A village in Suffolk, UK – Tuesday, May 20, 2014 – 2.14pm:

Evan Hoad has been sitting at his desk in the attic of his cottage for well over an hour. From the attic window he has a clear view of the side and back garden of the cottage next door. Their not-so-new neighbour still labours away in the garden, this time moving quite sizable rocks to form what appears to Evan to be a rock garden. For a moment he considers offering his neighbour a hand, but then there's his back, and that shoulder injury he'd sustained two summers ago while playing tennis. His first priority must be to himself.

Evan hears the sharp rap of knuckles on his office door, before Darcy bursts in to join him in his office. "I hope you're not spying on the man next door," she says, crossing the room to stand beside him, craning her neck to peer through the small attic window. "Poor man deserves some privacy. After all, he's alone."

"So you've been watching him too," Evan says, turning to look at his wife, still attractive after all these years, sharp tongue and all.

"Only when I come up here to dust the furniture."

Dust furniture, my arse, Evan thinks. She comes up here to check on their neighbour. "He's no longer a young man," he observes.

"And nor are you," Darcy counters, "but you should still offer him a hand."

Evan turns to his wife and shrugs. "But what about my shoulder?"

Darcy sighs heavily. "Then take him something … a neighbourly gesture."

"Such as?"

"Think of what you'd like a neighbour to bring you, were you the newcomer."

48 minutes later:

Evan hesitates outside his neighbour's gate. In one hand he carries a bottle of Californian Pinot Noir, while in the other he holds a container of homemade biscuits. One of his wife's many attractions is her skills in the kitchen. He considers leaving both by the front door, but once he steps inside the small front yard, he detects grunting from just around the corner of the house.

"Anyone home?" he calls, hoping his voice sounds friendly. While waiting for some sign of life from the neighbour he experiences a brief moment of panic. Maybe the man's a tea-totaller. What then?

"Yes?"

The voice of his neighbour is curt, commanding, deep. Evan lifts his eyes to see him at close range. He is older than he'd first surmised, maybe sixty or more. To Evan the man appears tired … no, weary. His sparse hair is messy, as though he'd been standing in a wind tunnel. His eyes are drawn to his muscular arms, and dirty hands.

Evan finds himself stammering, something he'd not done since primary school. "I-I-I'm your n-neighbour," he says, before tucking the biscuit containing under one arm, so freeing his right hand, ready to shake the man's hand "Evan. Evan Hoad. My wife and I live over yonder," he adds, nodding towards his own cottage.

With no sign of a smile the neighbour nods before lifting his hands. "Best not shake," he says. "but I could do with a break. Follow me."

50 minutes later:

"What's he like, then?" Darcy had followed him all the way from the front door to the conservatory, which overlooks the back garden.

"He's ..." Evan is struggling to find the right words to describe their neighbour. He turns to see her frowning up at him. "I'd describe him as … enigmatic."

"That tells me absolutely nothing about him."

"Precisely. You see," Evan continues, "we chatted for nearly an hour, but I still know almost nothing about him."

"But surely he told you his name."

"Harry," Evan says distractedly. "His name is Harry, and he'd worked for the government .. in management."

"Is that all? I'm sure I could squeeze more out of the man than that."

Evan has no doubt about that. "People have never been my strong suit," he murmurs. "Numbers are -"

"- more your thing, yes, the whole world knows that. You are an accountant, after all."

"Semi-retired," he adds. "I mentioned having worked in South Africa, and he appeared interested in that."

Darcy continues to look up at him. When her husband then turns towards her, she knows he has remembered something else.

"There was one thing, though," he says. "There was a photograph of a woman – a striking woman with blue eyes. It stood on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. I asked Harry about it." He glances down at Darcy sheepishly. "I made the mistake of asking was the woman his daughter."

"And?"

"It wasn't his daughter, no, but he didn't exactly elaborate on who she was to him. I had the impression there was something secretive about her … about their relationship."

"So, the woman was young," Darcy prompts, smelling a juicy story.

"Younger that Harry, but maybe not quite young enough to be his daughter."

"Is that all?" Darcy needs more. She requires details. "Maybe I should …."

"Maybe you shouldn't." Evan's voice is firm.

Harry's cottage – 5.20pm:

The occupant of the cottage next to the Hoad's is annoyed. An hour of daylight and fine weather has been wasted, and now the momentum to finish the rock garden next to the boundary fence has left him. Still, there's always tomorrow. Then there's the bench seat to be installed beneath the wisteria.

Harry lifts his eyes to Ruth's photograph. Bloody inquisitive neighbours. He'd forgotten that about small villages. How should he have described her? His almost-lover? His soon-to-be (hopefully) house mate? Neither description quite fits the faint hopes he still has for them.

Frustrated with himself, with how badly he had handled the encounter with Evan Hoad, Harry pours himself a generous splash of his very best whisky. He then takes it to the dining table next to the window which overlooks the side garden. From behind the closed net curtain, he can sit there unseen, an invisible presence in the cottage.

Were he to examine the encounter with Evan Hoad he'd have to admit that not only had he been curt, but he'd been rude towards him, leaning back in his chair while his neighbour had rattled on about South African mining companies, and the allied construction companies for whom he had worked. In Harry's estimation the man would do well at one of those clinics which deal with sleep problems. After twenty minutes listening to Evan's anecdotes, everyone, including clinical staff, would be out for the count.

Then his neighbour had spied Ruth's photograph on the mantelpiece above the fireplace. `Your daughter?` he'd asked. Harry had bitten back the words, `none of your bloody business.' Instead he'd said, `not my daughter, no. A friend.' Suitably vague, Harry had thought. Evan had waited for him to expand his answer, but Harry had not been in an expansive mood, and certainly not a mood for sharing details of his life with a stranger.

Thinking of Ruth has him feeling restless .. and sad. It had been two and a half years since she'd left the UK, and during her absence his instructions have been clear; he should not make contact with her, but wait for her to contact him. As difficult as this has been, he has obeyed orders. She has only contacted him five times, each time by phone, each call lasting less than fifteen minutes. Harry believes it would have been easier had she not called him at all. The complete absence of contact with her would have been something he could adapt to, while brief, unsatisfying phone conversations had left him unsettled, and ultimately bereft.

Once his whisky glass is empty, he considers pouring another, but first he should shower.

He is standing under the shower, enjoying the mild pain from the needles of hot water on his bare skin when he detects the sound of the ringtone of his phone from downstairs. For a moment he considers ignoring it, but there is always a chance the caller might be Ruth, so he turns off the shower, throws on his towelling bathrobe, and hurries downstairs, leaving a trail of wet footprints on the polished floorboards.

"Pearce," he says abruptly, having first wiped his hands on his bathrobe. When there is no immediate reply, he again barks into the phone. "Speak now, or I'm hanging up," he says bluntly, before wondering why he'd chosen those words.

He hears the cough of a woman clearing her throat, and then she says, far more gently than he deserves. "You clearly got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning."

"Ruth!" is all he can say. What an idiot he is. He's lucky she hadn't hung up on him. He takes a deep breath to steady his nerves. "I'm sorry about that. I've had a … strange day."

"I was hoping for more enthusiasm from your end," she says, which is Ruth's way of quietly chastising him.

"Where are you?" he asks, although given the need for her anonymity, she rarely answers this question truthfully.

"London. I'm in London."

Harry lets out his breath in one long, audible sigh. "You're home for good?" he asks.

"It appears that way."

A thousand questions fly around inside his head, all of them requiring an answer, but the question he most needs answering is the one he asks. "So … when can I see you?"

"I still have to meet with Towers. He's busy tomorrow, but I'm hoping I can see him on Thursday, even if it's late. He called me this morning. He told me you've retired to the country."

"That was always my plan, Ruth. That was our plan, or have you forgotten?"

"I haven't forgotten. Look … I only arrived late last night, so I still have to sort through my things. It's a safe house, so ..."

"It's not a palace."

"No. It's not. Can we leave the catching up until we see one another .. in person?"

Within his gut Harry feels a stab of disappointment. Two and a half years, and he still has to wait to see her. "That's fine, Ruth. When you're ready."

"I'd really like to see where you're living now."

"Towers hasn't told you?"

"He said that were he to tell me you'd most likely have him liquidated."

Harry finds himself chuckling. "Quite true," is all he says. Even while he's been speaking his mind has been racing ahead. "Rather than me coming to London to get you, why don't you –?"

"I can take a train … to wherever you are," Ruth says quickly. Harry is relieved. This is going to be easier than he'd thought. "I'm assuming you're not somewhere inaccessible."

"I can pick you up at the nearest train station, Ruth … when you're ready … to join me."

With so much to say to one another they agree to leave catching up until they are together at Harry's new cottage.

"It shouldn't be any longer than another week," Ruth assures him.

"Good," is all he can say to that. After waiting over two years to see her again, another week is nothing, while at the same time it is an eternity.

Woodbridge, Suffolk - Friday May 30, 2014 – 2.23pm:

There had been a part of him which had expected Ruth to have changed her mind, and that he would be left standing on the platform alone as the train pulled away from the station. But no, there she is, lugging a large suitcase in one hand, a much smaller overnight holdall in the other.

Harry pushes past the other passengers who had already left the train to stand in front of the woman he has thought of every day for the past thirty-one months. He recognises he is nervous, and when nervous, Harry's usual response is to act. "Here, let me take your luggage," he says, reaching out to grasp the handle of the suitcase.

Ruth gives him a shy and nervous smile before relinquishing her grip on the handle of the suitcase. "Thanks," she says, before following him as he strides ahead of her into the car park. She is a little bewildered by their cool and eminently practical meeting, but she knows Harry well enough to understand his discomfort. How best to greet someone you love, but haven't seen for over two years? There is no protocol for this, and as far as she knows, there are no rules written anywhere to assist a reticent man and a hesitant woman for when they meet after a long time apart. She had hoped for at least a hug, but maybe that will happen later, once they reach Harry's cottage.

She watches his profile as he guides the car into traffic, away from the train station. Apart from maybe a little less hair, and one or two more grey hairs, he has changed little, and for that she is relieved. She has thrown herself at his mercy, not knowing whether it would be possible to regain the friendship, and the possibility of more, that they had had prior to the incident at the Thames estuary. Incident. It was a disaster-of-mammoth-proportions, and neither of their lives had been the same since. Were they to regain even a fraction of what they had so suddenly lost, then she would be satisfied with that. After all, miracles do happen.

"How long before we reach your cottage?" she asks at last, since he has not offered anything conversation-wise, other than questions relating to practicalities, such as has she eaten – she had – and how was the train ride from London, to which she had reminded him that her favourite mode of transport is either train or bus.

Her question surprises him. "Oh, twenty minutes or so," he says, not taking his eyes from the road.

Ruth relaxes, knowing that Harry will unbend once they reach his house, and he is once more on his own patch. He has always operated more confidently when in familiar territory.

It is when he turns the car into a minor road which heads closer to the sea that Ruth begins to feel a strange sensation, one of having been down this particular road before. She has travelled extensively in the UK, but mostly in cities and larger towns. But it is when Harry turns towards a small village not far from the ocean that she recognises where they are. Dare she say something? Is this a surprise, or merely coincidence?

As they draw into the small village, Harry slows the car. Maybe they are about to stop at the pub for a quick drink. But no, they haven't even made it to the high street when Harry turns the car into a lane, a lane Ruth remembers well. But it is only when he draws the car to a halt that she is certain. He turns off the motor, and only then does he look her way.

But Ruth's eyes are on the cottage, the cottage with the front door with peeling green paint, the same front door which is now painted in matt black. "How did you know?" she asks, her voice barely audible, her eyes still on the front door of her cottage.

"You gave me a few clues," he says, equally quietly, leaning towards her, his own eyes on the object of her interest. "In the end it wasn't difficult to find it. I didn't buy it when you left the country, and it quickly sold. Three months ago the agent rang to say that it was again on the market, so … I snapped it up."

Ruth has no idea how to respond to that, at least, not with words. She turns towards him to find his face close to her own. Somehow, it is easy for her to cradle his face in her hands before she kisses his lips, lips which are soft and warm. It is a gentle kiss, but then kisses of genuine, heartfelt thanks usually are.

"How about we head inside?" he says, smiling. "It's changed since you saw it last."

All Ruth can do is nod.

Same day – a village in Suffolk – 15.23 pm:

Evan hears rapid footsteps on the stairs, and only moments later the (inevitable) rap of knuckles on his office door, followed by his wife bursting into the room. Pulling his eyes from his computer monitor he lifts his head to see her standing just inside the doorway, breathing heavily from the climb.

"I saw her," Darcy says, before he has time to formulate an appropriate question, let alone articulate it.

"Saw whom?" he asks, knowing he'll have to listen to her, even when he'd rather finish his allotted work for that day..

"Harry's friend."

Evan is momentarily dazed, his mind having to do a rapid about turn from last month's financial transactions of Fifield Construction, to the state of his wife's mind. "Harry who?" he asks, genuinely bewildered.

"You know … Harry. Your Harry."

"My Harry?" He has a Harry? Evan frowns in an effort to remember the names of the group of friends he'd had during his university days, before he'd met Darcy. Had there been a Harry among them?

"Next door Harry. Our neighbour."

Evan relaxes, swivelling his chair to face her. "Why didn't you say you meant next door Harry?"

They often have exchanges like this. She will say, "Mum said -", and he'll interject with, "Do you mean your mum, or my mum?" Then she'll purse her lips in irritation before replying, "My mum, of course. Your mum is dead." And he'll point out that dead or not, they are quite free to speak of his mother, and she'll retort – rightly - that being dead, his mum can hardly be speaking to his wife. And so the conversation will continue, back and forth, their own version of verbal table tennis.

"I thought you'd know who I meant. After all, how many Harrys do you know?"

Evan turns slightly, trying to think of any other Harrys who may have crossed his path. He can't think of one, not on the spur of the moment.

But his wife simply can't wait for his answer. She takes another step into the room. "I saw her," she says, and this time Evan is paying attention. He even catches the gleam of victory in her eyes. "Harry's friend."

"She's here?" he asks, and he turns his chair so that he can gaze through the tiny upstairs window, but no, all appears quiet next door.

"I saw them arrive, from our bedroom window," Darcy continues, her breathing having returned to normal after her speedy ascent of the stairs. "Harry drove away early afternoon, and they arrived back home only – oh – twenty minutes or so ago."

"And?" He has turned once more so that he faces her.

"And what?"

This time Evan leans forward in his chair. "What did you see? You must have seen something to have had you attempting to break the world stair-climbing record."

"Well," Darcy says, smiling smugly. "Harry's friend is rather pretty, although I couldn't see her eye colour."

"Maybe you should keep a pair of binoculars on the table under the bedroom window," he says dryly.

"Thanks. I hadn't thought of that," Darcy replies.

"It wasn't a serious suggestion."

"Still a good idea, though."

"Please continue," he says.

"We-ell … my assessment of the situation is that the woman is not a relative, and that she's more than a friend."

"And you say this why?" Evan wants proof, preferably in writing.

"There was something about the way they were when they walked from the gate to the front door."

"Which is about five yards," Evan says bluntly. "And we have no vision of the front door from our bedroom window."

Darcy ignores him. "Harry looked down at her and smiled. There was something … intimate about that smile. And he had his arm around her waist."

That's interesting. Evan begins to really pay attention.

"Although …" Darcy corrects herself, "it may have been just his hand on her back, but in his other hand he was carrying her suitcase."

"That's still .. something," Evan concedes. He can't remember the last time he'd placed his hand on Darcy's back while carrying her suitcase. Probably some time in the twentieth century, and definitely prior to their nuptials.

"So ..." Darcy says, taking yet another step towards him, "what do you think? Should I pop over to … introduce myself to them?"

This time Evan stands. He should have seen this coming. "Absolutely not." he says firmly. "Who knows how long it is they've been apart. The last thing they need right now is a visit from their friendly neighbour." Darcy's smile fades. "No," he continues. "Best you stay here, love. Harry will return your biscuit container when he's ready."

Evan had mentioned the biscuit container as code, a code which he's sure she can decipher. As he steps closer to her, she drops her eyes, the image of dejection. "I was too … enthusiastic … wasn't I?" she asks.

Evan slides his arms around her, holding her loosely. "You meant well, love, but you need to give them a few days," he says quietly. "I'm sure they have some catching up to do." Then, sensing an opportunity, he drops his eyes to hers. "Maybe we can do some catching up of our own," he suggests quietly.

Darcy quickly extricates herself from his embrace. "Are you mad?" she asks, her forehead furrowed in a frown. "It's still daytime. I haven't even started on dinner, and you have that ..." and she waves a hand in the general direction of his desk. "You have your stuff to be getting on with." And then as suddenly as she had entered the room, Darcy leaves.

As the door closes behind her, Evan sighs. Her rejection aside, he believes it was worth a try.