guess at what she was thinking, but his guesses alone made him nervous. Why was he living in the house he had been kicked out of, all those years ago, surrounded by his broken family's belongings? This was the house that he had shared with Jane – surely that meant something – was that bad? Ruth said nothing immediately, just licked her lower lip and continued to watch him, thoughtfully.
Eventually, Harry forced himself to continue, to explain.
"When myself and Jane split," he began, "I rented another house, up in St Johns Wood. I think I thought that, if I could buy a place big enough, I could win over the children." He winced slightly, having not intended to voice that last part aloud. He did have a terrible habit of over-sharing, where Ruth was concerned. Things just sort of tumbled out. "Jane stayed here and I paid out my half of the mortgage," he soldiered on. "When the house was legally ours, I continued to pay my half of the tax and upkeep, as part of my contribution to the children's costs." He shifted, the awkwardness that set in whenever they talked about his children nipping at his spine. "Jane remarried and they stayed here. We always said that we would sell it once the children had moved out, but they kept coming back – after school, loosing jobs, falling out with flatmates, etcetera. Anyway," he sighed, "six months ago, Catherine bought a house with her fiancée and Graham moved out for good. The place was too big for just Jane and Robert so they decided to move out to her family's cottage, in Buckinghamshire, and she sold her half to me. I have been meaning to sell it on," he explained, "but I've not really had the time to get the lawyers and the real estate people in, yet..." he drifted off, with a little shrug.
Ruth shifted, looking mildly surprised.
"So your children grew up here?" she asked, eventually.
Harry nodded. "We moved here when Catherine started to walk around. Our flat was not really suitable, with a toddler. Jane's grandparents died, that year, and left her quite a large sum of money in their will. It was the only reason we could afford the down payment."
"Right."
They both looked around themselves for a while. Then, Harry nodded towards the doorway, from the kitchen back out into the hallway.
"Would you like to see the rest?" he asked, to break the strange tension in the air between them.
Ruth nodded, obviously still a little thrown that this was his family's house. Harry understood why. She had signed on for this, had known fine well about his emotional and physical baggage, but perhaps she had not expected it to make an appearance so early on into their relationship. And it was strange, he told himself, for a man to be living in the shell of his family's house – fifteen years after he had left them. It spoke of deep emotional and commitment issues.
Putting his best foot forwards, Harry pushed on, leading the way out into the hall. He took Ruth past the pantry, utility room and downstairs bathroom in turn.
"Not much to see in there," he added, gesturing at the spotless rooms in question. "I only ever seem to use my bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, and the kitchen. The rest of the house is a bit neglected, I'm afraid." He illustrated his point by running his hand over the mantle in the living room as he entered and grimacing at the thick layer of dust. "Living room," he proclaimed, nodding around him. "Books, tele, countless other things I never have the chance to use."
"It's lovely," Ruth murmured, sounding a little surprised.
Harry wondered what he had done to garner her doubt as to his interior decorating skills.
"I'm afraid I have Jane to thank for most of it," he admitted. "The furniture is all hers. Said it wouldn't fit into the new house anyway." Harry wandered over to one of the armchairs and leaned against the back of it. "It's rather nice, having some of it back. I was the one who bought these chairs in the first place but I lost them when we split." Like so much else, he added, inside his head. "Jane always hated the pattern. Said it looked like it came from the eighteen hundreds."
Ruth looked a little emboldened by the conversation turning to furniture patterns. This, it seemed, was a subject she could handle, unlike Harry's divorce, or children, or the fact that he was still living in his family home.
"Wear your smoking jacket and pipe in it, do you?" she asked, smiling a little.
"And my slippers," Harry nodded. "While I read the paper and contemplate other noble manly pursuits."
A warm chuckle escaped his lover's throat and he felt suddenly inclined to lean over and kiss her again. He waited until she stepped closer, however, before he made his move.
As Ruth sidled up, admiring the books on the shelf – running her fingertips over one of the Parisian vases next to them – Harry turned gently into her. Dipping his head in, he kissed the side of her neck and Ruth exhaled, slowly. She had stopped walking the moment he touched her and the kiss was enough incentive for her to reverse her footsteps entirely, taking a step backwards into him. They faced each other slowly, inches apart, standing just behind his armchair.
"It's a lovely house, Harry," she said, softly.
For the briefest moment, he had the mad urge to ask her to come and live with him in it, to marry him, to stay with him forever, and then it passed. He had gone down that route before – scaring her by moving too quickly, by trying to jump in with both feet, not considering she was more of a dip-your-toe-in-the-water first sort of girl. Instead of blurting it out, then, he just reached up and brushed her bare arm with his thumb.
"Do you want to see the rest?"
She nodded.
Slowly, the disentangled themselves from each other and made their way out into the hall. Harry led her to the door opposite the living room on the same side as the kitchen. "Dining room, or formal living room," he told her, moving inside. The room was almost entirely devoid of anything, white sheets thrown over the furniture. "Don't think I've been in here since the day after I moved in," he admitted, with a wince.
From there, they moved upstairs and Harry led her through the small bedroom at the end of the house, which was still decorated as Catherine's room. Next to it was a small staircase, which Harry told her they would explore in a moment, then a guest bedroom which used to be Graham's.
"He took all of his things with him when he left," Harry explained, momentarily forgetting himself and allowing the sorrow to shine through.
His relationship with his son was one of the aspects of his past he regretted most. He had been a dreadful father to the both of them but Catherine, being more like her mother – and less stubborn than he and Graham – had gradually come around to forgive him, a little. They talked on the phone, now, and occasionally she emailed him photographs of how she was getting on, abroad. She was to be married later that year, Harry new, after a lengthy engagement and several set-backs involving a failed documentary and financial problems. Harry had been invited, of course, and he quite wanted to attend but there was the dual problem of not knowing if he could guarantee time off work and not knowing if he could stand seeing someone else walk her down the aisle. Besides, Graham would be there. And he and Graham had not talked in years.
Ruth's fingers at his back drew him back to reality as she moved past him, down the hall.
"Your room," she murmured, as she ran her fingers over the doorframe of the room they had slept in, last night.
Harry explained was really the guest bedroom, the real master being the converted attic upstairs. "It's full of boxes, at the moment, though."
"I see." Moving on, they passed an airing cupboard and then the bathroom, then turned back along the hall. Reaching the door opposite Harry's, facing out onto the front of the house, Ruth raised an eyebrow enquiringly. "And this?" she asked.
"Box room," Harry explained, as she pushed inside. "Considered turning it into an office, but I haven't got around to it yet. It was Graham's nursery, when we first moved in," he added, as he stepped into the frame after her. It still held a crib, too, piled high with boxes. The rest of the baby things were gathered in here too – things which Jane had taken out of storage when she had moved out of London, then failed to pick up. "I think she's keeping them for Catherine, for when she has children of her own..." Harry explained and then tailed off, catching sight of the expression on Ruth's face.
She looked momentarily wistful, he realised, with a pang of uncertainty. All of a sudden, his thoughts returned to the boy he had inadvertently made fatherless, the boy who had been taken from her. She had been a parent for a very short time and he had stolen that. Now she would never know the strange sad joy.
He swallowed, hard.
"That's nice, for her," Ruth said quietly, touching the thick wood of the crib's headboard, "to have something to pass down."
They stood in silence for a while, Ruth lost in reverie and Harry feeling more and more out of his depth. She was only forty-one, he realised again, his eyes tracing over her. If she had been with anyone else, if he had been ten years younger, there would have been a gentle segue, here, into the question of children in their future. As it was, he was fifty-five, with a terrible track record in parenting, and he had already caused her to lose one family. As Ruth's fingers picked out the engraving along the top bar of the crib, she gave a little sigh, and then turned back to Harry, jerking herself back from her inner thoughts. The smile on her face was warm enough but Harry had known her long enough to tell that it was slightly forced.
"So," she asked, brightly, "what's upstairs?"
Harry looked about himself, murmuring something unintelligible, then turned and led the way out of the room, back along the corridor. Ruth padded a few feet behind as they made their way along to the narrow attic staircase. Harry used the time, where she could not see his face, to orientate it into an expression which did not look either apologetic or abjectly terrified that she might realise what a crap deal she was getting, out of him, and decide to leave.
"This didn't exist, when I lived here," he began, clearing his throat. As the words began to flow, the hoarseness in his voice smoothed out and he sounded almost normal again. Harry Pearce, in control – what Ruth was used to. "I think Jane renovated it five years ago, to give them more space when Graham moved back in the first time." They climbed steadily, Harry coming out into the room and coughing slightly in the dust. "It's absolutely full of Jane's things."
"It's nice that you two are cordial enough for that," Ruth intoned, emerging from the staircase and rubbing her nose against the dust in the air. She looked mildly disbelieving of the nature of their relationship, rather as if Harry might be holding his ex-wife's belongings against his will.
He defended himself, gently. "We weren't, for a long time. An old friend died, five years ago, or so, and somehow it started us talking again. She keeps in contact, now, calls me every few weeks and we talk about the children." He nodded to himself, "I suppose it's about time we started setting a good example."
Ruth gave him a little smile and turned to look around her.
The room was, as Harry had said, completely full of Jane's things and boxes of Jane's things. It was a big square room, opening out to the left from where the stairs emerged from the hall below. Windows fronted both sides, their views of rooftops and the distant city, being too high up to look into other houses. Despite the walls being painted a very pale blue, too light for Harry's liking, he had taken to the place. It was nearly twice the size of any of the bedrooms downstairs and it had the added bonus of having an en-suite room off to the side. The other bonus, he had to push through piles of Jane's old photo albums to reach.
"There is a balcony of sorts," he grunted, pushing a few boxes to the side and edging through the space they left. Unlocking a glazed door that sat against the south-facing wall, he pulled it roughly open. "Just about five feet squared," he told Ruth, gesturing out at the small balcony, nestled in the lee of the outer walls, "but it looks down over the garden. It's a nice enough place to sit, in the morning, when it catches the sun."
Sometimes, if he was home and he had a few spare moments, Harry would climb up here. Picking his way through the boxes and the dust, he would stand on the balcony and drink his coffee. It was one of his favourite parts of the house. On the warmest days, he could almost pretend he was in another city, somewhere hot and far away, staring out over the rooftops. The walls of the house shielded the wind and made it feel ten degrees warmer when the sun hit. Harry stepped out, wincing at the cold concrete underfoot. It was not warm today, but it was still bright and beautiful.
Ruth followed him out, her eyes wide with delight.
"This is beautiful,"
Beautiful, Harry thought, might be an overstatement. Then again, Ruth seemed to have an attraction for old and broken things. Maybe the chipped and broken balcony was beautiful to her. He nodded to the deck chair set out on it.
"I come up here, sometimes."
"You like rooftops," Ruth mused, softly, padding over in her bare feet to look over the stone edge, down into the garden.
"I suppose I do."
She turned a little, throwing a smile back at him. "We have our best conversations on rooftops."
Harry thought, silently, that maybe, one day – if he was feeling brave and she was, by some miracle, still in love with him – he might ask her to marry him on a rooftop. She might say yes there, he thought, watching her wet hair dance around her neck. He knew marriage was not really needed. After all, he and Ruth were bonded far more deeply than he had been to Jane, when they married. They were already so much more than anything he had ever experienced and marriage was just a word, really; just a ceremony, just a ring around her finger that would let the world know that they had chosen each other. He didn't need it, but it would feel good, he thought, with a sigh. It would feel like a glorious indulgence, after so many years pretending not to belong to one another.
Stepping up behind her, he pressed his body gently against her back, murmuring that she would be getting cold out here, with her bare feet and wet hair. Ruth told him that she didn't mind, not yet. Her breath clouded the hair as she did so. They stood for a while, keeping each other warm.
.
The rest of the day was spent with wonderful lack of purpose; sauntering around Harry's house drinking coffee until Ruth's hair dried, joking about Harry's lack of a hairdryer (and lack of need of one), Harry trying and failing to explain how his alarm system worked, followed by a brief and rather adolescent onslaught of kissing pressed against his hallway wall.
When they decided that they finally needed to eat, they wrapped themselves back up in their many layers, Ruth borrowing a scarf against the cold, and walked the short distance down to a local cafe. They talked and picked at various bakery items, over an hour or so, Harry learning that Ruth hated almonds, Ruth learning that Harry would eat absolutely anything with chocolate in its name. Then, they sauntered on - towards Ruth's house, this time.
In all honesty, Harry supposed, they could have called a taxi but he was enjoying the walk so much that he didn't want it to end and he thought his companion might feel the same. They continued to wander slowly on, then, with no time constraints for once. Every now and then, their gloved hands would brush as they swung at their sides. Just once, as they leant against a park railing, staring into a pond, Ruth let her fingers slip inside his, slender fingers gripping him with tight possession. Harry could not imagine anyone he would rather be possessed by.
Magically, work managed to stay away. Harry's phone beeped twice, during their time together, but it was only email updates on current operations and nothing that Erin could not easily handle. Minor public transport strikes, disruption to an oil deal they were keeping an eye on, something to do with a White Supremist group, in Bradford; Harry did not reply to them. His Section Chief was more than capable of managing without him. She had done his job for nearly two months, after all. Besides, this was his time, his and Ruth's. He pushed work from his mind.
They took a long detour through the park, arriving at Ruth's house in the mid-afternoon. After warming themselves up by her gas fireplace and substantiating themselves with tea, they spent a long and enjoyable afternoon picking through her book collection and discussing their favourite novels. As the day drew on, they retired to her threadbare couch, with the tele on in the background, (not the news channel, never the news channel – that was just tempting fate), and wrapped themselves around each other. As Ruth leant into him, her hand sliding across his, Harry took the risk and initiated contact. He kissed her neck, gently, and then her cheek, and then her lips. The risk turned out to be infinitely worth it.
They made love in the last rays of the evening sun, more slowly than they had done in the morning. Bellies pressed together and limbs entwined, they wound gently against one another until their will power faded and their breaths became short and stuttering. Then, they let themselves spill over control and into ecstasy. Falling. Rising. Bliss. Afterwards, as they sprawled across one another, hearts beating wildly, Ruth admitted that this was probably the best rest day she had ever had. Harry could not help but agree.
.