A/N: Huzzah for rainy public holiday Fridays, when one can write uninterrupted…this is an M-rated chapter, FYI.
Before I can frame the question that will change my life forever, a haunting little tune suddenly fills the charged silence between Ruth and I. In the next second, her eyes flare wide with recognition, and she turns away swiftly, re-tying her dressing gown and searching behind the sofa for her oversized bag, from which the oddly familiar sound is issuing at an increasingly insistent volume. She fishes out a mobile phone I haven't seen before, and with an apologetic look over her shoulder, she takes herself out of the room, finally answering it as she walks away towards the kitchen. I hear only a few words before she is out of earshot, and from the complete silence that falls shortly after she disappears, I gather that she has shut the connecting door between kitchen and hall, seeking privacy.
Thus abandoned in this peremptory fashion, and feeling utterly confused, I turn towards the fire and lean on the mantel, staring sightlessly into the cheerful blaze as I replay the few words I heard as she had picked up the call. 'Yes, I'm here… I know, it was dreadful… there really wasn't any other way…you can't blame yourself…oh, don't say that…" Her voice had been low and filled with concern, and yet…and yet there had been an undertone of pleasure there too that seemed somehow at odds with her words; icy fingers of jealousy and suspicion attempt to entwine themselves around my heart, as I try to think logically. Who could possibly be calling her at this late hour, apparently suffering some sort of crisis of the soul? The ethereal melody of the ringtone, which had so rudely interrupted my second attempt at a proposal, tugs at my memory and fills me with deep unease, even though I can't quite place it; it feels as if a nebulous mist is swirling around me, and I can't quite get my breath. Seeking to draw air into my unwilling lungs, I lift up my head, and catch sight of my face in the long, elegant Georgian mirror that hangs above the hearth: I stare as if it is a stranger's countenance, watching myself with a sort of dispassionate curiosity as I try to take a proper, deep, calming breath. It is no use, and for the third time today I am obliged to use the inhaler I had earlier stowed in the pocket of my dressing gown, with happier reasons for breathlessness in mind...
As oxygen begins to permeate my brain once more, I seem to see myself as if standing outside my body: a very disconcerting experience, and yet one that is curiously illuminating, too. I see a lonely, shy, middle-aged man, looking oddly vulnerable in his pyjamas, completely out of his emotional depth, and drowning in the muddy waters that threaten to close over his head: What the hell am I thinking of, proposing marriage to a woman I barely know, not in the truest sense of the word… a woman whom I love desperately, and yet who keeps so much of herself from me? It is a moment of rare and total clarity, and diamond-like, it cuts across everything I have been thinking of and hoping for with searing precision. I realise, then, that things cannot go on as I have allowed them to, in the naïve hope that if I only love her enough, am grateful enough that she is in my life, somehow it will all work out in the end. I stare at my reflection, and see an anguished understanding beginning to dawn in my eyes: I am forty-eight, not eighteen, and although I love her with all the youthful ardour and unspent passion accumulated over the long decades that I have spent on my own, it is not enough; it will never be enough. I feel as if I am awakening from a long and enchanted sleep, and to my newly opened eyes, the whole world has changed and shifted while I slumbered. I shiver, despite the fire's warmth, and leave the drawing room in search of answers.
Pausing outside the kitchen door, I ascertain that Ruth is still on the phone; I can't make out what she's saying, but can just hear the cadence of her speech through the heavy oak door. Good, I think savagely, and silently ascend the stairs, heading for my rooms. First, I want to identify that ringtone; and then, we'll see. It had a Celtic air to it, even in the almost unrecognisable, tinnily electronic rendering played by Ruth's mobile; and memories from long ago are starting to stir as I strive to place it; I need to think, and I need to hear. I stride towards my music room, and once inside, I lock the door, leaning against it with a frisson of relief at arriving here undetected by Ruth. This is the only room of my home that she has never seen; my deeply private nature had recoiled at the idea of allowing anyone, even Ruth, to enter this most personal and cocoon-like of spaces. I had been going to change that, tonight, and I survey the scene with a cool detachment that belies the turmoil in my heart; the dozen or more tall, white church candles I had placed around the room, waiting to be lit, the second chair I had lugged in here, the open bottle of Chateau Latour chilling in a silver bucket, the CD player already loaded with Mozart's Requiem. I had hoped that by invoking some elements of our first night together, I might have been able to succeed in persuading her to accept my proposal...Ruth, oh, Ruth. What was I thinking?
Now, I turn on the ceiling lights, methodically tidy away the candles, and eject the Requiem from the sound system, before scanning the high shelves holding my music collection until I find what I want. I pull out half a dozen discs, load them into the stacker, and drop into my chair. As an afterthought, I get up and retrieve the bottle of wine, and one glass: I may as well drink it, as let the air spoil it. The wine, at least, is good and honest, and I drain one glass easily, before pouring another with a devil-may-care aplomb that feels strange at first, but as I ply the bottle for a third, seems as if I am channelling one of my more reprobate forebears: perhaps Sir Hugh Wynn-Jones, the noted Regency rake… I chuckle, grimly amused at the idea, and turn my attention to the task in hand.
Pointing the remote control at the bank of hi-fi equipment, I flick rapidly through the tracks, listening to the first few seconds of each, before dismissing them impatiently. I make my way through two volumes: no, no, not that one…no, no…wait! I hit the Repeat button and turn up the volume, closing my eyes to concentrate more completely. And yes, there it is…the slow a cappella introduction, and then the lilting, otherworldly voices, and the ancient sound of sung Irish fills my ears as I clench the stem of the crystal goblet in my fist until it marks my skin: the beautiful, poignant theme from Harry's Game. Against my will, a hot tear scalds its way down my face, and then another. I should have guessed, I should have known. I will never be enough for her, never be able to compete against the sheer force of personality, animal magnetism and ruthless charm that is Harry bloody fucking Pearce. The song comes to an end, and the room falls silent, except for the stifled sound of choked-back tears; and I think I hear Ruth calling my name, except that she's still downstairs, isn't she, talking to the fascinating object of her endless infatuation?
I take a shaky breath, my throat feeling tight and scratchy, and listen with the same intensity as a mouse in its hole would listen for the near-silent footfall of a prowling cat. I hear her again, ever so faintly, through the soundproofed door, and realise that she must be really shouting, if the noise is penetrating in here. At first there is a questioning, seeking tone to her calls, and then a slight note of alarm is introduced, and her voice seems to be coming nearer and nearer. I don't want to reveal my whereabouts, wishing to preserve the sanctity of my bolthole, but I can't bear the sound of her voice as she searches for me in vain. I drain the bottle into my glass, gulp it down, and stagger to my feet to crack open the door a couple of inches: luckily, she is nowhere in sight, and I slip out quickly, and open a small door in the corridor that leads to the old servants' stair. Groping for the heavy Maglite torch that I keep in a recess just inside the door, originally meant for a candlestick, I waveringly light my way to the bottom, which debouches onto a narrow brick passage that leads to the kitchen. Ruth may be a frequent visitor to this house, but she doesn't know it like I do, a fact which I now use to my advantage. From the kitchen, I pad into the conservatory, and shiver at the change of temperature; the night is well below freezing, and cold seeps from the glass roof as if it is made of ice. When I hear her voice again, now high with panic, I answer, my voice deeper than usual, and rough with wine. "In here."
Ruth almost runs into the conservatory, stopping as I turn to face her. "Where the hell have you been? I've been looking for you for over an hour…I was scared out of my wits! Please don't ever do that to me again." I gaze at her for a moment, strangely unmoved, then look away again. "Ah, but that's not quite true, my love, is it? I estimate that you must have been on the phone for at least half the time since you walked out of the drawing room, leaving me alone." She moves round to stand in front of me, and her eyes are otherworldly in the pale light: huge, luminous, and unreadable. "What are you saying, exactly?" she asks, and her voice quivers; my heart lurches painfully towards her at the sound, but I keep my voice steady as I reply, "Something I should have said a long time ago. I can't do this any more, Ruth, this endless deception and deceit. I know I'm not much, not measured up against…other men… but don't you think I deserve a bit better than this?" She stares up at me, surprised, before she takes a deep sniff and asks, "Malcolm, have you been drinking?"
The best defence is a good offence, or so I have heard our cousins in the CIA tell Harry often enough, and I counter Ruth's accusation with one of my own. "That depends. Have you been having a nice little tete a tete with Harry, while I was waiting for you like…like a lovestruck fool?" Her mouth drops open in shock, and I push on recklessly. "Harry's Game… really, Ruth, how clichéd and trite could you be? And here's me thinking you hardly knew how to use a mobile phone, let alone program one with personalised ringtones. What else have you been up to, I wonder? And why did Harry ring you? To pour his soul out to his intelligence analyst, or to set up an assignation?" Her eyes flash indignantly, and her arm draws back swiftly; but my reflexes are still quick, despite my inebriated state, and I catch her hand in mine. "Oh, I think not. You did that once before, and I let you; how stupid was I? Come to that, how stupid do you think I am?" She wrenches free, and wraps her arms tightly around herself. "I'm not going to dignify that with an answer. You're drunk, and I'm going home." Instinctively, I move to block her, and she snaps, "Get out of my way, or… or I'll break a window and climb out," her eyes glittering queerly.
This is such an incongruous suggestion that I laugh in spite of myself: Ruth, dressed only in my socks and dressing gown, going off down the drive in high dudgeon. "No, you won't. We are, however, going to have a little chat, one that's long overdue, wouldn't you say?" And taking her arm firmly, I steer her towards the scrubbed oak kitchen table. "Do sit down, and I'll make some coffee. We could be here for quite some time." Sullenly, she pulls out a chair and sits down, but not before I have felt in her pockets and taken her mobile away. Flipping it open, I quickly key in the universal access codes, and check to see whether she has sent any messages while we have been talking: there are none, and I close the phone and tuck it into one of my pockets. The last thing I need is Harry, turning up here, and demanding to see her. Ruth watches me, face impassive, and when I put the phone away she enquires sarcastically, "Happy now? Malcolm, what on earth has gotten into you?" I ignore her with steely self-control, and put the kettle on the hob. "Oh, and in case you were wondering, I didn't program that ringtone, I wouldn't have a clue how to, for a start. Zaf must have done it as a joke when he was setting it up for me."
When next I turn round, I nearly drop the mugs of coffee I am holding: Ruth, legs crossed provocatively, is atop the oaken table, her dressing gown falling open strategically, with a come-hither look in her eyes. In spite of everything, my body begins to stir in response; but then the cold and righteous anger that has been driving me since I first identified that wretched theme tune returns. "What the devil do you think you're doing? Get off that table immediately, and stop behaving like a Cold War honeytrap." She pouts, but does as I ask. "Well, you were certainly keen enough earlier," she says, looking at me through her lashes, and picking up the mug I have just set in front of her. Sitting opposite her, the wide expanse of the table between us, I fix her with the look that I have seen Harry use a thousand times in the interview room, and say crisply, fighting to keep the emotion out of my voice, "Right. Let's begin. It's no secret that I'm in love with you, Ruth, and have been for years, but the question is, are you in love with me? Because the thing is, you've never actually said it to me. Oh, you've said that you love me, all right, but never that you're in love with me…and the two things aren't quite the same, are they? Not when you also say that you love your cats, or a favourite book, or a city you've visited."
Ruth gazes at me silently, her eyes grey and impenetrable as granite, and finally answers, "Is this really what we've come to? Forcing declarations? How distasteful, Malcolm. I wouldn't have thought it of you." Outraged, I snarl, "Distasteful? If you want distasteful, how about your behaviour just now, sprawled on the kitchen table like something out of The History of Tom Jones?" She smiles, cat-like, at that. "Sweetheart, if you haven't noticed already, I like it when you get angry; you so rarely lose control of that impeccably mild-mannered façade you cultivate, that it's terribly exciting when you let it slip…we're good together, that way, you know. We're a good fit… and here's something you mightn't know, seeing as you're hardly operating from a wide base of personal experience: sexual rapport like ours is a rare thing in this world. And here's something else I'll throw in gratis, for good measure: right now I'm so wet, that if you so much as touched me…there…I'd come, just like that. In fact, I've been ready since supper…" She watches me over the rim of her mug, and with a little start, I realise she is telling the truth about that, at least. All the signs are there: her erect nipples tent the well-worn fabric of her dressing gown, her breathing is shallower than usual; her pupils are dilated, and the scent of her arousal tantalises my nostrils. I feel myself twitch, despite the lateness of the hour and an entire bottle of wine: why not forget all this, and take her right there on the table until she arches and cries out in ecstasy, my basest instincts whisper insidiously… go on, you know she wants you to…and you know you want to…
Pushing my chair away from the table, I wrap my hands firmly around the curves of my coffee mug and regard her warily. She's right, we do fit wonderfully together, in that way – I might have only the most negligible personal experience to compare it with, but fifteen years' worth of forced observation of every species of human sexual congress has taught me that what we share in bed is indeed rare. As it should be, the analytical part of my brain observes sniffily: she's taught you most of what you know, and trained you to respond perfectly to her every need and desire…
With a vast effort, I refocus on the matter at hand. "Thank you for the compliment; I should know what you like, seeing as we've been together for a year, and you're nothing if not communicative with regards to your preferences in the bedroom. As for the current situation, well, if you need to excuse yourself for a few minutes, please do feel free." She blinks. "Are you telling me to… to take care of myself? That's hardly gentlemanly, sweetheart; and you're nothing if not a gentleman. Besides, we need to talk." There, she's finally said them: the four most dreaded words in the universe. I brace myself for whatever is about to come, while my gut churns and my skull feels two sizes too small for my throbbing brain. I take a sip of my coffee, willing myself to act as normally as possible, and wait for the axe to fall. Ticking each point off on her fingers, Ruth begins.
"Malcolm, I don't know what's going on in that amazing head of yours, but you appear to be operating under the delusion – yes, I said delusion – that I'm somehow inappropriately involved with Harry. Yes, I work with him closely, it's part of my job. Yes, I went to the hospital with him today to help deal with Adam. Yes, he rang me tonight, about half-way through a bottle of Scotch, by the sound of him, because he needed to talk to someone who'd been there too. Yes, I care about him, just as I care about Adam, and Zaf, and Jo, and all my colleagues. And yes, there are certain things that I can't share with you, Malcolm, because I can't share them with anyone; it's the life we lead, and you of all people should understand how it is. So if you feel that I've somehow been misleading or deceiving you, I'm sorry, but that's just how it is: the life of a spook, you know. We all have to learn to live with gaps in our knowledge of each other…and try to see the best in each other, too. "
Ruth pauses to sip from her mug, before she resumes heatedly, "And as for the more serious allegations, you need to know something about me. I don't go about saying 'I love you' to just anyone, in fact you're only the fourth person in my life I've ever said it to, and two of them were my parents. And I'm not even going to get into the semantics of it, of whether 'I'm in love with you' is somehow more valid than 'I love you'…frankly, it's a ridiculous debate, and I'm not going to enter into it." She looks down at her hands, apparently gathering her courage, and then skewers me with those extraordinary eyes, blazing with the force of her emotions. "All that said, I do have a confession to make. The night of your birthday… or early the morning after, to be exact, I found something, while you were sleeping. I trod on a tiny blue velvet box, when I got up to go to the loo…it was just lying on the floor near your trousers. I know I shouldn't have, but I opened it. Malcolm, was that an engagement ring, and before my phone rang earlier, were you about to propose?"
I can't look at her any more, at the compassion in her face; instead, I scrutinise the silvery grain of the table-top, and nod once, slowly. "Oh, sweetheart. I wish I'd known; I would have told you that I'm not marriage material. I don't think I ever will be… I just don't believe in it, or not for myself, anyway. I've been independent for too long, and it's never been something I've given much thought to, other than as an outdated institution for the subjugation and control of women. I don't like the idea of legally being bound to anyone, like a deed of sale for a house or a car; and to be honest, the idea of being referred to as 'my wife' gives me the willies." She drains her now-tepid coffee, and continues, trying to catch my eye, "Sweetheart, I already know how you feel about me, and I don't need diamond rings or grand gestures to prove it; I see it in your eyes, every time you look at me… even now, when you're angry with me, it's there. Lots of couples don't even have half of what we share… isn't that enough?"
I have nothing to offer her; all my words, all my thoughts have been swept away by what is, coming from Ruth, a verbal tsunami. Beads of perspiration have broken out on my brow, but I remain seated as she gets up and moves towards me, allowing her dressing gown to fall open as she approaches. "Ruth… please…not when Fiona's just died," I say hoarsely, nevertheless transfixed by the sight of her full breasts and undulating hips as she walks, the wispy darkness between her thighs, the way the soft curve of her belly jiggles ever so gently…I lick my lips, striving for control, but as her hands begin to untie the sash of my own dressing gown, and then unbutton my pyjamas, I know I am fighting a losing battle. Heat rises off her creamy skin like steam off scalded milk, and when she slips a warm hand through my flies to encircle my…ohhh! "Sweetheart, what do you think she and Adam would have done tonight, if both of them had lived and someone else had died instead? Sex is one of the most instinctual, profound responses to death that there is… it reminds us that we're still alive like nothing else can," she says, drawing her other hand along the side of my face, sending shivers up my spine. Her fingers wander lower, encountering the leather cord upon which is threaded her gift to me. Frowning, she finds the ring, and looks at me, stricken. "Oh, why aren't you wearing it? Don't you like it?" I shift uncomfortably. "Well, it's just that it's… so strikingly unusual, and I've never worn a ring before…" Leaning forward, she snaps the cord; my breathing quickens, both at her proximity and at the fierceness of her gesture. "Give me your hand," she demands, and I hold out my left hand, the right now being otherwise engaged in operations beneath her dressing gown that are making her twist and writhe, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she strives for control; quivering, she slips the ring onto my middle finger. "Try it, just for a few days, for me. I really like how it loo…ooh…oooh…OH!" and then there is no more talking, as I am gratified to discover that she hadn't been lying earlier, or at least not about that particular point.
"This is us, Malcolm. You and me, together…like this…" she breathes into my ear, some time later, as she settles onto my lap, and the familiar dance begins once more; we kiss, softly at first, then deeper, firing each other's blood even further with our caresses, and as I slip inside her again, it feels like going home. My hands are full of her soft, pliant flesh, and I plant hungry kisses on every inch of skin within reach, the strength of my need for her like an addiction I can no longer deny. Her dressing gown falls behind her like a royal train, and she pushes her body into mine as if she is seeking to meld with me altogether. She continues her onslaught with determination, while I slide my hands under her robe to hold her tightly; as we move faster, she falls forward onto my chest, sinking her teeth into my shoulder as she comes harder than before. I cry out in mingled pain and excitement, and crush her to me as my own climax begins; for a few seconds, I feel as if we have truly become one, and that everything else has been vanquished by the overwhelming oblivion of physical release.
Afterwards, we slump together on the chair, panting, and too exhausted to move; eventually, I stand up, gathering her in my arms as I move, and carry her into the drawing room, far too tired and weak-kneed to think of going upstairs. I lay her down on the pile of quilts on the Chesterfield, and curl myself around her in our favourite sleeping position, pulling a goose-down duvet over us both, after breaking apart the dying fire for the night. Ruth is soon fast asleep, as the soft, regular breathing beside my right ear attests. I am beyond exhaustion, but my brain refuses to switch off as I lie in the dark, watching the final flickerings of the fire, and thinking about tonight. Everything she has said makes sense, and some of it even had the ring of absolute truth about it; but I feel certain that there is far more to the story than the explanations I have heard, even while acknowledging that she is also right. There are certainly things I can't tell her, for security reasons, and if Harry has begun to take her into his confidence, then she is carrying some very dangerous knowledge indeed, information that the enemies of our country would kill for without a second's hesitation. She is only doing her duty, and keeping me safe at the same time, by saying nothing. I understand this perfectly, and yet… and yet, I can't help but feel that I am now wading in murkier waters than ever, with nothing actually explained: not the Tessina, not Toad Hall, not what, if she actually was there, Ruth was doing in the foyer of Claridge's at Christmas.
Then there's the shock of hearing that she doesn't want to marry; I'm aware that I am old-fashioned, conservative, and naïve, where relationships are concerned, but this has come as a complete jolt to my thinking; in the world in which I grew up, people who loved each other and had been going out for some time eventually got married, by and large; but in a few words, Ruth has swept away all hope of matrimony. She's only confirmed what the look on her face had already told me as she closed the lid of the little blue velvet box, and This is what comes with having a partner from outside one's own age range and beliefs, I remind myself pragmatically, adding that lots of people live together, nowadays, or have all kinds of arrangements; but in a small, overgrown corner of my soul, I am still my father's son, and the scion of an ancient and very respectable family, and in my heart of hearts, I am bitterly disappointed. Ruth evidently sees marriage as an outmoded, patriarchal institution: I see it as the deepest commitment I could ever make to her, a covenant before God and man, to have and to hold, to provide for and to love. It's one thing to catch sight of oneself in the mirror, and wonder what one is thinking of in contemplating a proposal; but it's quite another to have the option taken off the table altogether, and by someone else, at that. I simply don't know how to turn my back on the teaching of a lifetime, and as I begin to drift off, I seem to hear my father's voice, sadly reading the marriage service from the Anglican Book of Prayer…
Marriage is a sign of unity and loyalty, which all should uphold and honour
It enriches society and strengthens community.
No one should enter into it lightly or selfishly,
but reverently and responsibly, in the sight of almighty God…
I fall asleep with Ruth in my arms, and a heavy weight taking root in my heart.
A/N: Harry's Game is the theme tune from the Yorkshire Television miniseries of the same name, made in the early 80's. It was a breakthrough success for the Irish group Clannad. The show itself is about a British soldier sent undercover in Northern Ireland. Obviously, there are parallels with Harry Pearce's own career.
The History of Tom Jones: a Foundling, by Henry Fielding, is a novel of the mid-eighteenth century, which features lusty encounters of various kinds. In other words, Malcolm is not being complimentary, to his way of thinking, although the simile is probably not inaccurate, given what happens later.