CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Every day, Ruth checked l'Alcove's email, often with Isabelle close at her shoulder, eyes wide. The volume of mail was increasing daily with the warm wishes of Isabelle's friends and customers, and in turn, Ruth's already high regard for Isabelle increased daily as she saw how very loved she was. Most of the letters expressed some air of amazement that Isabelle had found her way to the computer, and the two women sat reading them together, laughing, as Isabelle told story after story about the writers.
Of course, Ruth looked anxiously for a return letter from Malcolm, and after three days, she reconciled herself to the fact that Harry had more sense than she did, and was biding his time in exactly the way Mr. William Arden would. Maybe this would be a weekly correspondence that she could look forward to every Monday morning. Or maybe every two weeks? She hoped it wasn't to be monthly, as she wanted so much more. She felt adolescent, impatient, as if she were waiting for a note to be passed surreptitiously from an adored boy in school, complete with sweaty palms and fluttering heart.
At the same time, Isabelle was acquiring a steadily growing comfort in front of the computer screen. Finally, Ruth was able to convince her to take the mouse under her own hand and begin to click her way through the correspondence herself, which gave Isabelle much joy. In fact, this morning, Friday, Isabelle sat alone at the wooden chair while Ruth assembled tea and cakes.
"Hmmmmm." Isabelle frowned at the screen, and Ruth turned, expecting she had lost her way somehow.
"Problem?" Ruth asked.
"No, it is just that this name is not familiar. Martin Wingate?" Isabelle turned just in time to see Ruth nearly lose her grasp on the china teapot. Ruth laughed nervously, incongruously, her cheeks suddenly taking on a crimson tone, her eyes dancing. Isabelle's head tilted in a question, and she raised her eyebrows as she smiled. "You know who this is?"
Ruth took a breath and steadied the pot in her hands. She held Isabelle's eyes for a moment, debating, and finally just came out with it. "A friend of James."
Isabelle's smile widened. "Ah, good." She stood and walked to Ruth, taking the pot from her, glad to have it safely back on the counter. "Then you must read it, Sophie."
Ruth didn't need to be asked twice. Going quickly to the chair, she sat and clicked the subject line, which continued to say RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. She was beginning to truly love those words. With a sharp intake of breath, she realised that this time, it was from Harry. For the first time in twenty-two days, Ruth was having a conversation of sorts with Harry, and her heart filled again, just knowing that his mind had conceived the words she was reading, his fingers had touched the keys to create them on the page.
Twenty-two days. Ruth's mind went back to their conversation at the safe house. Fifteen days together, and how long apart? She had asked that question of Harry. Already they had been apart longer than the fifteen days, and if possible, Ruth felt she loved him even more than she had that night.
The wish to read slowly and savour every word lost out to Ruth's impatience. I have some time on my hands these days, more than usual, and a recent loss has opened me up to thoughts and feelings that seem to want expression ... The words went right to her heart. Yes, Harry, I have too. They had been so immersed in each other on such a deep level, and then it had been wrenched away. There was so much she wanted to say. Of course he felt the same.
I have no desire to depress a newly-made friend, or to make your life more difficult as a result of listening to my woes, so please let me know if that is not your intention ... Sweet Harry, she thought, still worrying about her. Ruth could only think, Oh, my love, my intention is simple. She wanted to know everything he felt and thought, to imagine they were in his car on the way to Bath, sharing Chinese across his kitchen table, lying in bed watching the light play in each other's eyes. Talking, just talking, as they always had. That is my intention.
And as for your being a mule? Please remember it's only an expression. Perhaps the one who called you that was a bit fixated at the time ... Ruth couldn't stifle the laugh that came from deep within her. She looked up at Isabelle to see if she'd heard, and Isabelle gazed back at her, smiling sadly.
The movement of Ruth's eyes had shaken the tears that were forming there, and one fell, creating a dark spot that spread into a wet stain on her skirt. She said nothing to Isabelle, but a silent moment of understanding passed between them.
Isabelle moved behind her and put her arms round Ruth's neck, pressing her face into her hair and whispering, "If it can bring him closer to you, I will stop criticising the machine, my dear Sophie. I would that Pierre and I had been able to do this." Isabelle kissed the air next to Ruth's head, and moved out into the shop to give her some privacy.
Ruth looked back at the screen. Faithfully yours. My love, my Harry. Yes, faithful forever.
Ruth forced herself to wait until Wednesday to reply. She had actually composed the letter first on paper over the week-end, written in her neatly compact, straight up-and-down hand as she sat propped on her bed with tea, scone and fragrantly fresh cantaloupe. It was Saturday morning, and between writing lines, Ruth looked down through the window at the park across the street where a family had gathered for a small picnic and a couple strolled lazily with their dog.
The windows were open, and the sunshine did its best to offset the slight chill in the air, but Ruth was bundled up warmly as she wrote. She felt at peace in her apartment this morning, as if she really did live here, and especially so with Harry in her head the way he was now. She had the new words from his letter to remember him by, and she felt the strength of their love, not only intact, but growing somehow under the strain of separation. In the way that pressure creates diamonds, Ruth sensed the love they felt for each other hardening into something indestructible.
Ruth missed Harry deeply, and was only slightly less fragile than when she arrived in Paris, but from his letter she knew that if she didn't sound strong, he wouldn't feel free to write the depth of his feelings. You will set the tone by the type of letter you send back to me, and I will follow your lead. She knew what she wanted the tone to be. She wanted his heart, all of it. So she would give him hers, and he would know then that he could say anything to her.
Dear Mr. Arden,
Regarding your recent letter, I'll start with the question that feels most compelling, and give you a firm answer. Yes, I feel strong, much more so since this correspondence began. I am in challenging circumstances, but I do want to hear everything you want to say, so I beg you not to worry about depressing me.
I am also enduring a recent loss, and to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't mind a distraction from the horrible self-pity that overtakes me sometimes. You and I may find we can offer each other some comfort through our separate experiences, rather like two strings side by side on the same instrument, resonating, as it were.
Somewhat poetic, that last line, yes? Although I know she doesn't fit precisely within the bounds of the Romantics, I have a fantastic soft spot for Jane Austen, and somehow the idea of writing letters back and forth feels very Austen-esque. Of course, face-to-face communication is what I would most desire with a friend, but as that isn't always possible, there is something about letters that allows us to explore a new dimension of each other, don't you think? More thought goes into them than the haphazard spontaneity of speech, and it takes me back to the time when travel wasn't so easy and lovers had to endure terribly long separations as a matter of course.
I suppose if one must be desperately without the love of one's life, then Paris is a beautiful place to do it, but it does come served up on a double-edged sword. I haven't ventured out to the typical lovers' spots, the boat ride on the Seine, the Eiffel Tower, la Passerelle des Arts, primarily to avoid the ever-present couples strolling there, and the soppy feeling-sorry-for-myself that tends to follow.
I have recently had my own perfect experience of the romantic sort in Bath, and the sharp, sweet memories of that time can reduce me to tears in a moment. In fact, that week-end seems to have taken on a magical quality in my mind. I don't use that word often – magical – but my companion at the time used it, and it is apropos in this particular situation. I was happier and more myself in those three days than I have been in my entire life. It is my fondest dream to go back there again with that very same wonderful companion.
So I will wait to do the romantic things in Paris until I have company approaching. But I do expect a journey to the Louvre very soon, and hope to immerse myself in the beauty and the history of that building and its glorious contents.
My apartment in Paris is perfect, really. Bright and cheery to offset what has been my generally maudlin mood since I've arrived, although I assure you I am cheering up slightly. It's completely furnished, but the most lovely furnishing was a vase of flowers with a card nearby that said simply, "Je t'aime." Gave me a ridiculously good cry, and absolutely worth it.
I'm very lucky to have a new friend in the woman who owns l'Alcove. She is extraordinarily kind and compassionate, and we share a love of books and literature that others would view as bordering on the obsessive. And where I tend toward the head, she gravitates to the heart, so we complement each other in our differences. She has also had life experiences that are extremely instructive to me.
She credits the kindness of a particular person in the past for what she sees as the overflowing goodness of her present. She calls him "the best kind of man," in her charming mix of the French and English languages. She has never forgotten his assistance, and now I am the grateful recipient of her appreciation of that good and generous gentleman.
To sum up, I am feeling fine, the letters of which stand for fragile, insecure, neurotic and emotional. I am also at times exhilarated, and you mustn't ask me to come up with words for all of those letters, as I haven't the energy this morning. But I bloody well could, Mr. Arden, and you should be aware of that.
Most importantly to tell you, there is a man in this world who owns the whole of my heart. Every day without him is a day lost to me. I want to know what he would think of everything I'm seeing and doing, and I long for him in a way that cannot be adequately described. There are times when the only solution to missing him is simply to stab scissors in the wall, but instead I crack on, as I know he would want me to do.
So, I have now exposed myself completely, precisely so that you can have no second thoughts about doing the same. I must conclude from your letter that this type of revelation about my state of mind is what you were seeking, and I am anticipating some equally shameless admissions in your next letter. Pour it on, please, as I am fully prepared for the onslaught.
Your new Parisian friend,
Sophie Persan
Harry put his head in his hands, feeling a wave of love that he felt nearly threatened his sanity. There she was, his Ruth, right there on the page. He felt almost as if she was in front of him, speaking the words. He was so grateful to have the essence of her, but it caused him to miss her with an intensity that made him almost lightheaded. He wanted all of her, to hear her voice, to make love with her, to see her in his shirt, have dinner with her, touch her hands, feel the soft warmth of her lips.
But this had to be enough for now. And really, he thought, not wanting to seem ungrateful to whatever mysteries had allowed them this unexpected correspondence, it was so much. Her love poured off the page and made its way directly to his heart.
Malcolm had worked his magic again, and now Harry could access the account from his own computer. He'd received her letter on Wednesday morning, and had read it more times than he could count since then. Now it was Sunday night, and he felt he'd waited long enough. He would finally answer her, having let four days pass. He would write his reply here on the Grid, in the middle of the night, as he awaited reports on Adam's progress with Richard Dempsey and the sporadic phone calls from Ros updating him on Niko Grecic's condition.
Ruth did seem fine, although he chuckled softly as he re-read the bit about what the letters stood for. Yes, I am too, Ruth. Fragile, insecure, neurotic and emotional. How many times had he thought of her today? When did he lose count? The worst was when he had walked through the car park below Thames House with Ros. He'd had to tell them where to put the van with Grecic so it couldn't be seen by the cameras, and he'd chosen the exact spot where he had drawn Ruth behind the column and kissed her. As he walked back to the lift, he'd allowed himself a glance back, just one, to remember.
Harry looked out at the dark and empty Grid. He frowned and leaned back in his chair, his arms folded across his chest. A deep sigh escaped him, and for a fleeting moment he had an almost uncontrollable desire to get his coat, walk out through the pods, get on a train, and go to her. He would stand below the window of her cheerful Paris apartment and yell up to the fifth floor at the top of his lungs, "Sophie Persan, je t'aime!" She would appear at the window like Rapunzel, run breathlessly down into his arms, and he would never let her go.
Another sigh, and he almost moved, in fact he willed himself to stand up, but just then his desk phone rang. It was Ros, asking about Grecic's blood group. Harry got the file, told Ros, and rang off. And he wondered, if he hadn't been here, what would have happened? And could he have lived with it?
Reaching into his briefcase, Harry took one more furtive look out to the Grid, although he knew there was no one there. Opening a case, he pulled his glasses out and put them on his nose, sitting up straight in front of the computer screen. He opened her email, and pressed "reply." She had left the subject line there, and so would he. RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. This had to be enough, he thought again, and really, it was so much.
Dear Sophie,
I have taken the liberty of calling you by your first name, as your letter let me know that we are fast on our way to becoming very good friends. I hope you will call me William, or, as my very good friends call me, Will.
And you are correct, the magnificent honesty and openness of your letter has given me carte blanche to be likewise. You surpassed my wildest expectations, actually, and I will need to run a bit to keep up with you. The constraints of my job tend against the phrase "honest and open," but I find I feel safe with you, and will make a concerted effort to match your candour.
Something about my work as a start, because it is very much on my mind at the moment, and also, that way I will ease into the discussion of my heart, which you can expect to be uncharacteristically sentimental and somewhat mawkish. I anticipate that it will be the depressing part, so you may want to work your way up to it.
My position at the bank requires that I make decisions every day that are challenging, and have long-reaching consequences. I am a supervisor, and must keep a certain distance, but I care very much for those under me and have a tremendous respect for the work they do. When decisions must be made, they look at me as if I have all the answers, their bright eyes waiting for whatever gems will fall from my mouth, when in truth, I rely on instinct for those answers, and not always with bursting confidence.
It may be that my greatest asset in my work is the fact that I can move on from the bad decisions without an excess of post-mortem. Oh, they stay with me, to be sure, but I can compartmentalise better than most. I suppose what allows me to go on is that no human being could get it 100% right, and I can't imagine someone who would do it better right now. When I can imagine someone else doing better, I'll find other pursuits. Travel to Europe. Perhaps I'll come visit you in your bookshop and we'll go for a coffee under a bright blue umbrella.
I tell you all this, Sophie, because a recent decision to transfer an employee is weighing heavily on my mind tonight. She was so courageous, so valiant in her acceptance of that decision that it makes me feel very small sometimes. From what I hear in her correspondence, she seems to be doing as well as can be expected, but I continue to wonder if there wasn't another solution. Of course it can't help that I am also very much in love with her.
So it seems right now that my days are filled with two things and two things only. My job, which requires me to have my wits about me at all times, and the pain of missing someone, which resides as a dull ache in my chest most of the time, but sometimes pierces me surprisingly, causing me nearly to jump out of my skin. In between, I eat badly, mostly crisps and canned tuna, and sleep badly, from missing her. And I try to remember to walk a small, sweet dog who loves me unconditionally through it all, but seems a trifle perplexed by my recent preoccupation.
Ah, yes, and every minute, as all the rest of this is going on, is consumed with my thoughts of how to get that courageous, valiant employee back under the roof of the bank. It's complicated, painstaking work, but it is progressing. I can only hope she knows that it's the critical, overarching task of my life right now.
On to some random thoughts which will convince you that I am very much in need of a friend to talk to these days. As I'm unable to bare my soul to anyone at work, and the small dog simply won't give her opinion apart from a tilt of the head when I say something completely absurd, I'll need to rely on you to listen, and will hope that you find these little snippets interesting.
Something very distressing happened last week, although it all worked out well. Alan, a senior officer here at the bank, is raising a son alone after losing his wife a couple of years ago. His job with us is very demanding, and he travels quite a lot. His young son went missing, a nine-year-old let loose alone in a big city at night, and all of us here worried terribly for him. He was safely found at the train station, wanting a ticket for Vienna, where he believed his father was working. He planned to go there to help his Dad, to surprise him. That little boy broke our hearts, and Alan seems on the edge of something not quite healthy. I'm becoming increasingly worried about him.
On the home front, I've recently acquired a couple of cats, and not being a natural cat person, find it a bit of an adjustment. They split their time between the window seat, where they sun themselves, and the bed, where they lie next to me as I sleep. I appreciate the scrap of warmth they offer, as that side of the bed sometimes seems very cold, indeed. And I remember often that those diminutive fur-bearing bodies contain little hearts that were nurtured by someone I love very much, so it seems sometimes as if just a part of her is there on the bed, curled up with them.
Right now, unfortunately, I am not in my bed. I sit in the office, pulling an all-nighter, as we used to say in University. Work demands that I be here and available, but my powers are at a low ebb, especially my psychic ones, which were just required on a phone call that took me away from this letter for a moment.
I hope you don't mind that I spend a good deal of my time whilst I write to you thinking of her. You have her same sharp wit, her same love of Jane Austen, and I believe she was known to stab walls with scissors on the odd occasion. As I sit here in the dark, wondering what impossible decision will next be required of me, I wish so much that her arms would come round my neck and she would materialise, ghost-like, as I imagine her so often.
No, not ghost-like. I want her real, solid, substantial. I want to feel the warmth of her skin, feel her lips. If it's not too much to tell you, I want to make love to her all night long, and I despair of the chances I had that I didn't take. I knew her for a few years before declaring my love, and all those nights alone come back to haunt me now.
Did I tell you she has a necklace that I love? It holds a secret. Maybe in this very moment, she's touching that necklace and remembering my lips there. I hope so.
Well, Sophie, I fear I have now run ahead of you in the honesty, openness and candour departments. Feel free to pull me back if you wish. This connection is becoming very precious to me, and I will do whatever is necessary for it to continue.
Before I go, there's something very important I need to tell you. If ever you should wait for a reply from me, it will be for a very good reason. You must never worry that I am anything less than a devoted and constant correspondent. Please continue to write and trust that I will contact you as soon as my job makes it possible. I never know what's coming around the corner, but I will find my way back to you the moment I can.
I hope you enjoy the Louvre, although I write those words with more than a tinge of jealousy and selfishness. Museums put me in awe, and that one may be the best of them. I would relish hearing your thoughts as you contemplate the Masters, so take down notes, will you?
Yours ever faithful,
Will Arden
Ruth stepped off the Ligne n°1 train at the Bastille station, and from there it was a lovely five or six minute walk down the Boulevard Beaumarchais. Her walk took her past jewellery shops, patisseries, hotels and dress shops, and then on to Le Café Hugo at the corner of the Rue du Pas de la Mule, which always made her smile, and seemed only right somehow. She sat for a while on the terrace, and enjoyed watching the people walk by while drinking her café crème and eating a croissant. It was Monday, and the hotel and square were buzzing with activity. Then she headed on to L'Alcove.
She arrived before Isabelle, so she opened the shop, turned on all the lights and pushed the heat up a bit before moving into the back to turn on the computer. By the time she had hung up her coat, her email was ready to open.
RE: Your Much-Appreciated Correspondence. The loveliest set of words in the English language. Ruth eagerly read his letter, and very soon regretted the mascara she had just applied. Her mind and her heart told her what Harry had wanted to convey. He loved her just exactly as she loved him. She could have written those thoughts to him and they wouldn't be any less true.
She hoped Isabelle wouldn't be in early today, and that no customers would come through the door, because Harry's letter had touched something very deep inside her. The way she was crying reminded her of the day she had learned that not only had Harry been shot, but that Tom had shot him. Her world had felt shaken to the core. Two men she loved, in very different ways of course, were pitted against each other. She thought that nothing would ever be the same after that, and she was right. Tom had left, finally, and she still missed him.
And Harry had survived, Ruth thought, as she wiped her eyes and began to calm. And he loved her this much. Her hand went to the necklace, holding the secret charms, and now she did feel his kisses there. She closed her eyes, and there was the gold of the candlelight again, that last night in the safe house. And again she said what she whispered as the boat pulled away thirty-two days ago.
Yes, Harry. When we are together again. Yes.
Isabelle all but pushed her out the door. "Go, Sophie! You know how Tuesdays are, my dear. No one needs books on Tuesdays!" She laughed, and Ruth smiled back at her, raising her eyebrows in a question.
"If you're sure, Isabelle."
"It is the perfect time to go. You will miss the tourists, and the children are all in school." Isabelle sighed. "Ah, Le Louvre. All my life, and I never tire of it." She gave Ruth another light tap. "Go!"
Now Ruth smiled broadly at her, and hugged her. "Oh, thank you. I want so much to see it. Thank you, Isabelle."
The bell sounded over the door as Ruth stepped out into the bright spring sunlight. A perfect day. She was holding off writing back to Harry until she had seen the museum, wanting to share it in a letter to him. It wasn't far, the walk back to the Bastille station and four stops to the Louvre-Rivoli Station, and she was there.
Across the street stood the bell tower of St. Germain l'Auxerrois, which was the imposing church of the Palais du Louvre, before it became a museum. Ruth couldn't resist. She stepped inside and the familiar calm came over her as she looked up at the rose-colored stained glass windows and listened to the echoes of footsteps from the few that were visiting this morning.
Ruth moved solemnly to a pew in the middle of the church and sat quietly. She closed her eyes and felt the history around her, breathing deeply of the aroma of wood and stone, mixed with the wax of the burning candles. She first said a prayer of thanks, to whatever power had kept her safe and strong, and then she said one for Harry, to keep him from harm until she could hold him again.
She didn't know how long she sat there with her eyes closed, only that a peace descended on her, almost as if she were in meditation. Ruth's breath quieted and she lost the sense of her surroundings for a time. Until she heard a noise next to her, and a woman's voice in a whisper.
"Ruth?"
She opened her eyes suddenly to see the bright eyes and sharp features of Christine Dale.
~~~~~
CHAPTER FORTY
Christine smiled at her and moved closer. "He thought you would come here," she said softly.
Ruth was silent, dumbfounded. Her heart was pounding, and she didn't know whether she should fight or flee. Finally, she whispered back, trying to sound confident, "Who thought I would come here?"
"Harry." Christine put her hand over Ruth's, trying to calm her. "I'm working for Harry, Ruth. I'm on your side."
Christine angled her head toward the door, indicating that they should go outside. She led the way down the aisle, and Ruth followed her, still sceptical, but compelled to find out what this was about. And she had to admit that although it was terrifying to hear her name spoken, it was also somehow comforting. This was another person who knew her. Knew Ruth Evershed.
The last time Ruth had seen Christine was when she was being interrogated by Harry. She had never forgotten what Christine said. I thought it was wrong we didn't tell you there was an assassin here. I love your country. And for your mikes in this place, I love Tom Quinn. Harry had seemed unmoved, but Ruth was not. She felt the truth from Christine, and thought her courageous in her loyalty to Tom. And at the same time, Ruth had been furious with her.
Tom was assumed to be dead in the North Sea, Harry was in hospital with a nearly perforated lung from Tom shooting him. All because of Christine. At the time, Ruth thought of her as a modern-day Helen of Troy, or as Harry so eloquently put it, some sort of old-style honey trap. In any case, loving Christine seemed to have destroyed Tom Quinn, and Ruth cared deeply for Tom Quinn.
And then, the piece in the news that Ruth had come across and shown to Harry. She'd walked into his office and simply put it on his desk, without a word. Almost a year after Tom left the Services, in an article about Tessa Phillips' security firm, Ruth pointed to the lines at the end. However, Phillips is facing competition from another ex-MI5 officer, Tom Quinn. Quinn works alongside his wife, Christine, a former CIA officer, at Trans Atlantic Security, which they co-founded earlier this year.
Harry had looked up at Ruth and smiled. He had said only two words, softly. "That's good." And in those two words, Harry told her that he was glad Tom had found some happiness in the real world. Ruth had smiled back, and it was clear to both of them that they still cared for Tom Quinn, and in their way, for Christine, because it seemed she truly did love him.
So, as Ruth followed Christine down the wide aisle of the church, it really wasn't farfetched that Harry would have trusted her with this information, but Ruth wasn't going to be convinced that easily. As they stepped out into the sunlight and moved around to the side of the church, Ruth took Christine's arm. "How do I know I can trust you?"
Christine smiled again, a warm smile. "He thought you would say that, too." She reached her hand up toward Ruth's face, but then moved it to the right and touched her necklace. She found the two charms, the H and the R, and held them gently between her fingers. "He loves you very much, Ruth. And I'm here to help you."
I wonder if they've made contact yet? Harry was actually experiencing some degree of difficulty concentrating, just thinking about it. The idea that Christine was there in Paris, so close to Ruth, elated him somehow. He felt he was surrounding her with people she could trust, and perhaps she wouldn't feel so alone. First Isabelle, now Christine and Tom, forming a cocoon of sorts, in lieu of his own arms around her. Although Harry didn't imagine Ruth would trust Christine right away.
He pushed away the report he was filing on John Russell's treachery. The report could wait, and after all, John was already in custody. The unknown was how Ruth was meeting with this new wrinkle. Harry would receive the report from Trans Atlantic Security, folded neatly inside hisTimes from the news agent down the street, but that could take days. It had sounded to Harry as if Ruth would be visiting the Louvre very soon, and Christine would be waiting.
He'd tried to think of a way to tell Ruth in the email he'd written on Sunday, but decided he'd probably just end up confusing her with cryptic references, so he'd chosen in the end to simply trust the process. Christine was very skilled at what she did, and for an American, she was remarkably honest and forthcoming. He actually liked her rather a lot, now that he had reconnected with the Quinns.
He and Ruth had talked about Tom quite a bit during those last days. About what it meant to have a personal life separate from the Security Services. Ruth had mentioned a conversation she'd had with Zoe once, about how most of the time Harry knew when officers were interested in dating someone even before they told the person in whom they were interested. Not the ideal scenario for a happy ending.
But the two they held up as examples were Tom and Christine. The difficult conclusion wasn't spoken, but the question hung in the air. Would Harry and Ruth give up their jobs to be together? And somewhere in his mind, Harry had determined that he would contact Tom, if only to ask him how the story had turned out. To find out what it was like to have a real life, from someone he knew, someone with passion for the work.
Harry had asked Malcolm, actually, to make the four hour drive up to Liverpool on the week-end to visit the Quinns at their office. Much safer at the start than Harry doing it himself, and Malcolm had welcomed the idea of a night at a hotel by the bay. He came back fairly gushing of their modest business, and had recognised an ex-MI5 agent or two at desks. And Malcolm had also returned with his usual story, told with the requisite rolling eyes, about how similar his job was to being a doctor.
"Bloody hell, can't go anywhere anymore. It's forever, 'Doctor, I have this pain,'" as he told Harry about the inferior wiring, the lack of adequate firewall, and the Ethernet problem that was keeping them from networking the ages-old computers at their desks. Harry knew that Malcolm in fact loved being asked all those technical questions, and after a quick patch, had promised to go back soon and fix them up properly. And, ever the good Section Head, Harry knew it was an excellent cover story, so he encouraged it.
Harry had asked Malcolm in the most roundabout way about his impression of Tom and Christine's relationship. Malcolm had narrowed his eyes and frowned, trying to figure out what Harry was getting at, and then had finally given him the "Ah, I see" look. "You want to know if they're happy, now that they're no longer here in the warm bosom of our little family?" Harry had nodded, somewhat abashed.
"Yes, Harry. They seem resplendently happy. Actually can't stop, well ... touching each other." Malcolm's mouth set in a crooked smile as his eyes widened. "Quite lovely, in fact. Tom seems in very high spirits, and Christine so much less, erm ... spiky."
So Harry had decided to see for himself, and had spent his next free day driving up to Merseyside. He lost one tail in Birmingham, another in Telford, and from there it was smooth sailing. He thought Mace's rogues might be tiring a bit, and the inferior equipment they were driving were certainly no match for the Lexus.
He'd met the Quinns at The Hope Hotel, which seemed fitting somehow, and they'd had a lovely lunch together at the hotel's restaurant. Tom's eyes were sparkling, Christine was glowing, and yes, they could hardly keep their hands off each other. They reminded Harry of another couple that was very close to his heart.
Finally, over dessert and coffee, Tom had broached the subject that was weighing heavily on his mind. "Harry, we heard about Ruth. I'm so sorry." He looked down at his coffee, his mouth set. "I know you had tremendous respect for her, and you know that I cared for her too. Very much. We don't hear everything from London up here, but that news did get to us." Looking back at Harry, he smiled sadly. "Just wanted to tell you I was sorry."
Harry wore the face Tom remembered so well. Absolutely inscrutable. He could be composing his grocery list or planning to eviscerate you, and anything between. But he held it just a little too long for Tom's spook sense, and Tom tilted his head, frowning. Then, as it continued, Tom saw a smile begin, first in Harry's eyes, and then travelling to the corners of his mouth. Just the whisper of a smile.
Tom narrowed his eyes. "What don't we know, Harry?"
Harry took a deep breath. "Actually, that's one of the reasons I've come to see both of you." He pushed his flan away, half-eaten. "I wanted to see how you were doing, of course, but I would also like to retain your services. " Dabbing at the corner of his mouth with his napkin, he continued, "Privately."
Now Christine smiled, speaking softly. "She's still alive, isn't she?"
Harry paused and then exhaled. Christine saw so much in Harry's eyes then. Concern, pain, hope, desperation, determination. But what Christine saw most of all was a man very, very much in love. She didn't need to hear the answer. What she hadn't seen was grief. She nodded, and simply said, "Ah."
Harry leant forward, crossing his arms in front of him on the table. "You need to know how much trust I feel for you, that I'm here. It goes directly to my heart, and I don't bare that for many." He looked pointedly at Christine. "I knew Tom for ten years in the Services. I think I know him down to his soul. I understand why he did what he did, and he understands why I had to let him go."
Harry's voice softened, but there was still steel in it. "But you, Christine, I don't know. I'm making a great leap here, and risking a person whose life is more precious than my own." He reached across and took Christine's hand. It was clear to her that this was a pact they were making, more binding than any piece of paper she had ever signed. "I need to know I can trust you." Harry squeezed her hand, gently. His eyes were darker than their usual brown, intense, riveting her. "Can I trust you, Christine?"
Christine continued to hold his stare. Spies just love to play chicken, she thought, and I'm very good at this, too, Harry. But she could see how much this meant to him. He must love her very much, and that's not something to play with. She squeezed his hand back, and said, sincerely, "Yes."
He released her, and Christine reached to her coffee cup. "Harry, I know we didn't meet under the best of circumstances, and I have no illusions about how you feel about the cousins." Smiling she said, "I'm not with them anymore. I meant it when I said I love your country." She looked at Tom, her eyes soft, "And I love Tom Quinn." Tom smiled back at her, staying silent. He knew this was between the two of them, and he had no worries about his wife's abilities. Or her loyalty.
Christine looked back at Harry. This time she smiled warmly at him. "Do I get any credit for moving here? For marrying a solid British man? For leaving the evil empire?" Harry couldn't suppress a small smile back as she continued, "I'm a good person, Harry. And although you were a little rough on me in your interrogation ... what did you call me ... the rotten apple?" Now Harry laughed, softly, and nodded. "Even though you were a little rough on me, I have great respect for what you do, and who you are." She looked at Tom again. "And the man my husband looks up to."
She looked back at Harry. "So, yes, you can trust me. And I'm good at what I do." Christine sat up straight. "I hope we can be friends someday. I would like that."
Now Harry gave her a genuine smile, and exhaled in relief. "Good," he said. "And my sincerest apologies for the rotten apple reference. I tend to dramatise a bit in my interrogations. Bad habit." He shrugged. "But sometimes very effective."
Harry looked at both of them in turn, and then continued. "And yes, Ruth is alive. She's in Paris, with a new identity. And we are very much in love. I'm prepared to do whatever is required to get her back home, but I need your help."
Ruth was looking out at the water, lost in her thoughts. In her hands, she held the note that Christine had given to her, written in Harry's familiar block capitals. My beloved mule. Believe her. She is working with me. Stay strong. I love you. It was definitely Harry's writing, and Ruth was frankly exhausted with the endless scenarios that might have Christine working against her best interests. In any case, she was sitting next to her on a bench overlooking the Seine, so her legend was blown. Ruth thought she might as well trust her.
Christine had her own thoughts to contend with. Being here with Ruth had brought it all back to her. Oliver Mace. That man was slime. Christine put her hand to her face and could still feel the slap of his meaty hand there. She put herself back in that hotel room, when Tom was on the run after shooting Harry.
She remembered Mace as he stood against the windows with the black of the night sky behind him. Why did everything he said sound like a snarl, even when he was trying to sound solicitous? "Tom is a traitor. We must know what he and his friends are up to." Mace had taken a sip at his wine and frowned, obviously displeased with the vintage.
Christine had told him no. "I won't meet him! I won't!" She'd stood defiantly facing him, and then she moved over to the sofa and sat down, wearily. Behind her were two men, wearing the identical Special Branch uniform of coat, tie, and white shirt. One of them, she knew only as Baker, the other one she had never seen.
"You will, or I will give your masters a very hostile report. You'll be interrogated for months. Drinking out of a toilet bowl in a CIA facility. Standing up all night in a freezing cell." Oliver moved closer to her, his voice concerned, soft. "Mmmmm?" Oh, he was very concerned, until he slapped her so hard across the face that she fell to the floor and saw stars drifting across her line of sight. Yes, charming man.
Mace feigned distress, and took Christine by the arms, helping her back to the sofa, as she held the side of her face to try to ease the pain. "Oh, okay, shhhhhhh," he said, as one would speak to a child who's had a bad dream. He stroked her hair. "You know my reputation, don't you, Christine? Hmmm? I don't let people not do what I want them to do."
He leaned back, having made his point. Now his voice was hard, flint-like. "So choose. They say that in American prisons, traitors have a worse time than paedophiles." He laughed cruelly, and took the box that was handed to him by his man, Baker, who stood behind Christine. Opening it, Mace handed her a small transmitter.
Christine had worn the wire, and in so doing, had betrayed Tom. That moment, when Mace had struck her down, was the beginning of the end of her career with the CIA. The events that followed had almost destroyed her, and Tom. She was so grateful that Tom had found her when he did, after he left MI5 but before she had flown away from Britain, heartbroken, feeling she had nowhere else to go but back to the States.
So, as Christine thought about Ruth, she realised that Oliver Mace had gotten what he wanted from both of them. He'd beaten them both up, in a way, and forced them to do things that were entirely out of character. It really was time for Oliver Mace to pay for some of the damage he'd done. And the two intelligent and determined women sitting on this bench were just the ones to make him pay.
"Okay." Ruth's voice pulled Christine back into the present.
Christine turned, and Ruth was looking at her. Ruth's face had softened, and she held the short note in her hands as if it were fragile, like a flower. Christine could see now just how much she loved Harry, too. Ruth looked her right in the eye and said, "What do you need from me?"
Speaking softly, Christine began. "Harry said you'd never had a real de-brief about what you saw at the tube station. You didn't push Maudsley, but someone did, and you were closer to him than anyone else. Tom is working toward getting the original CCTV footage, although we think it's probably been destroyed ... "
Ruth interrupted her suddenly, smiling. "Tom. Where is Tom? Is he with you?"
"No, he's in London today. We thought it would be better to have this first meeting just be with me."
Leaning forward, Ruth asked, "How is he? Is he happy?" Her new circumstances had made Ruth more direct, primarily because she never knew when she was going to see someone again.
Christine smiled. "You mean did he make the right decision?" Ruth nodded and Christine's eyes softened. "Well, you'd have to ask him that, but yes, I think he feels he did. We love each other and we're very happy. We live in Liverpool, our firm is small, but we like it that way. We try to avoid the jobs watching cheating husbands and wives, and focus on security for local businesses, and some clients in London use us regularly."
Ruth asked eagerly now, "Do you miss it? Does he?"
Laughing softly, Christine shrugged and looked out at the water. "Oh, yeah, sometimes. It's like a drug, isn't it? Knowing things? We play a game with the newspaper, reading stories and inventing the real story underneath it." Looking back at Ruth, she smiled brightly, "But, really miss it? I don't, and I don't think Tom does either. We have a good life, and we have each other. That wasn't possible where we were."
Ruth smiled back at Christine, liking her more and more as the conversation progressed. "Will you tell him hello for me? And that I've missed him?"
Christine returned her warm smile. "Yes, I will. He told me to tell you the same, and he's looking forward to seeing you. He really was devastated when he heard you'd died, Ruth."
Ruth laughed nervously. "Well, yes, cripes, so was I!" She laced her fingers together in her lap and wrung them slightly. "I keep forgetting that I'm dead, you know? That there are people, lots of them, in London, who think I'm in that cold box."
Christine reached over and put her hand on Ruth's. "We're going to do our best to get you home."
Ruth looked gratefully at Christine and took a deep breath. "So, where do we start?"
Turning to her, Christine said, "We start with the de-brief, and I want to show you a photo of this guy, Niles Baker. He's done most of Mace's dirty work, and if we can place him at that tube station, we may be able to prove he pushed Maudsley." She gazed for a moment out at the water. "Harry's working on the inside aspects, trying to discover who Fox was, and he brought us up to speed with all the files. And Tom's kept a number of very loyal sources from his time on the Grid, so he's hoping to work them."
Ruth's voice was just above a whisper, "You saw Harry? How?"
Christine looked back at Ruth and saw that her eyes were glistening. "Yes, he drove up to Liverpool and had lunch with us."
"How does he look?" Ruth tried not to sound pitiful, although she knew she did.
Christine tilted her head, and felt a wave of sympathy move through her. She had now seen Ruth and Harry separately, and she saw the same thing in each. Their overriding concern was for the other. This was real love, and Christine suddenly felt so sorry for them, and so lucky that she and Tom woke up together every morning and went to sleep together each night.
"He misses you terribly, Ruth. And he's completely committed to getting you home." She smiled and spoke gently. "He looks sad, but determined. And it's pretty clear how much he loves you."
Ruth's head turned sharply out to face the water. She was trying to shield the tears that were forming, and Christine had a desire to cheer her up a bit. "I have something for you. A surprise." She smiled as Ruth looked at her, blinking the tears back. Christine reached into her coat pocket and pulled out a small mobile phone. As she handed it to Ruth, she said, "It will ring one of these nights, and I think you'll be pleased with the person calling."
Ruth took the phone as if it were a piece of him, and cradled it gently. "Harry?" Ruth said, looking at it.
"Yes. Malcolm set it up. One-time-only, and secure. Harry wasn't sure when, but he said Mr. Arden would let you know."
For the first time, Christine got to see the radiant smile that Tom had described. And it did light up her face. Ruth reached over and squeezed Christine's hand. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." Christine smiled back. "So, where would you like to be de-briefed?"
"I could make us lunch at my flat? It's close by."
"Sounds perfect." They stood to go. "And Ruth. It's all going to be all right."
Ruth laughed softly, the tears close again. "Oh, God, I hope so."
~~~~~
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
I really must stop looking at this bloody phone. Ruth put it down on the side table and forced herself to cross her arms, leaning back on the pillow. Eight days since Christine had handed it to her, and Ruth had taken it everywhere. Whilst she slept it was next to her head, whilst she showered it sat by the sink, whilst she cooked it held a place in her pocket. Christine had said Harry would let her know when it would ring, but Ruth kept thinking it might just suddenly go off on its own.
Christine had spent the day with Ruth after meeting her in the church. They'd had an impromptu lunch of salad, homemade soup and bread while Ruth told Christine everything she could remember about her last days in London. It was such a relief to be able to tell the whole story, from stepping out of Harry's door on the morning of Maudsley's death to stepping off of the dock and into the boat four days later.
And although Ruth's attention had been drawn unavoidably to her right that day in the tube station by the blonde woman screaming, she had closed her eyes, sitting in her small flat in Paris, and remembered a dark-haired man, medium height, with a somewhat military close-cropped haircut, who was directly to her left. To her left and forward a bit, in the perfect position to push Maudsley into the onrushing train.
Christine had then produced the photograph of Niles Baker, whom the CIA had dubbed Mace's master of dirty tricks, and Christine got to see first-hand the frown that appeared on Ruth's forehead, the one Harry loved so much. And Ruth had acknowledged that, yes, it could have been him. The key would be getting the tape that placed Baker there. Tom was trying to find out through his old assets what might have happened to the original CCTV tapes from that day, and Malcolm was working from the Grid to find the ghost that always seemed to be left behind, even when a tape was destroyed.
When Christine left that evening, she was on her way to meet Tom in London, where they would spend the night, before driving back to Liverpool the next day. Ruth hugged Christine, genuinely, asking her to tell Tom how happy she was about his new life, and how she had missed him. She hoped that he would find his way to Paris soon to see her, and Ruth knew he would be another touchstone, another road in the map from her life there, to the one she lived now.
Sitting at l'Alcove after hours on Friday, she'd sent another letter off to Martin Wingate, keeping the pattern of four days that Harry had set. Isabelle was used to the schedule by now, and gave her a hug before leaving, whispering, "Say hello to James for me, dear, if you can. Tell him I love the friend he has sent to me."
Ruth smiled up at Isabelle and stood to give her a proper hug. "I'll do that, Isabelle." Then she sat down again to the puzzle she faced each time she wrote. How to say what was in her heart without saying more than she should. Harry's mobile, which was what she had taken to calling it in her head, was, as always now, by her side.
Dear Will,
Your present arrived, and I can't express the joy it gave me. The messenger was a fantastic surprise, and once my heart resumed beating, we had rather a nice chat. Quite a peculiar sense of humour you have, Mr. Arden. I can say in all honesty that the little apple (apparently significantly less rotten) was the last one I would expect to have seen again. I'm sure you had a small chuckle over that, as did I, later. Much later, thank you very much. And now, in addition to everything else, you owe me a long and leisurely day's trip to the Louvre, preferably with a dear friend who can appreciate the Masters.
I look at your gift now, sitting next to me, and wonder when it will begin to function as it was designed. But I've been told that I have a decided lack of patience in matters of the heart, so I will attempt to surprise you with my equanimity, and here is a perfect example - sometimes I go for seconds at a time without thinking about it. So there you have it. Obviously, my patience is superb.
And since I clearly don't care when this bloody little thing will complete its assigned task, I feel entirely free to talk about something as prosaic as the weather. Spring is lovely in Paris. I make my daily trek to the bookshop and watch the spirits of those I pass rise steadily with the temperature.
As I walk, I remember a goodbye on a very cold day, and how bleak and grey things seemed then. I try to find hope in the slightly longer, brighter days at this time of year, and the renewal and regeneration that come with them. The little apple brought those feelings with her, Will. Thank you, truly, for that.
The bookshop is thriving, and Mrs. Fontaine has just expressed her gratitude for a new friend. This might have been simply an expedient choice of job, but it was a good one, and I, too, am grateful for it. It has a simplicity and an elegance that I find attractive, although I'm not certain how long that will be the case. I feel I am playing at being something I'm not, something that is a bit against a nature which leans in an entirely different direction. But for now, it will do. I would say I am content, but I do miss the excitement of my last place of employment, and the routine sometimes lulls me into a stupor. Much as I would like it to believe it, simple and elegant may not, after all, be my style.
Mrs. Fontaine has allowed me to teach her a few things about sorting and organising the shelves, not to mention what she delightfully calls "the machine" which I am using to write to you. She's actually becoming quite adept, which is a great comfort to me, as I'm feeling an optimism that I might not be here forever. The hope spoken of above is leading me to believe I should be sure my work can carry on, were I to suddenly find myself travelling somewhere familiar.
May I talk about hope? What an enormous feeling goes with that tiny word. When it's gone, the heart is empty, tipped out, forlornly waiting for something. As it creeps back in, it carries with it the most wonderful pictures, of people and places and memories. The eyes brighten, laughter comes easily, and everyone seems more friendly.
It brings to mind something I read recently by the wonderful Indian author Arundhati Roy, when she wrote about hope. "Not only is another world possible, she is on her way. On a quiet day, I can hear her breathing." Today is a quiet day.
I was also thinking recently about the strength of steel, and how it must be folded and beaten and refolded to achieve that strength, and then nothing can break it. Two people can be like that as well, I think. The man I told you about? He is dearer to me in this absence than I might have realised had he been with me every day. That may be the only silver lining to which I can cling, but it makes it no less true.
So I wait for the real gift that lies within this device I hold often in my hands. And I hope I get some notice of its arrival, because I've planned an evening around it. I will take myself to a hotel with a claw foot tub, and will immerse myself in lavender bubbles, and remember.
I will listen to the voice that I love more than the words on this page can possibly describe, deep and resonant and full of love for me, which is the sweetest part of its sound. And I'll probably cry, but not enough to overflow the tub, thank God, because that's been done before and it was a disaster to mop up.
Please don't make me wait too long, Will. What I said about my patience? Absolute bollocks. I have none.
Residing in Paris but living in hope,
Sophie
Ruth sat up on the bed again, trying to get comfortable. She'd tried a book, but kept reading pages she couldn't remember. It was now Wednesday night, and he should have had her letter five days ago, but she still hadn't heard from him. Only one day late, really, and he'd told her it might happen. No one knew better than Ruth what it could be like on the Grid in a crisis. And Harry was always required. On the head of the king all the sorrows lie. What she knew beyond a doubt was that if Harry was hurt or missing, she would have heard from Malcolm, and that was an indescribable comfort.
She read the Times hoping to find some clue, but nothing seemed to be going on. The headlines were of flood warnings to the southeast of England, the highest spring tides in fifty years, very high water levels in the Thames Estuary – Ruth tried to imagine what possible connection there was to Security Services, but simply couldn't think what it might be.
So here she sat in her tiny apartment, obsessing about a phone call, and there was a whole world out there to explore. Ruth was frustrated with herself and her lack of imagination. Exile is one thing, but mooning about with no life beyond waiting for a mobile to ring was entirely another. She was in Paris, and could find nothing to do? How was that possible? Ruth had dreamt of Paris, but she realised now that her dreams had conditions. She was putting off living her life until Harry could live it with her.
Now when she dreamt, it was of her house in London, the bus ride to Thames House, the adrenaline of the Grid, the soft purr of the fluffy girls, touching Harry's hand secretly in the hall, seeing his eyes hooded in a private look, hearing him gruff and bear-like in a briefing. The Eiffel Tower hadn't a prayer of competing.
It was a temporary life, she knew. She was marking time only until she was able to go home to England, and to Harry. In fact, as she had written to him, she conducted herself at the bookshop as if she were perpetually on her two-weeks' notice, making sure that everything she did was documented for Isabelle. Naturally frugal, Ruth bought only small quantities of everything at home, thinking that at any moment she might walk out the door and never come back.
For that reason, she never took her necklace off, and never went anywhere without money for travel. It was a strange existence, but an endlessly promising one, not unlike reading a novel that you hope will end happily. Except that with a novel, the number of pages are finite. Ruth had no idea how long this life would need to go on.
Her meeting with Christine had helped to ground her, as if touching someone who had so recently touched Harry had passed some of his essence on to Ruth. She felt energised, as if she'd been given a shot of some revitalising vitamin. In her best moments, she could fool herself into believing that she was on some sort of holiday, resting up for whatever the Grid had to offer when she got back. But there were still moments that were the worst.
She missed him so much, and apart from that she missed the life that went with him. Not just the spying, which she loved, but the orderliness of her old life. She had found familiarity in Paris, at the bookshop and in the scenes of the Boulevard Beaumarchais, but it could, of course, never be the same. Isabelle now truly felt like a friend, but Ruth couldn't bear the dishonesty it required.
Suddenly, Ruth moved to the edge of the bed and stood. Enough. She had walked by the Patisserie Orientale and imagined a dinner there with Harry. Well, I can bloody well enjoy it on my own. She walked in to the bath to survey herself in the mirror, and touch up her mascara.
For all her bravado, she did, however, take the mobile with her.
Harry sat waiting for the COBRA meeting at the Cabinet Office to start, and thought how unexpectedly his day had turned out.
This morning, he had walked along the Thames composing his letter to Ruth in his head, planning when he would call her. Today would be the fourth day, and he was proud of himself for again managing to wait. The last few days had been quiet on the Grid, with terror taking a holiday of sorts. He'd had plenty of time to digest Christine's report, and had even managed a secure call with her.
Christine had sounded slightly amused at his questions, and when he asked why, she told him that they were identical to the ones Ruth had asked her about him. She said she realised the seriousness of her task, but couldn't shake the feeling that she was passing notes in class. She said, yes, Ruth looked good, but she was sad, and missed him. Yes, her apartment was lovely, although small, and they'd had a nice day together. And yes, she had written him a note as well, which was included with the report.
My beloved Will. Thank you for hope. I love you, too, more than there's room for on this note.
As he walked, watching the water of the Thames lap against the wall, he thought again of how those simple words, in her lovely hand, had warmed him. All those cloying phrases had come to mind, cheerful, jaunty, a spring in his step, but he was shameless in his good mood. He'd stopped to get his usual, a cinnamon latte and almond croissant from Carlo at the Caffé Express cart, expecting that he would go to the Grid and sit down straight away to begin writing.
And then all Hell had broken loose.
Members of Divine Earth, a terrorist environmental group, had stormed the Thames Barrier and threatened to destroy it unless their demands were met. High tide was coming at five this evening, and without the Barrier, it would result in a six foot wall of water that would flood the underground and most of central London. That made it a matter of Home Security, and it had landed squarely on Harry's desk.
And the day had ended unspeakably, with Harry offering an option to the Deputy Prime Minister that would save London, but would drown Adam and Ros. As Harry sat silently in his office with Zaf, Jo and Malcolm, each lost in imagining the horror their friends were experiencing, Ruth's voice came to him in one of her often-quoted Latin phrases. Salus populi suprema lex. The welfare of the people is the supreme law. It gave Harry comfort somehow to hear that in his head, as if she stood behind him and whispered it, softly squeezing his arm. It wasn't your fault, Harry, you did the right thing.
Harry asked, as always, for forgiveness from his two dying team members, and wondered again how long he could give orders of this kind. "Send in the divers. See if there are ... any ... survivors." When the head of the rescue unit sounded sceptical, Harry said, quietly, "Just do it."
He had probably saved thousands of British lives with that order, but he lived most painfully with the two he had lost. Until, an hour later, when the miraculous call had come through. Adam and Ros, safe, and on their way to have a good stiff drink together. He wished them well, and thanked whatever power in the sky had saved him from the guilt of another impossible decision.
But as he sat finally at the computer, his hands resting on the keyboard in the early hours of morning, Harry couldn't write Ruth's letter, because he couldn't lie tonight. He couldn't be Will Arden and pretend in clever phrases not to need the woman he ached for, the one person in the world who could absolve him of the desperation he felt after days like this one. He would have to tell her everything, break every rule of their pact together, draw her into his pain. Harry would have to tell the truth.
So instead of writing to her, he opened a new bottle of single malt, poured a glass, and fought the urge to call her. In the end, he didn't, not because he didn't want to hear her voice, because he did, badly. Harry didn't call Ruth because he wanted her to have that night in the hotel, listening to the tiny fireworks of the popping bubbles, breathing in the delicious lavender air, reminding him with her words of those three days of magic.
He wanted them both to have that night. So Harry waited, alone on the Grid, in his glass prison. Self-denial. Would there ever be a day that he could allow himself everything and everyone he wanted? A wave of self-pity threatened him, but he pushed it away, aware that there were men who would kill to have what he had. An extraordinary woman loved him, and he reminded himself with another swallow of scotch that he was still the luckiest man on Earth.
Harry had been so busy today, he hadn't crossed off the date on his calendar. He did it now, and wrote the small number in the corner that helped him mark the time on the prison wall. Forty-four days since she had slept in his bed, and as he wrote the number, he wondered how many more before she would sleep in it again, here in England, close beside him, where she belonged.
Forty-four days. Nearly three times the number of days they had spent in each other's arms. How foolish she had been in thinking he might love her less as time went by. She didn't need to be in his sight to grow in his heart, and she did, with each passing day.
The next evening, feeling stronger, and finally in possession of a minute of time, Harry wrote a belated letter to his Ruth.
My dear friend Sophie,
This will be short, as I am in the middle of some urgent bank business. I wanted first to apologize for my tardiness in getting a letter to you. I will ask again for you to know that even if you fail to receive something from me at the allotted time, you are no less in my thoughts.
I'm also making this short as I believe we will have a time very soon to express ourselves in a different way. Today is Thursday. In two days it will be Saturday, and it seems to me that eight in the evening is a good time for a bath.
Although I would much rather stay here with you, I'm overdue at a meeting. I will owe you two letters in the future, and expect you to hold me to it. Just remember, Saturday will be a quiet day, a good day to hear hope breathing.
Yours ever,
Will
~~~~~
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