She's not used to this. It's been years since she had to think about someone else in the morning. Did she ever? She considers this briefly as she turns over in the bed to switch off the alarm and finds a hot mug of tea beside it. There are many benefits, this is one she thinks as she sips it gratefully.
On the odd night that the man, briefly called her husband, and since relegated to ex-fucking-bastard, lowered himself to spend the night at home, he always got up when it was dark and disappear. Maybe to work or probably to someone else's bed. She doesn't care about that anymore.
Now she has a new real man in her bathroom and she's probably running late. He's standing completed naked, shaving in the bathroom mirror. She recalls her ex-husband in sensible pyjamas, old before his time. Dempsey has no such cares. He is always walking around the bedroom naked, grinning as he evades her capture before capitulating in a heap of laughter, a tangle of excited bodies. Hot mouths on each other; tasting, testing and teasing.
She has a routine to get the day underway. Had a routine. Up at six-thirty to shower, then sixty minutes to get dressed and fed, twenty for a commute. She's ten minutes late and unwashed and sleepily aware of a rather naughty dream about the object of her desires and wishes. She slips from the bed to stop herself sleeping again, and leans against the doorframe, sipping her tea, idly looking at the body in the bathroom and wondering how she might survive the day. She's wearing an apology of nightwear; the t-shirt she stripped from him last night.
She contemplates the maths. She'll save time because she isn't going across town to pick him up. They can get breakfast at work and she's packed up lunch last night, in an attempt to get him eating fruit. That's another twenty minutes saved, though she hopes he'll make some coffee whilst she's putting on her make-up.
His body wash sits next to her Pears soap. There's a toothbrush nestled beside hers. On his side of the bed there's his pile of books, including a new novel she gifted him this week, just because she knows he'll enjoy it. On her side there is a vase of red tulips; he buys her flowers just for breathing she thinks.
This man who arrived into her home, without a key, and then later with one, both as himself and Lupino is ruining her for anyone else. He held her when she cried. Indulged her with ice cream one sunny day in the garden. He's taken her father to lunch without her, and beguiled her friends. She doesn't want anyone else.
When she saw his change of address next to hers in Spiking's personnel files, she had to stop herself smiling. She thought to hell with it, hearing his voice say the words in her head and she beamed. She helped him move, checked his residency paperwork with him. She has fed, watered and held onto him.
He tilts his chin to get the last bit of stubble. She subconsciously does the same, repeating his movement so she can study him watching himself. She loves to watch him.
Did she imagine this? The sex, oh yes. She can remember how he first looked at her in that dirty pub when she was rattling Sharon's glasses. Under the bewilderment was the look of longing. The way he would stand close to her, those stolen undercover kisses; the taste of his tongue in her mouth on a blanket on Hampstead Heath. The way he brought her to life, making her crackle and spit fire at him. Actually making love? No, not at all and there is a difference she's found, her soul now entwined with his in and outside the bed or anywhere else they fancy.
She did dream his body above hers, more nights than she'd think was healthy. Considered arriving at his flat and driving him as crazy as he did her. It is very different to what it actually was; fumbling and giggling on his bed; dazed and amazed.
Did she imagine this? The way he'd held her last night as she lay her head on his lap watching a late night film. Him washing up and her tidying around him. The making of milk-laden drinks that he carried up the stairs. The simple act of sliding into bed next to his body. Watching him plump the pillows. The warmth of him around her, sleeping until she had to feel him inside her again. No, never.
She remembers all his flats. Expired milk, strong coffee and his life lived from a suitcase. On his desk were reports, his radio tuned to the police frequency. He didn't seem to be the man who'd go to the shops, sort out a broken dishwasher or quietly read a book. She imagined he'd shoot domestic appliances in the way he'd dealt with wheel clamps. She'd arrived home last night to find him changing the bulb in the fridge, the one she'd never bothered about but it annoyed her every time.
A life with Dempsey? Not the one where they fire guns, or stare at pin boards seeking solutions or loitering in dodgy pubs. Doing the washing, vacuuming, sports on the television and him lying in bed watching as she dries her hair, taming the curls he never knew about, into straight order. A million moments of domestic life in-between rising and falling of bed.
And here he is, in their bathroom shaving, ready for another Wednesday at work, only two more mornings before she can lay in all day with him if they desire. She notices the foam caught on his sideburns and reaches to wipe it away.
"Hey Harry," Dempsey steps neatly away from her, "I'll move, honey."
Something new rises inside her then, hot and fierce, and full. She wraps her arms around him and nuzzles into his chest. He mutters her name with affection as she holds him tight and she speaks to his heart.
"Don't you dare."