Harry's Cottage, Suffolk – Friday May 30, 2014 – 5.14pm:

Over a pot of tea they have caught up. Or, more truthfully, they have exchanged bullet points covering the previous thirty-one months of each of their lives.

Harry had asked her where she had been all that time, and why. Ruth had hesitated, knowing the question was coming, but wanting to protect him from the details.

"Mostly Hong Kong, Seoul, and before coming home I was briefly in the US."

"Why?" he'd asked gently. "Why those places?"

Ruth had thought long and hard before offering her answer. "Because .. the direction the world is headed is currently being determined by China. I was … reporting on China."

Harry had stared at her for some time before speaking. "But wasn't that … dangerous?" he had asked.

"I imagine it was," she'd answered lightly, "but I had .. help and guidance from a Chinese Malay man with connections to China, USA and Hong Kong. He knows how to … straddle both worlds."

Again Harry had hesitated, and Ruth had watched him as he'd formulated his next question. "Was this Chinese Malay man like .. George .. from Cyprus?"

How like Harry to think she might, while away, find a replacement for George. She had smiled and shaken her head. "His name is Dominic Lam. For the time I was in Hong Kong we shared an apartment, but our relationship was strictly business. Dom has a wife in New York."

"Do you still … have contact with him?"

"No, and I don't expect to. His specialty is China, so he has to tread carefully. He is one of several advisors on China to the US government. His job involves him walking a very fine line between China and the West."

She had also spent a few months in Taiwan, but knowing how protective of her Harry can be, she'd decided to not mention that.

"Can you be more … specific about your work on China?" he had asked, his voice so quiet she'd barely heard him.

"Sorry, no. My whole … work during the time I was away from the UK is considered top secret. Not even I am privy to the bigger picture."

Harry had then waited a long moment before adding, "So, Ruth, whose idea was it that you leave the UK after the incident with the Russians?"

Ruth's first reaction to the question was to smile. "Incident. Is that what it was?"

"It could have been worse," he'd said. "Your injury could well have been fatal."

She'd ignored his comment. Why ponder the past in that way? What happened in the past needs to stay in the past. This time it was Ruth who had waited before answering his question. "I don't know the answer to that," she'd told him, "although I suspect that a section of government – separate from the Home Office – saw an opportunity to send one of the country's best intelligence analysts on a reconnaissance expedition. My … brief was quite specific."

"But you can't say what exactly."

"No," she had replied. "I can't. Not even to you."

Harry had felt beaten at his own game. To change the subject he had shown her his efforts in the garden.

"I'm sure I saw someone," Ruth had said, nodding towards the house next door. "There was someone looking out that upstairs window at us."

Harry had taken the information rather coolly. "I've no doubt about that," he'd said. "My neighbours are … overly friendly, and bear a level of interest in me – us – which borders on the pathological."

"You've met them?"

He'd led her away from the side garden, towards the terrace at the back of the house. "I met him. The day you rang to tell me you were in London. He's quite chatty. Enjoys talking about himself. He has a wife, but they have no children, so thankfully I didn't have to endure endless stories about grandchildren. His wife made the biscuits you ate with the tea." Having reached the back door, he glances down at her. "I'm tempted to have a closer look into his dealings … just in case."

"Maybe you shouldn't," is all Ruth had said, laying a warning hand on his arm.

Harry had responded by placing a hand on her back to guide her back into the cottage. "Time I started dinner," he says, effectively changing the subject.

Suffolk – Friday May 30, 2014 – 6.21pm:

Darcy is about to serve dinner when Evan wanders in, taking his usual seat at the table.

"You haven't been snooping on our neighbours, I hope," she says, ladling soup into large bowls.

"Not snooping, no."

"Then what do you call it?"

Evan looks up at her to see her wearing her school ma'am look. "They were in the garden, so I was just checking up .. to see if they're okay."

"And are they?"

He nods. "They seem … close."

"I imagine they are, not that it's any business of ours."

Evan leans back in his chair, placing a table napkin across his lap. "I was hoping to see," he says, carefully trying the soup, "some evidence of … intimacy."

"You mean kissing," Darcy suggests, taking her seat across the table from her husband.

"Not necessarily, but … you know what I mean. Signs of caring … of a loving relationship."

"And?"

Evan lifts his eyes to his wife, soup spoon half raised. "There was something … subtle, like they care for one another, but are accustomed to hiding it. But it was there, I'm sure of it. I'm used to observing others. I know that what I saw was something. I just can't put my finger on it."

"Bread roll?" Darcy points to the fresh rolls in the bread basket on the table between them. The subject of the new neighbours is now closed.

Harry's cottage, Suffolk – Friday May 30th, 2014 – 9.21pm:

After a simple meal of pork chops and vegetables, Ruth and Harry sit in the living room, the TV on in the background, the sound muted. Harry had opened the bottle of pinot noir which Evan had brought over on the day he'd visited, and they sit in matching winged chairs, each with a glass of wine. He still isn't privy to Ruth's plans for the future, and so he is waiting for her to broach the subject. An even more delicate subject is that of who will sleep where, and as reluctant as he is, Harry knows he should be the one to initiate that particular conversation.

Sitting only a little more than arm's length from him, Ruth turns her wine glass between her fingers, watching the wine change colour in the light from the standard lamp behind Harry's chair. Like him, she is concerned that sleeping arrangements have not yet been discussed, and she'd really like to talk to him about the plans they had made together just prior to the incident by the Thames estuary. But Harry, with a slight smile on his face, appears to be watching the TV screen, where an old episode of Black Books is playing. It's the one where Manny miraculously discovers that he can play the piano.

Believing that if she doesn't speak up, they may still be sitting in these chairs, watching the muted TV when morning comes, Ruth blurts out the first thing which comes into her head.

"During my time away I made quite a bit of money," she begins, before she closes her eyes, wondering why she'd chosen to talk about money. "I still have several long reports to write and submit, and I was thinking that maybe -"

As she'd spoken, Harry had turned towards her. "You can do that from here … can't you?"

Ruth nods, smiling with her mouth only. She's embarrassed by how nervous she feels, and how inarticulate this always leaves her. "I thought I might," she says, "if that's alright with you."

"Of course it's alright with me," he says abruptly, like she should already know how he feels about her being here, in his house.

Without prior warning, Ruth places her wine glass on the small table beside her chair, and hurries to the kitchen. Harry is once again puzzled by her actions. She'd not explained herself, and he is worried he'd said something to upset her. Should he not have implied that she could stay here … with him, but isn't that what they had planned … back then, just prior to The Incident?

He hears what sounds like the tap running, and a glass being filled. So all she'd wanted was a glass of water. Harry relaxes, easing his back into his chair, when he hears the distinctive sound of splintering glass as it hits the slate tiled floor. In one fluid movement he is out of his chair and into the kitchen, where Ruth hadn't even turned on a light. He rushes to her side to find her standing staring at the shattered glass with one hand over her mouth, unable to act.

"It's alright," he says gently, moving quickly to her side. "I'll clean it up." He reaches out to grasp her elbow, but she draws away from him.

"It was one of your whiskey tumblers," she says, her eyes still on the broken glass, and spilled water at her feet.

"It's just a glass," he says quietly, confused by her reaction. Then he takes a closer look at her. There are tears in her eyes, a few having escaped, and are now rolling down her face.

Harry decides to act in a way which with Ruth would be uncharacteristic for him, perhaps even unwelcome. He takes a small step closer, and, keeping his eyes on her face, he reaches out to her, sliding his hands around her shoulders, drawing her to him. There is no resistance from her. Within moments Ruth has rested her head on his shoulder, and is quietly sobbing against his sweater.

Harry has never been skilled with women in distress. He wasn't even all that effective when his children were upset and crying. He never knew what best to say or do to calm their crying. But being Ruth, and what she has had to endure in her life, he suspects that a bout of crying is long overdue. So all he does is hold her gently while rubbing her back with one hand. She is no longer his senior intelligence analyst, and he is no longer her boss. Thus, the invisible boundary between boss and employee can no longer be used as a reason to keep them apart.

Several minutes pass until Ruth's tears abate, and she is calm once more. Then she draws away from his shoulder, wiping her eyes with her fingers. Harry leans across to grasp a box of tissues from the counter top. "Here," he says, "grab some of these."

Having tidied herself, Ruth remains standing close to Harry. He is not about to complain about them standing beside the site of the event which had initiated Ruth's emotional breakdown.

She looks up at him, and it is only then that he sees the sadness in her eyes. "What's this all about?" he asks gently. He'd love to once more slide his arms around her, but he's not about to threaten the delicate ambiance in the darkened kitchen, where the only illumination is from a shaft of light from the living room.

"It's … it's so many things," she says at last, "but mostly it's being here with you."

"Is it so bad … being here?"

Ruth shakes her head, turning from him for a moment. "It's as though everything from the past – from the time George died – everything which has happened since then suddenly … sat up in front of me, like it was alive, and needed … a voice."

"That's not a bad thing," he says quietly, wanting very much to again take her in his arms, while knowing that he needs to give her space.

"I know," she says, lifting her eyes to his. He is relieved to see a small smile. "But it's more than that. It's the plans we made back then – or the suggestion of a plan. We hadn't the time to make proper plans, and now .. here … tonight … I don't know what it is you have in mind … for us."

He nods. "Then I think we need to put our heads together, and formulate a plan which works for us both."

Harry"s house in Suffolk – 22 minutes later:

Having gathered all the broken glass from the kitchen floor, disposed of it, and mopped the spilled water, Harry returns to the living room with a fresh tumbler of water for Ruth. As he enters the room he notices that the TV is off, and while Ruth has returned to her same winged chair, she has removed the low table from between the chairs, and pulled his chair closer to her own. Now, why hadn't he thought to do that? Because you've been living alone for far too long, he chides himself.

Once he returns to his chair, he picks up his wine glass, now topped up by Ruth, and sits back, lifting the glass of red wine in a silent toast to Ruth. In return she lifts her glass of water, before taking a sip. "I need you to know," she says quietly, "that I was never tempted by Dominic Lam, and that he was a perfect gentleman the whole time we shared that apartment."

"Ruth -"

"We had separate bedrooms, and all we shared was -"

"Ruth."

"What?" She appears startled by his interrupting her.

"It's alright. You told me you can't share anything of what you were doing while you were away, and I trust you. We had plans, and I know you would have taken those plans seriously."

Ruth is even more surprised. "You trust me? Even after Cyprus?"

"Of course. When we parted on the morning you went into exile we had no plans. We had no expectation of ever meeting again."

"But you held onto me all the same." Her voice carries the slightest edge of judgement.

Harry tips his head to one side. "I find it difficult to let go of those I ..."

"Love?" Ruth's voice is wary. She is aware that she has just opened a door into very delicate territory.

The nod of Harry's head is barely perceptible, but knowing him as she does, Ruth sees it.

For a long moment they are both silent. "You had no need to explain your relationship with Lam, Ruth," he says at last.

"But, can't you see?" she says, leaning forward. "It would have eaten away at you."

He knows she's right. He is prone to nurturing the past, hanging on to past hurts. Who knows when the name Dominic Lam would have been spoken by him, within a question requiring a more thorough, more detailed answer?

"I thought it best to begin with a clean slate, especially after what happened in ..."

"..Cyprus," he finishes for her, and she nods. He is not sure of the protocol here. Perhaps she expects him to confess some dalliance or other. "I have spent the time since you left London working my backside off," he says, his voice flat. He believes that confessions of any kind, particularly when there is nothing to confess, are doors standing ajar leading to dark rooms with slippery floors.

"If it's alright with you," Ruth begins, changing the subject, "I'd quite like to stay here .. with you."

Harry can feel the awkwardness occupying the space between them. "Of course it's alright, Ruth," he says quickly. "Why do you think I bought this particular cottage, if not to have you share it with me?"

Ruth nods her reply, but then he notices how she sits with her hands in her lap, one hand grasping the other. "And tonight, and for the next few nights until …." Ruth begins, "I can sleep in the small bedroom."

"I'd prefer you take the big bedroom," he says quickly, suspecting that he has already lost control over the direction the conversation is heading.

Ruth unclasps her hands, and grasps each wing of her chair, sitting forward, facing him. "I couldn't possibly do that. I can't possibly kick you our of your own bed."

Harry sighs, sitting back in his chair. "Alright. If you use the bathroom before me, I'll remain downstairs, polishing off the remainder of that red. By the time I'm ready to turn in, I'll take the empty bedroom. I'm not fussy which."

"So, you're leaving it up to me to choose," Ruth states quietly.

"I'm leaving the decision in your hands." In that moment Harry sees no other option.

It is over an hour before Harry climbs the stairs to bed. He uses the toilet and bathroom, and as he walks past the spare bedroom, he notes that the door is closed, and Ruth's bags are no longer on the landing. The door to his own bedroom is ajar, so he enters, turns on the bedside light on the far side of the bed, and begins to undress. Once in bed he switches off the bedside lamp, and climbs under the duvet. Noticing the door still ajar, he considers closing it, but changes his mind. An open door is an invitation, while a closed door is a definite `no'.

As he nears sleep, he is aware of a mantra-like message playing over and over inside his head: You're a bloody coward, Pearce, his inner self says.

Harry wakes just prior to dawn, the first of the sun's rays winking through the gap where the curtains don't quite meet. He lies very still, listening, his senses alert. He is hoping that during the night Ruth had felt lonely, and so had quietly slipped into bed beside him. For a long moment he holds his breath, but no, his bed feels exactly the same as it had on every one of the mornings since he'd moved to this cottage. Just to be sure, he slowly turns, gazing at the other side of the bed. He'd deliberately slept on the far side of his bed, rather than the middle, hoping that Ruth would join him. Alas, he is still alone in his bed.

He rolls back onto his other side, and closes his eyes. He generally finds the quiet and stillness of the early morning hours to be his best time, a time during which he can think more clearly, and formulate plans which have a reasonable chance of turning out well. It is on this morning, Ruth's first morning in the cottage which was always meant for her, that Harry designs a plan which he believes will have an even chance of working out favourably for them both. All it will take is a little courage on his part, plus some creativity, with lashings of hope.