A/N: I'm upping the rating to M – for language in this chapter, and adult behaviour in future chapters, and a little violence thrown in in later chapters. I forgot to mention this fic is 7 chapters.
Thanks for the reviews everyone. You lot are way too creative (and more than a little bonkers) - Jane? Jane's sister? (does she even have one?) Malcolm's mother? Read on.
Seeing the surprise and confusion on the faces of both diners, the maitre d' discreetly leaves. Harry is still standing beside his chair, staring at his dinner companion. His head is spinning with possible reasons why this is happening, but none of them make any sense at all. She looks wonderful – tanned and healthy, and her hair is shorter, curling up at the ends just above her shoulders, and he likes it that way. There are smile lines at the edge of her eyes, and he likes that also. She looks wiser, more mature, more comfortable in her own skin.
She smiles at him at last. "Hello, Harry," she says. "Perhaps you should sit down."
Harry wants to sit down. He also wants to rush to her side, lift her from her chair, and hold her close to him. He wants to throw a tantrum of epic proportions. He wants to ask her what the fuck is going on.
He had never expected this.
He sits down, still staring at her.
"Was this your idea?" he asks, immediately wishing he could take back his words, spoken with more than a trace of hurt. He breathes in and then slowly lets the air out of his lungs. "So - you're Marianne."
"I am. I was expecting Malcolm to join me."
Harry nods, feeling only very slightly calmer. "And the name? Marianne …... strangely, it suits you."
"It's the name I've been using since I left Cyprus just over a month ago."
"Cyprus?" Harry utters the word like it is a nonsensical mix of sounds.
"Yes. I've spent the last fifteen months in Cyprus."
"I never would have thought of searching for you there," he says. "Did you arrange …. this?" Harry indicates them both with his hand.
"Heavens, no. This is so …..."
"Bloody awkward."
"Yes, it is." She smiles at him, and his heart remembers her smile, and he relaxes a little, despite his stomach being in knots. "I think it's Malcolm's idea of a romantic reunion for us."
"Right. Malcolm, the last of the true romantics."
A waiter enters the room, and takes their food order, closely followed by the wine waiter.
"I can recommend the Chilean Sauvignon Blanc and the Australian Chardonnay," he says. "Either will complement your dinner tonight."
Harry lifts his eyebrows at her, and she indicates with her hand that he should choose.
"We'll begin with the Chilean, thank you."
"Do you realise that Chardonnay is another name for white burgundy?" She speaks to fill in the gaps.
"No, I didn't," Harry replies, not yet ready to delve into their pre-Cotterdam past. Despite that, he is beginning to feel comfortable in her presence, this woman whom he had dreamed of meeting again almost every day since she'd left two years earlier.
She excuses herself to go to the ladies' room, and he is left alone to contemplate the audacity of Malcolm's plan. No wonder Malcolm had pushed it, and Harry can now see why he'd suggested that Harry stay overnight in Rochester. Cunning devil, Malcolm. But there is something niggling at him, something he can't quite reach. When she returns from the ladies, and sits down, it hits him.
"You say you've been back a month, Ruth ….." She nods. "So …... why have you waited this long to see me? Wait …... you haven't made a move to see me. It was Malcolm who arranged tonight, wasn't it?" Harry can feel himself getting angry.
"Harry, I can understand why it is you're upset. I wanted to contact you, but Malcolm suggested I keep out of London for the time being …... for my own safety, and he thought it best that I don't contact you, just in case my presence compromises you."
"I'd rather he'd consulted me about that," Harry says, his feelings of hurt surfacing. "We've lost so much, you and I." He hadn't meant to say that, but it just came out.
"I know we have. Harry," she says, and by her tone, he knows that she is about to say something which is difficult for her. "There's something you should know …... before we continue any further."
"With this dinner, you mean?"
"No ….. with …... us."
Us? Did she just say `us'? Is there an us? Can there ever be an us …... after all this time?
"I've lived in Cyprus for the past fifteen months, and for eight months of that time, I've been living with a man – George – and his young son. George is a doctor at the hospital where I worked – doing clerical work – and when he asked me out, I said yes. I moved in with him when the lease was up on my beach house. Looking back now at that decision, I was rather lonely at the time. I missed England, I missed everyone, I missed …..." She looks up at him briefly to see his eyes, pools of dark hazel. She's missed those eyes, but sometimes it is just too painful to look into them. In his eyes she sees his hurt and her own loss. "Around six weeks ago, I told George about my life in England. I told him who I was, and why it was I was on the run. He became very angry and bitter, and accused me of putting his son and he in danger. I can't say I blame him for his reaction. He gave me a week to pack my things and leave. That was when I contacted Malcolm by email."
Harry is taking some time to absorb everything she's told him, but there is only one question he wants to ask. He blurts it out. "Did you love him – this George?"
It is at that moment their meals are delivered, and so Ruth waits until the waiter has gone before answering. The wine had been served a few minutes earlier, and Harry has already quaffed a full glass.
"It's not a simple yes or no, Harry."
"I think it is."
Ruth smiles, and moves her food around on her plate. "You're still so …..."
"Still so what, Ruth?"
"Sure of yourself... so sure of everything."
Harry carefully places his cutlery beside his plate, and leans towards her. "You know very well that I have never been sure of myself with you. Oh, I know how I felt, how I still feel, but you were always so elusive. I can never tell what it is you mean. I never knew what you thought, what you felt ….. about …..." The words, `about me, about us' remain unspoken, perhaps forever.
"You're after the truth?"
"I am."
"George was a comfort, the right man at a time when all I wanted was someone to look after me, somewhere to stay that was safe, and from where I no longer had to run. He was kind, and he welcomed me into his life ….. that is, until I divulged that part of my identity. He was still grieving the loss of his wife, while I was still grieving the loss of …... We comforted one another. If that's love, then I loved him. But I don't think that's what you mean."
"No," Harry breathes, relieved by what she has told him. "No, it's not. You slept with him."
"Of course. I have a body. I have needs, and I needed what he could provide. But …..."
Harry waits, but she doesn't finish her sentence. "I've missed you terribly," he says quietly, as if speaking only to himself. He knows that to declare himself in this way is risky, but he only has tonight. When she doesn't offer an answer or a reply, he looks up. Ruth is watching him from across the table, and her eyes are filled with tears.
"If you only knew," she says, her voice breaking on `knew'.
"I think I already do."
Harry stands up suddenly, and moves around the table to Ruth's side. Her eyes watch him all the way. When he reaches her, she is still looking at him, her eyes just beginning to spill. He leans down to her, and wipes the tears from her cheeks with both thumbs, and then – very slowly – Harry bends towards her, and places his lips on hers. It is a soft and gentle kiss, with no hint of passion, but into it he pours all the love he has for her.
"I love you," he says against her mouth. "There. I've said it at last." He closes the gap between them, and kisses her again. This time he coaxes her mouth open, and the kiss is passionate and full of need. Harry has one hand at the back of her neck, while with the other he reaches inside the top of her dress. When his fingers touch the cup of her bra, he takes a breath, and lifts his mouth from hers. He feels her hand on his chest, outside his shirt, but warming the skin beneath.
"My flat is only a couple of blocks away," she whispers against his lips.
"Are you sure?"
"That it's just around the corner? Of course I am."
Harry pulls away from her, and smiles. He removes his hand from inside her neckline, but his other hand still rests at the back of her neck. He wants this. More than he's ever wanted anything, he wants to take Ruth home, and make love to her until dawn. They have waited two years for this, and he's not prepared to wait any longer.
"Are you sure you want me to come home with you?"
Ruth nods, and turns to gather her bag. "Will it matter that we haven't finished here?" she asks.
"But I think we have finished here, haven't we, Ruth?"