So, here we are... the last chapter of Chandelier. There will be a continuation, and feel free to speculate as to what might happen. (Is it all a big misunderstanding? Are we launching into the Gavriks now? WHAT'S REALLY GOING ON?)

Twenty-two:
Typical Sunday

Ruth was startled awake by a thump outside the bedroom door. She listened for a long moment, almost satisfied that it was nothing, when she heard Emma's heavy, overexerted breathing. There was a thud against the door, and a heavy sigh from the toddler. Then Malcolm's steady, reassuring voice. "Let's leave mum and dad to sleep," he said gently. "They're very tired, Emma. Do you want an egg and soldiers for breakfast, love?"

"Peas," Emma chirped, and then there were the sounds of them moving down the corridor away from the master bedroom.

The sun was barely up, but it was already too bright for Ruth's headache. She stifled a groan and buried her face against Harry's chest. He didn't stir, nor his breathing change, so she knew he was still asleep. Good, she thought. He won't see what a bloody idiot I am. I fail at wine, men, and song, yet again. Well, no, really, I did hit the high note in Bohemian Rhapsody last night, and Emma did enjoy it quite a lot… and you're rambling to your bloody self again, Ruth. One of these days, someone's going to cart you off to TRING.

She didn't realize her hand had been wandering, idly caressing his skin beneath the hem of his t-shirt, until she caught herself and stopped. Harry whispered, "Don't stop – that was nice."

"My head aches," she complained.

"That will teach you not to drink almost the whole bottle right before bed," he scolded gently.

"Oh, don't be smug and superior," Ruth mumbled. "What time are the kids coming?"

"Catherine was going to bring the littles over about noon," Harry said softly. "Jenny and Graham are supervising at the factory today – they're making a 500 gallon batch of body butter or something or other."

Ruth smiled and kissed his chest. "You're proud of them: admit it. They've done well for themselves."

"Jenny's done well for them," Harry contradicted. "Graham just keeps fathering children and baby-sitting."

"But they're happy. Happiness is doing well for themselves, Harry, love."

"Are you happy?" Harry asked.

It was a loaded question; seven and a half years of marriage with four of them apart could barely be called a marriage, could it? They barely spent any time together, and it seemed that the children were the glue binding them now. But she loved him, so much so that she had to stop herself gasping for breath when he walked into a room unexpectedly. Was physical, emotional, sexual attraction happiness?

"I'm content," she said softly.

"That wasn't the question."

"I know; I can't answer the question." It was honest, blunt. He sighed and pulled away from her, getting out of bed quickly. "Harry –"

"I've got to pee," he said, retreating to the en suite.

Ruth punched the pillow. "Bloody arse fuck damn bollocks," she muttered to herself. "Why the hell did you go and cock it all up, Ruth? Why again?"

Harry came out of the en suite and said, "If you're not happy, I can move my bed downstairs and –"

"Harry, stop," Ruth whispered. "So much has happened, I'm not… I'm not happy, but I'm content. I'm glad for what I have, but I'm scared to reach for more right now. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that."

"And yet, you're jumping in as Section Head –"

"That's to do with work, not home. Work isn't my happiness – not anymore." She looked over at him. "I meant it, last night. I don't like this space between us. It hurts, Harry. Please come here so I can talk to you like a normal human being, without raising my voice across the room."

"I'm trying to be a gentleman," he said.

"Bugger being a gentleman!" Ruth said sharply. "I don't need that; I need you to be Harry. My Harry. My Harry who takes what he wants, bugger the consequences, and skirts away with it because of his charm and his smile and the virtue of the fact that he's my Harry!"

"You don't need me to make you unhappy," he sighed.

"No, I don't," she agreed. His shoulders slumped a bit, despite his pretending to be unaffected. "But I do need you in order to be happy."

He hesitated a moment, seemingly unsure. "Ruth, do I – do I make you happy?" he asked.

"Yes," she whispered with a smile. "You were asking the wrong question a few minutes ago; I wasn't happy because you weren't really with me. You were kind of off in that melancholy place you go to sometimes when you think I'm going to leave you."

He came back to bed, then; she knew she was probably too astute in her assessment of his emotional state, as well as her own. They were utterly hopeless, really, but sometimes, they managed to get it right. It was those times when they got it right, when everything fit together properly, when they were together, that they were truly happy.

She pulled the covers up and snuggled against him. "How about we stop talking rubbish and just… show one another how we feel?" Ruth suggested softly. "We've never cocked that up."

"I don't want to hurt you," was his equally soft reply.

"You won't," Ruth promised. "You'll only make me very happy, Harry."

"Well, if it will make you happy, my love…" he murmured. A moment later, he was kissing her, gently stroking her skin. She smiled inwardly, loving how unsure and yet certain his touch was. It brought goose pimples to her arms, and she shivered. He pulled out of the kiss and said, "Cold?"

Despite the fact that it was a warm May morning, she nodded and pulled the blankets up further over them. He took it as in invitation and soon they were naked, pressed against each other, flush and flushed, kissing and touching, reveling in the warmth between them.

He traced the smile on her lips with gentle, feather-light touches of his fingertips. "Do I make you happy?" Harry whispered.

Ruth nodded and whispered back, "Oh yes, Harry – you do. So much so."

"Ruth, I –"

She cut him off by hooking her leg around his hip. "Don't talk," she whispered. "Just feel." Her heart was beating an erratic, but lovely, tattoo as she guided him home. The initiative was hers; it had to be hers to take, for he wouldn't make a move without her consent. Even when they'd been two tentative almost-lovers in the pub, he'd waited for her assent toward his advances.

Her eyes fluttered closed as he filled her, and she licked her lips, moaning softly. His hand fell on her hip, then crept to her bum, and her eyes flew open when he all but grabbed her bum, sinking all the way in to the hilt. He held her like that for a long time, until she had to move or die from the fire in her core.

It was achingly slow and tender, their lovemaking, as if each thrust, each kiss, each touch was meant to burn an indelible mark upon their souls. And they did – by the time they came plunging from the precipice of delight into a soft feather duvet of comfort and each other, their bond was stronger than ever before. No amount of time or pain could rip them asunder again. Circumstances might dictate their lives, but their hearts were entwined in a way that couldn't be broken.

"I don't want to leave this spot," Harry mumbled, tightening his hold on Ruth's waist.

"Me, either," Ruth breathed, "but some toast wouldn't go amiss."

He grumbled. "How's your head?"

"Better," she murmured. "I seem to have found a perfect hangover cure."

"Fucking?"

Ruth shook her head. "Making love," she corrected softly, kissing his chest.

"Mum?" Daisy said softly, interrupting Ruth from her shopping list.

"Yes, love?" Ruth said, setting aside her pen and paper.

"I finished my canvas; will you come and see?" Daisy asked hesitantly.

"Of course, love," Ruth said with a smile. "I'm sure it's lovely –"

Daisy took her mother's hand and led her upstairs to her room. Her easel was set up with a medium-sized canvas, and the floor in the corner was covered by plastic to catch any drips. "It's… it's you and Jamie in the park."

Ruth put her hand to her lips. The trees and grass were kind of an impressionistic glorious riot of colors and emotional impressions, but the two figures - a dark-haired woman in a tea-length dress and a little boy in a jacket and jeans seen from the back, rear, about one-quarter in profile – were so realistic that they stood out as the main focus. "Daisy," she murmured, "my god, it's – it's beautiful."

Daisy paused, then smiled. "Oh, good – I thought you'd think it was rubbish."

Ruth enveloped her daughter in a hug. "God, no," she whispered. "Nothing you've ever done was rubbish, love. Not any of it." She paused. "Except maybe that essay on Chaucer, but I think it was the aside about him being an uptight twat that did it."

Daisy looked a little chagrinned. "Well, he was," she muttered. She sighed and looked at the painting. "Jameson-Wiggins Gallery wants to do a display of my work. I don't know if I should; they sell prints to Harrods and larger stores. I don't know if I should want to share."

"Margaret," Ruth said softly, "if this is your calling and what you want to do every day forever and ever, take the leap. Please. Don't find yourself my age, lacking and wanting."

"What did you want to do, mum?"

"I wanted to be a teacher," Ruth said. "But it never worked out in my favor, really."

"You'd be a lovely teacher," Daisy murmured. She smiled at her mother and said, "I've never been very good at my academia, have I?"

"Not particularly," Ruth replied. "I just thought it might be because your father is rather dull-witted, to be honest. He read History, after all." She smiled and hugged her daughter. "You've done the best you could, love. And if art is your calling, then an artist you shall be. You can stay here with us as long as you'd like – or need – to. Daddy and I don't mind at all. And you're such a help with Emma and Jamie."

"Do you think I should put my things in a gallery?" Daisy asked.

"I do," Ruth said softly. "They're so beautiful and poignant and real, Daisy. They're a marker of the human condition and love and suffering… and that is what people look for in art."

Daisy nodded, then said, "I feel a bit of a twat, being good at it."

Ruth gave her a kiss and smiled. "Never apologize for what you're good at, love. And it's quite obvious to anyone with eyes that you're brilliant."

Daisy smiled and hugged her mother. "I love you, mum," she said. "I'm glad you came home."

"Me, too," Ruth said. "I missed you all so much."

"Where is everyone?" Harry called up the stairs. "Catherine will be here in a few minutes."

"We're upstairs," Ruth said. "I'll be right down, Harry. I was thinking we could have a proper roast and gravy tonight, if someone will run out and get some turnips and more potatoes."

"I'll go," he said. "I need to make a quick trip anyway. Won't be but a flash."

"All right," Ruth sighed. "I'll text you a list."

"Thank you," he said as she came downstairs.

"For what?"

"Not asking."

"Well, it's not that I'm not curious, but if it's important…"

"It is," he said.

"Then fine."

They had this discussion every Sunday in some form or another. He would go off for a couple of hours without telling anyone where he was going or what he was doing. He would take Scarlett with him (under the pretense of taking a walk, maybe?), but he wouldn't take his phone. She worried, but there was no point in attempting to stop him: she just hoped his security detail went along with him (as she knew they did, but it never stopped her from worrying). The one time she'd asked Daniel (the head of Harry's detail) about it, he merely said that Harry had gone to Mayfair. She'd given up and just assumed it was another clandestine meeting with the Home Secretary or one of the PM's aides that he didn't want to trouble their 'day off' with.

But something in the back of her mind wouldn't let it go, assumed that he had someone else he was meeting. That she wasn't, and would never be, enough for him. She tried to quash it, but that little voice of doubt was always there. Always.

He must have sensed her unease, however momentary, because he came over and gave her a kiss. "I love you," Harry whispered. "And I will show you exactly how much when I get back."

Ruth sighed and snuggled into his embrace for a moment. "Is it a dead drop?" she asked.

"No," Harry said, tickling her. "Stop trying to find out where I'm escaping to, my love, and why. It's nothing bad, I promise."

"But you can't tell me."

"We all have secrets," he said softly.

"Yes, well, your sneaking off on Sundays isn't exactly like me confessing there's a secret ingredient in the seasoning," she murmured with a pout.

He sighed. "I'll tell you… soon."

"How soon?"

The lines on his face got impossibly deeper as he frowned; he looked so much older then, and it hurt her to see how much stress she was putting him under. "I don't know," he said, honestly. "But soon."

"Go," she said softly. "Take Scarlett with you, and enjoy the sunshine. I'll put the roast on and then Catherine and I will take the littles to the park for a while. And when you come back… we'll talk."

He agreed to her compromise; it was the same one they made every week, but by the time he got back, she would gloss over it and move on to adoring the grandbabies and playing with everyone. It was just how they worked. Harry went away, then he came back. She asked about it, he pretended it had never happened.

Something had to give eventually.

Harry came inside and turned Scarlett loose. The dog took off running in search of her best friends, and Ruth heard her barking happily and lots of giggling from the small children in the sitting room. They were playing with blocks, making a castle that took up half of the room, and suddenly there was the noise of crashing blocks, and Jamie scolding, "Bad puppy!" But Kelly and Emma were laughing, so all was as it should be.

She glanced over at Harry and said, "Nice outing?"

The deep lines were still there. "No," he said very quietly.

"Want to talk about it?" she asked softly.

He looked like he was at war with himself, then finally, he nodded. "I suppose it's time," he said, his voice low and laced with sadness. "Upstairs?"

"Harry, what's wrong?" she whispered, reaching out to touch him.

His face crumpled and he fought very hard to keep from crying. "Upstairs," he choked out.

"Upstairs," she agreed, rushing up the stairs and into their room with him. "My god, Harry –"

"My father," he gasped between heaving sobs. "He's dying. Slowly, painfully. He doesn't know me, but he loves Scarlett and remembers her –"

"Oh, love," she whispered. "You take her round every Sunday for him?"

He nodded and held her tightly, burying his face in her shoulder as he wept. All she could do was hold him, rub his back, try to take the pain away – and kick herself repeatedly for her stupidity, her jealousy, her nosiness. When he could breathe at last, he whispered, "I never took you to meet him because he'd never remember. Alzheimer's. And he's got cancer besides, now. Doesn't have more than a few weeks left, so I just… I bring the dog because he remembers her. It breaks my heart to see him like that, Ruth. He's just so… fragile."

"I'm so sorry," she whispered. "I am. I am so sorry, Harry."

"I didn't tell you because you'd want to come with, and I can't bear the thought of you seeing me like this," he sniffled. "I cry, like this, all the bloody time. I can't help it."

"It's your dad," she murmured. "Of course you do."

"And then I come home and smile for the babies and you and –"

She kissed him to silence the rest of his words. "You don't have to explain anymore," she whispered. "I understand."

He exhaled and pulled away, wiping at his face. "God, I'm such a misery guts."

"My misery guts," Ruth said softly, possessively. "And I love you."

"I love you so much," he whispered. "So much more than you will ever know."

She smiled and gave him a gentle kiss. "I'll go down and check on the roast while you sort yourself out."

It was Thursday night. Rose was at work; Elizabeth had come to stay for a long weekend, so she and Malcolm had taken Daisy and the littles over to Graham and Jenny's for dinner and a movie. Ruth had been puttering around the house, cleaning, and nibbling on various things that had been in the cupboard but not yet touched. Harry wasn't due home till much later, so she was pleased to be able to say that the loos were spotless and the kitchen floor had been mopped.

The doorbell rang, putting Ruth's senses on high alert. She wasn't expecting any groceries; no packages this late… She went to the front door and peered out the fish-eye lens. She didn't recognize the woman on her doorstep, so she opened the door with the chain firmly on.

"Yes?" Ruth said cautiously.

The woman on the stoop looked to be about sixty or so, and Asian – Korean or Chinese if she had to put a finger on it – but with something else, maybe, mixed in. She looked as though she'd been crying for a long time, then had stopped abruptly and just stepped out into the world.

"Can you give Harry a message?" the woman said softly.

Sensing it was something to do with work from those words, Ruth said, "Yes."

"Tell him… it's from Carole," the woman began hesitantly. "Tell him… I am unencumbered. He will know what that means. And there will be a suite booked in his name tomorrow at the Flemings Mayfair Hotel; meet me at noon." With that, the woman disappeared into the night.

Ruth shut the door with a click, then sank to the recently cleaned floor and cried until she had no tears left to cry. She texted Harry the message. There was no reply; not that she expected one. Not after she'd come face to face with his mistress. Had she really been so naive to believe that he was telling her the truth about his father? He was a spy; lying was what he did. An old dog could learn new tricks, but he could not possibly ever change his spots.

The children came home and were put to bed. Malcolm and Elizabeth went upstairs. Rose came home from work and went straight to bed.

At ten minutes to eleven, Harry came home. He looked exhausted, fraught, and he had those deep lines around his eyes, his face, that made him look so much older.

All Ruth could manage to say was, "You unimaginable bastard."

il est terminé