"Thanks for being discrete at work, Harry," she says as they work their way through the delicious meal he's prepared. He wasn't kidding when he said he could cook.
"You mean you wouldn't like me to call you kitten on the Grid?"
"You call me kitten at any time, Harry, and you're liable to lose an eye," she says crossly, knife and fork clasped dangerously in her hands.
He laughs, lifting his hands, palms facing her, as he quickly replies, "Easy, Ruth. I'm only joking. I didn't mean anything by it. It's just I've heard Adam call Fiona that on more than one occasion."
She narrows her eyes at him before relaxing her grip on her cutlery and taking another mouthful of food.
"Forgive me?" He looks worried and a little wary.
"I hate nicknames and pet names and any name that isn't Ruth. I like Ruth. It's simple – perhaps a little old-fashioned – but it's a lovely name with a lovely meaning, and it's my name. I don't need another one."
"I understand. I'm sorry." Slowly, he reaches his hand across the table, letting it rest palm up on the surface as he looks at her beseechingly.
She sighs and takes his hand, allowing him to hold it and rub the back of it with his thumb. "I'm sorry. Boarding school," she explains, feeling a little embarrassed now. "I wasn't one of the popular girls."
He dips his head in acknowledgement. "I can't stand mashed potato," he offers and is rewarded with a smile.
They finish their food in silence.
"It was delicious, Harry. Thank you," she says as she leans back having washed the last mouthful down with some wine. "Is there no end to your talents?"
He smiles. "There must be or Jane wouldn't have divorced me."
She thinks about that for a moment, then says, "Perhaps you're like a fine whisky – you grow better with age."
She grins and he rolls his eyes. "If we've already moved onto the jokes about my age, I'm going to need a real drink." And with that, he gets up and begins to clear the table.