1am that night – Tuesday, 8th November
She can't sleep. Again. But this time it's not the nightmares that are keeping her awake, but the fact that she's in a strange house, a safe-house in fact, and an unfamiliar bed. And, of course, it doesn't help that there's no wine and that she keeps thinking of Harry, remembering the look he'd given her earlier today when she'd offered to join him for a drink to talk about his friend, Clive McTaggert, a look that had, for a split second, been full of surprise, pleasure and longing before he'd regained control of himself and politely declined, saying something about friends coming out of the woodwork. Why had he refused, she wonders for the millionth time, it seems. Initially she'd feared that perhaps it was indifference, but then why that look of longing? Was it possible that she'd convinced him, she finds herself wondering, that she'd made him see how much of a liability their relationship would be to their work, their career, their security, and possibly even the country?
She'd thought he'd jump at the chance to talk to her alone, try to convince her to reconsider her decision to end it. In fact, that's partly why she'd made the offer, wanting, needing to talk to him, to talk to someone about her choice, not sure any longer if she's doing the right thing, not sure about anything in fact... except the strength of her love for him and how miserable she is without him. And she'd desperately needed to know if his feelings for her were ever as strong as she'd thought them to be. She'd asked him if Clive had been married and said something about him dying lonely and alone, hoping to see something in his face, his gaze, his body-language that would tell her that he cares, that he loves her and had been hoping for more between them. But apart from a sad little smile, she'd got nothing.
Nothing.
Bloody spook with his iron self-control.
Whichever way she looks at it now though, she has to concede that she's too late, even though she's still not sure if she wants him back, with all the gossip and probable heartache that would entail. Could she learn to cope with it, she asks herself. Would it be worth it? Does she love him enough to try though they'll most probably fail? And what would she do if the worst came to the worst? She still doesn't know, but it appears that she no longer has the choice, the chance to find out. He'd turned her down, and later, when she'd called him from home after Gary had turned up (Gary Hicks of all people! Hadn't she been thinking about him just the other day?) he'd sounded so cautious and distant when she'd asked him to come over, so emotionally detached, and only when she'd mentioned Gary had she heard a note of something – disappointment perhaps – in his voice. And when he'd arrived and she'd seen his familiar silhouette through the front door, she'd almost broken down and had needed several moments to regain control of her emotions before she could open it, stepping back to wordlessly let him in, pushing aside the memory of his hot, impatient kisses that had greeted her every time he'd entered her home lately, the playful banter and warm smiles, the looks full of affection – she can't quite believe it was love now – and desire. How can they have gone from so much to so little in just a few hours, she wonders bleakly, feeling tears gather in her eyes and slide silently down her cheeks.
She shakes her head in despair before she valiantly attempts to stop herself from dwelling on him any longer. It's over, she tells herself harshly, and you've only got yourself to blame... and besides, this is what you wanted. But despite this, the tears still fall until she wipes them roughly away. She's never going to fall asleep at this rate, she realises, so she gets up and moves over to the chair, searching through the side pocket of her holdall until she finds her prescription. Then she takes a sleeping pill, washing it down with some water from the glass she'd set on the bedside table earlier, and gets back in bed, closing her eyes and hoping for oblivion.