They were aware of him.
There, across the room, having dinner, with a man neither of them recognised, deeply intent on their discussion and seemingly showing no interest in Helen and Daniel Harrison.
Ruth and Harry continued to play their parts and play them well. But there was a change there now: a job of work that had reminded them of why they were here; that had stopped them losing themselves, albeit even for a moment in the façade.
"Maybe we should get a little closer," suggested Harry, quietly.
Starter, main and a bottle of champagne and white burgundy later and they were still hesitating over a dessert.
He glanced in the direction of the band.
"Would you dance with me, Helen?"
Ruth wasn't entirely convinced but it was certainly the best way to get nearer Coleman's table.
"Of course," she smiled.
A low, sultry saxophone entreated them to the floor and a gentle piano bid them begin.
His hand slipped around Ruth's waist, as she offered up her right hand to him. He took it, slid his own around it and twisted it in towards him, cradling it against his chest in an intimate gesture and then he pulled her close. Her left hand drifted up from arm to shoulder, her face leaning in to his chest.
Their focus was on Coleman. He hadn't looked up, still deep in conversation with his associate. They strained to hear as Harry edged her around to that side of the dancefloor, but the two spoke quietly and the music was too loud in comparison. They tried to read the body language of the pair: it was close, they knew each other well; they were animated; in agreement; passionate about whatever they discussed but yet they were watchful and aware of others around them. Coleman paused as a waiter arrived at the table.
He didn't smell like Harry, it was a different cologne to the one he used. It was a heavier, spicy, more sensual smell: she liked it.
He was warm and strong and present. He held her tenderly and yet powerfully, as though he would shelter her from the storm without ever breaking her. She felt safe.
She felt desired … and she felt desire.
And the power of it surprised her.
This was the closest she had ever physically been to him.
She was soft and smooth and fitted against him, as though she had been created for him and him alone.
And in this one simple moment, the presence of Coleman not withstanding, Harry knew he was in Hell.
And Hell was a desert and he was dying of thirst.
And as he crawled through the heat, his throat burning, there before him was a shaded, sparkling lake and beside it a jug of chilled, iced water to quench him. But as he felt the relief of the shade upon his back and the cold of the glass within his hand, he knew that the lake would disappear, the water evaporate and the mirage, for that was what it was, would surely fade away.
He was in Hell and Hell was all that he had ever wanted, here, wrapped in his arms.
Hell was a taste of all that he needed, all that he craved, all that could ever sustain him.
But it was merely a taste.
And that, for him, was Hell.