The conservatory overlooks the indoor pool, the two spaces separated by a sliding glass door. Ruth sits in a chair across from Ros, who had already stood up to hobble to the glass doors to close them. "I could have done that," Ruth says. "You only had to ask."
"You know me, Ruth. Stubborn as a mule."
Ruth finds herself smiling. It appears Harry likes his women stubborn. She suspects he likes and respects women who are prepared to stand up to him.
"I take it Harry has told you the story of how I survived," Ros begins, having run out of small talk.
"Just the bare bones."
"There are a couple of reasons for wanting to see you before you return to London. Firstly, I want to apologise for my role in you being exiled in 2006 -"
"So why didn't you apologise before ... the bombing?"
"I always meant to. I knew as soon as you left London, and Harry was so ... lost .. that I had made the wrong call. I'd wanted to hurt Harry, and I succeeded, but at great cost, both to him and the section. I've already apologised to him. And while he didn't take my apology with much grace, I can't say I blame him."
Ruth nods. She'll think about it. She's not convinced that Ros's apology is heartfelt. "What is the real reason you wanted to see me?"
Ros's whole body visibly relaxes. With the palms of her hands she hits the armrests on her wheelchair. "As you can see, I'm stuck in this thing for the time being, but once I'm up and about, I've been offered a posting in the US, and -"
"What exactly is wrong with you? Why are you in that chair?"
"Didn't Harry tell you?" When Ruth shakes her head, Ros continues. "He told me he'd shared my whole story with you."
"He did, but he hadn't given details about your injuries."
"Well ..." Ros says carefully, "apparently I fell quite a distance. No-one knows how far, since there were no witnesses. I suffered a broken pelvis, and two broken legs, the left one in two places. One of the fractures was compound, and I'm told I was lucky the leg wasn't amputated. My recovery has been slow. Apparently I have an attitude problem." Ruth drops her eyes to hide her smile. To her mind both Harry and Ros have attitude problems. "The physiotherapist assigned to me says I should think happy thoughts," Ros continues. "I told him to break his pelvis and both his legs, and then see how happy he feels."
Ruth thinks Ros has a point. "So what is it you want me to do?" she asks. "I'm assuming it involves analysis."
Ros nods. "It is. I need you to find everything you can on a former Mi6 agent by the name of Glenn Smallwood. I have no other details on him, other than he says he was born in Leeds, and he's around forty. I'm sorry that's so sketchy, but I didn't want to scare him off by interrogating him. What he's offering is likely to be the best thing that's ever happened to me, or ... it may be the worst."
Ruth nods. She'd taken a pen and paper from inside her bag, and written down the details Ros had given her. "Did you ..." she begins carefully, "ever discover whether Andrew Lawrence was patriot or traitor?"
Ros takes a long time to answer, so long that Ruth suspects she doesn't wish to discuss the subject. Ros stares through the glass doors towards the swimming pool, although it's possible her eyes are not seeing the same thing Ruth sees. When Ros again turns back to her, Ruth can see sadness in her eyes.
"I had to do it, you know," Ros says quietly. "There was no sense in both of us dying. Andrew couldn't move, so I left and ... got out ... with my life."
"I'm not sitting here in judgement of you, Ros."
"Aren't you?" Ros says sharply, her eyes moist with either anger or unshed tears, perhaps both.
"I can't imagine what that day was like for you." This time it is Ruth who waits before she continues. "I only know that had it been me, and had the man with me been Harry, I would have stayed with him, no matter what."
Ruth is so shocked by her own open declaration that she turns to look through the glass doors, but like Ros had before her, she doesn't see the lap pool and the fold-up chairs. She sees Harry lying helpless, unable to walk, unable to move, his eyes pleading, while he begs her to leave him there. She could never have done it. She silently acknowledges that she'd rather die by his side than face a life spent without him. This fundamental truth shatters her, but she can't show Ros how affected she's been by their conversation.
"But I wasn't in love with Andrew, Ruth."
While Ros's voice is whisper quiet, her words echoes like a bell inside Ruth's head. She longs to offer protest, to say she's not in love with Harry, but they both know that's not true. "But ... I thought you were sweet on him," she says, equally as quietly.
"I can't deny that I liked him. Most politicians I've had to deal with were narcissistic self-promoters, as well as universally unattractive. I found Andrew to be a breath of fresh air, but his promotion to Home Secretary struck an odd chord with me, and was one of the reasons I was keeping an eye on him. It was likely he was on the fast track to the very top, although whether he was buying his way there with information is still unknown ... at least to me. With him dead we'll never know the truth."
"Mmm," Ruth muses. As well as a task to begin once she is back in London, Ruth has much to think about, and she can't do it while sitting with this woman. While the hotel bombing and it's aftermath was shocking, it had not smoothed the sharp edges of Ros's personality. Ruth still feels exposed and vulnerable in her presence. "If that's all you need from me ..." she begins.
"It is, and if you want anything clarified, this is my phone number," and Ros rattles off the number of her pay-as-you-go phone. When Ruth has the number keyed into her own phone, she stands, ready to leave.
"I'll let you know when I have anything on the man you mentioned."
"There's no hurry," Ros says. "I won't be going anywhere for at least another couple of months. I know Harry wants to see me before I head to the US, and I'd be happy if you joined him."
"Of course," Ruth takes the hand Ros offers, shaking it briefly. She knows that by asking her to visit again with Harry Ros has offered her a conciliatory gesture, one that she should take. She also knows that within the subtext of Ros's offer is the suggestion that she open herself to the possibility of an intimate relationship with Harry. Well, she's not about to go there just because Ros thinks it's a good idea, and might make Harry happy. However she might consider her suggestion because it's time, and both she and Harry deserve some happiness together.
When she rejoins Harry in the library, she finds him in conversation with a tall, angular man of around his own age. Harry introduces her to Howard, husband of Gail. Ruth covers her surprise rather well. After all, why shouldn't a woman of Gail's age be attracted to a man of Howard's age? Howard has warm brown eyes and a full head of brown hair, flecked with grey. As she shakes the hand he offers, she finds his hand to be large and warm.
"Your turn now," she says to Harry, who quickly leaves the library to join Ros in the conservatory.
"Let me show you where we make the cheese," Howard says brightly, and despite Harry's warning, Ruth smiles and accepts. She tells herself that she's always wanted to know how goats' cheese is made.
"I think she'll be alright from now on," Harry says, his first words since they'd left the farm.
"She wants me to do a deep search on Glenn Smallwood."
"I know. She told me."
And nothing more is said until they are inside Harry's apartment, and he suggests they eat out. Eat out? Ruth feels her shoulders slump. "I have nothing to wear," she says flatly.
Harry stands watching her, wondering how the day had suddenly imploded so spectacularly. "I'd expected a little more enthusiasm than that," he says quietly.
"I haven't anything dressy enough for a night out."
"But ... what about what you're wearing? I'm thinking we should make an appearance at the pub. It's Friday night, Ruth. Let's live a little."
The pub. Why hadn't he said so earlier? She could wear her pyjamas to the pub, and likely no-one would notice. "Alright," she says lamely. "I suppose we have to show the locals that we've patched up our `marriage'."
"We do," he agrees, privately wondering whether a public kiss would be out of the question.
"I'll have first shower then if that's ..." Ruth says, waving one hand in the direction of the bathroom.
"There's no hurry, Ruth."
No, but she has to wash off the day, contemplate how they'd spent the afternoon with a dead woman, who is on a goat farm recovering from catastrophic injuries, before dressing in something which reminds her that she's a woman, with a heart which beats for the man who is watching her, possibly wondering what it is she's thinking.
"I'll go then, shall I?"
Being Friday night, the pub is busy. Julie is about to join her husband, Ned, behind the bar when she spies the two visitors from London - the rather average middle-aged man with the magnetic eyes, and the blue-eyed woman with a wary disposition. Julie is sure they're not married, but she believes they'd fallen out, and that the woman had tracked him down, determined to patch things up.
"If you're here for a meal, you might prefer the dining room," she says. She leads them through a door, and down a short, dimly-lit corridor to a smaller room where no more than eight tables are arranged.
Harry thanks her, and as she leaves he glances at Ruth. "The table for two in the corner?" he suggests, and she nods.
Their conversation stutters awkwardly, both remembering the last time they'd sat across from one another at the dinner table, a little over four years earlier. So much has changed between them. Ruth was exiled, and while away had settled down with a man and his son; then she'd returned, witnessing the horrifying death of her partner; Jo had died, and then Ros, and Ros is now alive, while Jo is still dead. And so much more.
Oddly, despite all that, they are together again, although not yet quite together. Their conversation only begins to flow once another couple enters the room, heading to the table beside the window. The man nods to them, while the woman smiles. "It was nice out today," she says. "You must visit the island. Osea. It's lovely. We make a special trip each year for the festival." When all they get from Ruth and Harry is a nod and smile, the couple settles at their table, content in their own company.
"I think Ros has lost a lot of confidence," Harry says at last, not quite confident enough himself to raise the topic of where they go from here. He is not an insensitive man. He senses the subtle change between them. Something delicate and unspoken has emerged, a sylphlike, barely tangible possibility of something sweet and oh-so-longed-for. He is not about to sabotage that, so he will tread gently, waiting for Ruth to give him the green light.
"That's not surprising at all," Ruth replies, her fingers fiddling nervously with her napkin. "I can't imagine what it's been like for her."
"I need you to do that search she requested in your own time, Ruth. Your normal work must take priority."
"Of course." Ruth is uncomfortable with the tone of their conversation. While she's aware of a change in Harry - an openness bordering on intimacy - she doesn't wish to spend the whole evening talking shop. "I might hand the search to Tariq. He stays on the Grid until late, so ..."
Harry nods as he grabs the wine bottle, reaching across to top up her glass, before topping up his own. "This is all a bit -"
"- awkward," she finishes for him.
They both smile, each glancing across the table to the other. They are spared further discomfort when their food is delivered. Thank God, Ruth thinks, before she examines, and then tucks into her veal.
They are finishing off the second bottle of red when again Harry raises the subject of Ros.
"I imagine I see her as a daughter," he muses, and Ruth immediately knows of whom he speaks. "I wanted her to do well, to be happy. Her death ... devastated me, so finding that she lived is a miracle." Harry sits back, turning his wine glass around with his fingers. "I imagine I see all my team as my children ... other than you, of course."
"Of course." Ruth glances up at him, but quickly drops her eyes, so intense is his gaze. "I plan to return to London first thing in the morning," she adds, and he nods. Their short interlude away from the Grid is almost over.
"Would you like a whiskey?" he asks, once he has locked the door of the apartment behind them. He's not quite ready to be saying goodnight to her. "Maybe a tea or coffee?"
"I'll make it," she says, hurrying to the kitchen nook, taking the small teapot from the shelf before adding tea leaves, anything at all to escape his gaze.
Harry watches her from the middle of the living room, and what he does next is the act of a desperate man. As much as he'd like the comfort of a whiskey before bed, he crosses the room to the small kitchen. Given the nature of the work they do, an opportunity such as the one now being offered may never come their way again. Harry can't allow himself the indulgence of hesitation, or questioning the wisdom of what he has in mind. Slowly and carefully he approaches Ruth. He doesn't want to surprise her. He'd rather she be aware of his approach. With the two of them in the kitchen space there is little room for escape.
What happens next surprises him. Sensing him behind her, Ruth turns around, then closes the gap between them before raising one hand to cup his cheek. She then lifts her face and presses her lips to his in a quick kiss. Her intention is clear. The rest will be up to him. He takes another step towards her, pressing her against the counter where she'd been making tea. He slides both arms around her, gazing into her eyes.
"I've been waiting all day for this," she whispers.
His answer is to glide his hands down her back until they reach her buttocks, lifting her to perch on the edge of the counter before he leans into her. He lifts his face towards her, and they kiss, carefully at first, and then with such passion that he almost gasps as they open their mouths to one another. Her hands are at the back of his head, her fingers pushing through his hair, grasping him closer to her as her tongue seeks then finds his. Their breathing is heavy, but neither can hear, so wrapped up are they in each other. They kiss for a long time, and yet it lasts no longer than a heartbeat.
Ruth parts her legs so that he is standing between them, pushing her skirt above her knees so that he can more easily press himself against her. When he feels his body responding quickly, he employs his considerable self control to end the kiss, drawing away from her.
As he opens his eyes he sees fear in Ruth's eyes. "It's alright," he says. "I'd like to continue this some other time. Not here. Not like this." He swallows hard, wondering had he made the wrong call, but no, Ruth is nodding.
He steps back while she slides off the counter to the floor, where she straightens her skirt. "I'll continue making the tea, then, shall I?" she says, her eyes on his elbow, and not his face.
Harry takes a step towards her, grasping one of her hands in his. "You do understand ... don't you?"
Ruth nods. "I understand," and she squeezes his hand before reaching up to place a quick kiss on his lips. "Now, leave me be. The tea won't make itself."
He can't gauge her mood, and he no longer wishes to play the guessing game where Ruth is concerned.
"Ruth," he says, watching her back while she fills the kettle and then turns it on. "Please look at me." When she turns slowly, lifting soulful eyes to his as she leans her back against the very same counter on which she'd sat only a minute or so ago, he sighs heavily. "I don't want you thinking I'm turning you down, because I'm not."
"I know."
He waits several seconds, but she appears to have nothing more to say. "I want us to -"
"I know that, Harry, and I want that also, and like you, I don't want our first time to be a hurried shag on a kitchen counter in a forgotten village in Essex." As the kettle begins hissing she turns to look at it, before turning back to him. "And we now know that we both want the same thing, so I think that represents progress .. don't you?"
He does, so he nods, breathing out his anxiety so that his shoulders sag with the relief. "That's good," is all he can say, as he offers her a weak smile. Harry knows that given their fraught history, what had happened in the last few minutes has been a miracle, and he's not about to waste this opportunity with her.