It had been four weeks. Four glorious weeks.
Their coming together had in the end been matter of fact, ordinary. No fanfare, no grand gestures, just a difficult day at work, a chicken casserole in Harry's kitchen and a bottle of wine hastily chosen by Dempsey on his way over. Talk and laughter had led to a hug which became a kiss and then a stumble to the bedroom, the finale to three years of longing, of flirting, second-guessing and holding back. And here they were four weeks later, together and happy.
On the first morning after, Harry had a brief moment of doubt, wondering if Dempsey's attitude would change now he'd bedded her at last. She awoke to find the bed empty beside her, but his clothes were still strewn on the floor from last night. Doubt merged into relief as he came into the bedroom wearing only his underpants, carrying two mugs of tea.
He grinned and leaned to kiss her. 'Morning gorgeous!'
'Good morning, you.' She took the offered mug and sat up against the headboard.
'So what do you want to do today?' he asked.
She looked across at him as she sipped her tea. She'd been expecting a conversation, a dissection of the previous evening. At the very least a discussion about whether it really had been a good idea after all, maybe an apology and an agreement that it was a one-off, a pleasant one, but not really something that should be repeated. But here they were sitting in her bed drinking tea in their underwear and planning the day ahead like an old married couple.
In that moment Harry pushed aside her sensible side and decided to just do whatever felt right, and what felt right was spending the day with Dempsey.
They'd gone to Richmond Park, wandered the paths, eaten ice cream, listened to some buskers and talked and laughed and touched. Dempsey took her hand as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Harry stopped, suddenly self-conscious.
He frowned, but kept hold of her hand. 'What? What's wrong?'
Go with what feels right she told herself. 'Nothing, nothing's wrong.' She held up their entwined hands 'Just not used to this.'
Dempsey wrapped his arms around her and kissed her long and slow, right there in the middle of the park. 'Well you can get used to it Harry because I'm here to stay.' He looked so pleased with himself she felt her heart soar.
Four weeks later and her heart was still soaring. And what she loved, what was unexpected were his displays of affection. Dempsey was always touching her, he held her hand whenever he could, even on the walk from the car to the front door. He wasn't being possessive, he just couldn't help it, as if touching her was sustenance for him, a ballast.
If they had to wait in a queue, he'd kiss her cheek or her forehead. He would tuck her hair behind her ear, or grip her arm when they talked. When he passed her in the house, he'd lay his hands on her hips or pat her bum.
Harry remembered the one and only time she'd tried to hold hands with her ex-husband. Early in their marriage they'd been going to some social event, she could no longer remember where only that they were dressed up, she in an evening gown, Robert in a tuxedo. She'd taken his hand as they approached the hotel entrance, assuming that as a married couple that was the correct thing to do. Robert stopped and glanced down at their hands with almost a sneer and dropped her hand as if it were red hot. 'Harriet, PDAs are a little common, don't you think?'
Harry was mortified, she felt the pink flush creep up her cheeks. 'PDAs?'
Robert gave a deep sigh as if she were a very obstinate child. 'Public displays of affection, Harriet. I think some things are best done in private.'
So that was that, another line laid down. Harry realised at that moment that her marriage was a game and that she was not the one making the rules. When Robert dropped her hand and admonished her the wild, independent part of her withered a little and locked itself away ; she could almost hear the door clang shut and the key turn.
But now there was James Dempsey, loving, open and tactile, revelling in all displays of affection, public or otherwise. He showed her with small touches how much she was loved and in doing so he'd kicked down the door and released her wild, wanton side and was feasting on the benefits.
They had agreed a 'no touching in the office' rule, an exquisite torture for them both. Dempsey had laughingly confessed that he sometimes had to actually sit on his hands to stop himself reaching out for her. There were still small illicit touches, a hand on the back, a brush of bodies, a brief touch of hands, a message conveyed. I'm here for you. I love you. Later.
Every second Friday the whole team would knock off early and head for the Bramcote. They all acknowledged that it was a dive but it was their dive, only yards away from the office.
Dempsey and Makepeace had made a fine art of avoiding these get-togethers as they usually descended into drunken machismo. Even before they finally became a couple by the end of the week they just wanted to spend time together, alone, so would usually escape with an excuse or slip off unnoticed.
However it was Fry's birthday, he was twenty five. He had asked both Dempsey and Makepeace separately and with such enthusiasm whether they'd join his celebration that they felt unable to say no.
'An hour then we'll split.' Dempsey muttered into her ear as they left the office. 'I have plans for you at home.'
Harry risked a pat to his bum, 'Hmm plans you say? I have plans too, maybe we can compare notes.'
'Budge up you two.' Dave said forcing them to sit even closer together on the bench seat, in the pub. They were pressed thigh to thigh. Even through their layers of clothing the contact was electric.
Harry thought of Robert Makepeace and his 'PDAs are common.' And she thought about the man beside her and how much she loved him. She glanced sideways and saw that he was watching her, I want you, his expression said.
Harry squeezed her hand into the space between them, and slowly ran the backs of her fingers against his leg. She felt his hand slip around behind her and slide down as low as he could reach.
Two can play at that game James Dempsey she thought, she tickled her fingers along the outside of his thigh slowly, slowly moving further up his leg, now and then risking a stroke with her thumb. Dempsey wedged his hand under her bum and found a sweet spot at the base of her spine with his thumb. Harry took a sip of wine, beside her Dave was leaning forward, regaling Chas opposite with his views on Arsenal's latest signing.
Harry shifted her hand higher, she was inches away from Dempsey's crotch. As her hand slid across his thigh she felt his breath hitch, I want you now. She pressed her leg harder against him and she felt his hand behind her respond.
'So what are you two up to this weekend?' Fry was breezy, buoyed by alcohol and a birthday.
'Oh this and that.' Harry smiled, lifting her hand to clutch her wineglass.
'What about you Dempsey?' Fry asked.
'Uh, not much planned. Maybe a bit of PDA.' He smirked at Harry, who prodded his leg.
'PDA?'
'Ask your Dad.' Dempsey said, 'and uh, buy yourself another drink.' He threw down a twenty pound note and stood up to leave. 'Walk you to your car Sergeant?' He didn't look at her as they both squeezed past Dave.
They ignored the comments and whoops as they left the pub. Dempsey slipped his hand into hers as they headed for the car park.
'Ask your Dad?' She snorted, 'ask your Dad?'
'Well what was I supposed to say? My mind was on other things, Harry.'