Not sure how I feel about this?
It was ironic that the occasion he had given her space to think, was the time she needed none.
How very them.
For three days they said nothing about that conversation, although it was in their thoughts every moment.
On the fourth day she asked him to meet her at lunchtime.
"Hi."
"Hi."
She pushed a glass of scotch across the table towards him.
He contemplated if that was a bad sign.
"I know you've got the JIC this afternoon, so I've already ordered for you," she said simply.
He smiled and sat down. It was a nice pub, a mix or modern and vintage on Paternoster Square.
"So, what do I fancy, Ruth?" he said, thinking that perhaps he would try and keep this light before it possibly took a turn for the worst.
She didn't bite.
"Wild boar sausages and mash."
He nodded.
"Good choice?" She asked.
"A very good choice."
He rolled the whiskey around the glass for several moments.
"Ruth..." he began, having abandoned keeping it light, "...have you..."
"Please Harry, could we just enjoy lunch first?"
This time he rolled the whiskey down his throat.
The food was good, the company was good, the anticipation was painful but he resolved to at least try and enjoy the moment with her. It had felt like forever since they had last had the opportunity to openly gaze at each other: be it across a table, a sofa, a bed.
When the bill arrived she paid it quickly insisting it was her treat and hurriedly reached for her jacket.
"Ruth..." he prompted once more, still in desperate need of her answer.
"I just need to show you something," she said.
Unwillingly he walked out into the spring sunshine and through the hoards of tourists who were spilling out across the pavements.
"Come on, Harry," she said pulling at his arm.
"It's really not the time for sightseeing, Ruth."
But he was been dragged across the road and up the stairs.
"I've got the JIC meeting to get to and ..."
Why the hell he was here he had no idea; even less so when she scooted past a Closed to the Public sign, ushering him downstairs.
Finally the cool, closeted air greeted them; silence and stillness surrounded them; and they were free from pilgrims, tourists and sightseers. He stopped her.
"Ruth, what are we ...?"
"Nearly there..have faith."
And they were on the move again. Faith was something in which he was sadly lacking. Faith in anything.
And now she stopped them
St Faith's Chapel.
In the Crypt of St Paul's.
"Marry me, Harry. Marry me, right here, right now."
He stared at her.
"You wanted permanent. You wanted 'as long as we both have left'," she said, "This is that."
"Now?" was all he could manage.
"Yes, now," she nodded across to where a priest smiled patiently, alongside two of the cathedral staff.
"Here?"
"It's your right as a knight of the realm to be married here."
He was still just staring at her, at the dream.
"Is it too soon?" and her tone was filled with anxiety now, worried they had got it wrong yet again. That she had got it wrong.
"I just thought when you said you wanted..."
"No. No," he shook his head, "now is good, Ruth. Now is just perfect."
"Are you sure?"
"Are you?"
Neither answered the other, so he kissed her.
"Let's just stop talking," he whispered, "before we balls this up."
And so in a private chapel, of a hushed crypt, within a national monument: two people unknown to the country they served stood in front of a priest; and amongst their silent witnesses, in the shadows behind them lay Nelson, Wellington and Christopher Wren.
And for once, they both knew that they had got it right.
Feels like a good place to end, though I would like to tie up the odd loose end so there may be one more.