At least half a dozen times that day Ruth suppressed the urge to walk into his office.
It wasn't like she knew what she would say; or even if she'd say anything.
She just knew she wanted to be there.
But Harry had closed himself off, buried behind a stack of paperwork, which acted as a mighty barrier suggesting to them all that he did not want to be disturbed.
"Coffee out?" Jo suggests to Ruth, seeing her distracted expression not for the first time.
"If you throw in a cake."
"Lemon drizzle?" smiles Jo.
"Be rude not to."
They sit outside at a table in the winter sunshine, looking across the river.
"Are you sure you're okay, Ruth?"
"I had a lot of hot sex with a man who thinks of a woman as a basque wearing receptacle and turns out to be an utter bastard."
"You're fine, then?"
"Yep."
They smile at each other.
"Good job they're not all like that."
Jo watches for a response to her prompt. But nothing is forthcoming. She's not going to give up that easily.
"Harry was impressive this morning."
Ruth's face appears to have borrowed Harry's mask.
"Remind me never to play poker with him."
"What do you mean?"
And Jo has a nibble. The fish are biting. The bait is taken.
"Harry and all that bollocks about time and wasted skills."
"What do you mean –"
"Not that I'm saying you're not skilled, Ruth, my god you are."
"Jo, I'm not sure I know –"
"And I'm not saying Harry doesn't think you're amazing. And skilled. And the rest! But really…who's he trying to fool?"
Ruth again tries to interject.
"I'll go get the bill," announces Jo and she is gone.
"Harry?"
"Go away. Ros"
The door to the office slides shut. Ros is still on the inside.
"I'm busy."
"You're an old fool, Harry."
"I am regularly of the same opinion," he glances up at her, "Thank you for you candour. Goodbye."
She steps to his desk and half throws a dvd onto it.
"If you know what's good for you, watch that."
And then she is gone.
Harry gives the disc a cursory glance and continues with his reports.
"Shall we?" Jo says, grabbing her bag.
Ruth snatches at it and pulls Jo back down to the table.
"No, let's not. What are you trying to say Jo?"
The younger woman suppresses the smile that's close to her lips.
"Well…you know...Harry."
"Harry, what?"
"Dancing around you."
"What?"
"Harry, Ruth. Harry, our boss. Harry, head of section D."
"What about him?"
"Then must you speak, Ruth..."
"Of what?...Jo, please!"
"Of one that loved not wisely, but too well…"
Ruth's eyes are fixed on Jo as she stands and puts her bag on her shoulder.
"Of one not easily jealous, but being wrought, perplexed in the extreme… "
And smiling, Jo is walking away.
"For god's sake," Harry chunters as the disc falls to the floor along with three pending files.
He picks them up.
'Harry's eyes only' is handwritten in marker pen across it.
With a sigh, he loads the disc and waits for it to boot up.
It is the obs footage from outside Johnny's house.
A split screen. On one camera he sees himself hand Ruth the book, his fingers lingering over hers. On the other Johnny stands at the window intently watching. He observes himself walk away and Ruth gaze after him. Johnny pauses, his concentration still on her and then he too disappears from view. Ruth glances across, registering that he is no longer there but instead of turning back to the house, she stands looking off down the road.
Harry can't think of a word adequate enough to describe the look on her face, but he knows it is causing his pulse to race.
As the picture cuts to black he is about to rerun it, but suddenly another split screen appears.
Night.
He stands under a street lamp, his collar turned up, his hands deep in his pockets, he shivers and leans against the lamppost. In the second image is the empty window of the main bedroom. Ruth steps into frame, caught in a shaft of soft yellow light. She sees him on the street below and she smiles. He watches himself watching her, sees the reassuring nod and sees himself fade away into the night.
The window cuts full frame. She peers out, trying to see him, in vain. She lifts the book that is in her hands, delicately stroking her fingers over its cover and finally opening it carefully. She removes the handwritten paper from inside and she reads it.
And reads it. And reads it. And smiles.
The camera zooms tighter as she leans against the window, the paper raised to her face, brushing against her lips.
And even a stupid old fool can read what he needs to read from that beautiful, telling expression.
We're nearly there ...