During the night, I wake enough to realise that Ruth has turned on her side and curled away from me, and without thinking, I turn over and curve my body around hers; she mutters something I don't quite catch, but her mouth turns up in a sleepy smile as she relaxes into my embrace, allowing my arm to remain around her waist. I can't remember being this intimate with anyone, ever – sleeping together afterwards is something I have never done. Sarah had always left almost immediately after, on each of the few occasions I was able to persuade her to come to bed, leaving me to wonder what our married life would be like. Now, with Ruth sleeping quietly beside me, the long, empty years have fallen away, and I can glimpse a new future ahead, a future in which I am no longer alone, a future bright with the promise of sharing it with her. I drift back off to sleep, breathing her in.
When I next wake, with Ruth still in my arms, the quality of light coming in at the edges of the thick velvet curtains tells me that the sun is already high. I fumble for my watch and confirm the time – ten thirty-five am. It's Saturday, and neither of us are rostered on to the Grid. A whole day spent together stretches out in front of us, like the first day of school holidays after the long, grim Winter term. I chuckle at the thought, and the soft noise wakes Ruth. She wakens completely, instantly alert, as do most security services personnel if they spend long enough in the job. Rolling over to face me, she reaches up for a kiss, then stretches luxuriously, at full length, beneath the duvet. "Good morning, " I greet her, and she smiles her reply, then says my name in that soft, low voice, her eyes sparkling as she watches me haul myself into a sitting position amidst the many down pillows. "I don't know about you, but I could eat a horse!" she says, sitting up too, and holding the duvet close about her as she reaches for the leather-bound room service menu. Her eye falls on the ice bucket, now sitting in a pool of water on the glass-topped bedside table, the champagne still unopened. After some discussion, she picks up the phone and orders breakfast - eggs Benedict for me, a smoked salmon scramble for her, with tea (Darjeeling for her, Lapsang Souchong for me), followed by a request for a bowl of strawberries. And more ice, I note with interest. Next, Ruth wraps the top sheet around herself, and slides awkwardly out of bed, en route to the bathroom. I hear the rush of water running into the old-fashioned, deep tub, and hop out of bed to pick up our discarded clothes, blushing with pleasure at the memory of last night, folding them tidily into two piles. There are two ridiculously oversized, fluffy, white dressing gowns in the mahogany wardrobe, and I put one on, before tapping softly on the bathroom door. "I'll be out in a minute," Ruth calls. "Oh, there's no rush – I just wanted to pass this in," I reply, and the door opens a crack. A hand emerges, attached to a delightfully pink and well-scrubbed arm, and seizes the garment. Before I can glimpse any more of the hand's owner, the door shuts firmly. I stand there for a moment, lost in a happy reverie at the sight, until the discreet knocking at the door of our room heralds the arrival of Room Service with breakfast.
Tying my dressing gown more closely around me, I answer the door and take delivery of a wheeled breakfast cart with two silver cloches steaming seductively, a china tea service, a heaped bowl of small, sweet strawberries, and an insulated container of ice. Handing the waiter something for his trouble, I close the door and turn to find that Ruth has emerged, glowing, from her bath, wrapped in the oversized dressing gown, so big on her she has had to turn the cuffs back three times and tie an enormous bow in the sash around her waist. She pads silently across the thick carpet to open the heavy velvet curtains, and the late morning sunlight filters into the room, illuminating a small table with two balloon-backed chairs, next to the window. I wheel our breakfast over to the sunlit table and after a bit of shuffling about, arranging cutlery and pouring tea, we turn our attention to our food, and breakfast is eaten in companionable silence. Usually, breakfast on my mornings off is eaten with my seventy-four year old mother, so to have Ruth smiling at me across the table, pouring more tea for us both, or delicately hulling a strawberry before she pops it whole into her mouth, is nothing short of a miracle.
When we have both finished eating, I collect our crockery and stack it back onto the trolley, which I return to the hallway. As I turn back into our room, I see that Ruth has emptied the water out of the ice bucket and refilled it with fresh ice, nestling the Pol Roger deeply inside, and replaced it back on the bedside table. She is standing with her back to me at the window, admiring the splendid view of the river on a fine day, her hands tucked into the capacious pockets of her dressing gown, her hair gathered softly at the nape of her neck. The lines of her body are fluid, with no evidence of the fierce tension that so often grips her back and shoulders at work. As for me, I feel twenty – no, thirty – years younger, my body looser and stronger, all its little niggling aches and pains eased. Last night, Ruth rescued me. That's the only word for it, I think, as I walk over to her and slip my arms around her from behind.
Strangely, Ruth seems to be vibrating slightly, and at first I think she is laughing, when I realise she's humming to herself. It's a tune that tickles my aural memory; I have heard it somewhere, a long time ago, but I can't think where. "A penny for your thoughts?" I venture, and the humming stops. "Oh, you'd laugh if I told you," she says, "but it really was the only song that seemed to fit". I tighten my arms around her and promise not to laugh. "It's called the Unexpected Song – it's just something out of an old Lloyd Webber show, but it suits the moment, rather." I have taken Mother, at one time or another, to everything the wretched man has ever written – including Cats, twice, – so I suppose that's why the tune seems vaguely familiar. I'm curious to know why Ruth thinks it fits this particular moment, so I say, "Oh yes, of course…how does it go again?" She chuckles and turns around to face me, slipping her arms around my waist and tipping her head back to look at me. "I'm not singing it for you, I don't really remember the words, anyway. " But this is Ruth, and I know that she remembers everything. I wait, and after a minute she steps out of my arms, reminds me I am not allowed to laugh, and in her low, clear voice, begins to sing. I listen, spellbound, to the story of a woman who has finally, after a lifetime of looking in all the wrong places, fallen in love with someone who feels the same way about her; the song is her way of expressing her joy at this unexpected turn of events.
When the song ends, I applaud, and she gives me a sweet, shy smile, her eyes dancing with pleasure at my praise. "That was absolutely marvellous, Ruth!" She makes a little bow, one hand over her heart, but when she straightens up she looks directly at me and says, "The thing is, Malcolm, it's never so straightforward, is it?" I blink in surprise at her sudden change of mood, and take a hesitant step towards her. She closes the distance between us, rising on her toes to kiss me, her hands caressing the back of my neck, sending little shocks of delight down my spine, and then she leads me back to bed. This time, she takes charge, arching her body above me as we move together in mutual need and sudden desperation, as if we are about to be sent to our deaths, or to the opposite ends of the earth, never to see each other again. She is a goddess, I decide, as my body responds to her for a second time – I never knew I could do that! – and at the same moment she climaxes, panting, and collapses onto my chest, limp from her efforts on our behalf. I see stars, galaxies, the whole universe standing still as we take our pleasure together, then everything goes dim as I fall asleep in an instant, still wrapped in Ruth.