CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
It was a Friday at the end of July, and Malcolm felt they'd all had enough of the long face he saw in Harry's office every day. He was standing at Harry's door after having dropped a report on his desk, and he had a plan. "When was the last time you saw Tom and Christine?" Malcolm asked.
Harry turned to him, shrugging slightly. "A month ago? They came into town and we had dinner. Why?"
"I'm driving up to Liverpool for the week-end to do some work for them. Come with me. They would very much like to see you."
Harry immediately shook his head. "I can't." He made a show of shuffling some files on his desk. "I have too much to do."
Malcolm looked at him from under his brows. "Harry, Connie nearly nodded off this morning compiling the threat report. There's nothing going on, and you know it."
Harry had the feeling Malcolm was going to stand there until he said yes. The truth was, Harry didn't know what to do with himself. The prospect of muddling through a repeat of the last three long week-ends alone was not an attractive one. Company would be nice, and he did enjoy being with Tom and Christine very much.
Their last dinner had left him sadder than when it started, however. The three of them tried to reclaim the lightness they'd enjoyed when Ruth was in Paris, but it was elusive. They didn't talk about the fourth chair, but she was there nonetheless, a ghost, as if she had drowned in the Thames so long ago. Harry sighed, and said to Malcolm, "I don't think I … "
Malcolm could sense that he was weakening slightly. "Come on. Spend one week-end as part of the human race again. Then you can come back to your dreadful mood. It will always be here, you know."
Harry growled, "I'm not in a dreadful mood." To Malcolm's highly sceptical look, he said, "What about the animals?" Even Harry could hear that he was losing this battle.
"You know how Wes loves them. He'll be thrilled, and Adam still has his key, yes?"
Harry looked up at his friend, sadly. "I'm afraid I won't be very good company, Malcolm."
"Then we'll get you drunk and keep you that way." He was starting to walk away now, enjoying his victory. "You're leaving the Grid early today. Pick you up at your house at four."
By half-past four, they were on the road to Liverpool. Harry wasn't always a happy occupant of the passenger seat, usually preferring to drive himself, but today he didn't feel a need to be in control. He was quite willing to sit and wallow in his melancholy. Malcolm was single-minded in his goal that Harry would cheer up, and he had even resorted to telling jokes to accomplish it.
Harry was already stifling a laugh, but it was because he was listening to what he thought might be the longest and worst joke he'd ever heard. It didn't help that Malcolm was telling it with death-like gravity. Something about two parsnips crossing the road, one gets hit by a lorry and is taken to hospital, and now, finally, the husband-parsnip is hearing the prognosis about the wife-parsnip from the doctor. Harry could tell Malcolm was winding up for the punch line.
"And the doctor says sadly to the husband-parsnip, 'I'm afraid she'll be a vegetable for the rest of her life.'" Malcolm glanced sharply over at Harry, and the expectant look on his face was enough to put Harry over the edge. He laughed, and Malcolm returned his eyes to the road with a smug look.
Harry shook his head, saying, "That's a terrible joke, Malcolm, but it's clean, so I'll try to remember it for Wes."
"And, of course, you'll give credit where it's due."
Harry nodded his head, "Oh, yes, Malcolm, you can be assured of that."
Malcolm drove in silence for a few moments, and then said, "And now that I have achieved the impossible and finally made you laugh, I would like to tell you a story."
Harry rubbed his forehead, smiling. "I'm not sure I can survive another joke, Malcolm."
"Not a joke. A story." Malcolm's voice softened. "About the lovely Sarah."
Harry turned to him, surprised. The lovely Sarah. Harry remembered Connie's question to Malcolm. Malcolm had answered, "Sarah wasn't to be, I'm afraid." Harry had never heard of a woman in Malcolm's life, although of course Connie knew. He meant to ask Malcolm about it, but in the crisis that followed, Harry had frankly forgotten.
Harry thought he hadn't been a very good friend to Malcolm, and he should have asked. He turned in his seat, ready to listen. Malcolm said wryly, "You're not the only one with a great and tragic love, Harry."
Malcolm looked back to the road. "Connie said she had a second-rate mind," Malcolm raised his eyebrows. "And fat thumbs. She was trying to make me feel better." Smiling sadly, he said, "Neither was true. Excellent mind, and quite beautiful thumbs, as I recall."
"How long ago was it, Malcolm? When did you last see her?"
"Six years, four months, twenty-three days, and about twelve hours." He looked at Harry. "But who's counting?" We are, Harry thought quickly, remembering his calendar this morning. Sixty-six days since he had kissed Ruth goodbye in Dover.
Harry was incredulous. Malcolm was smitten, truly in love, even thinking of her. After six years. Harry could see it now, the deep sadness, the resignation that always seemed to be there under the surface. Harry felt ashamed that he'd never noticed it before.
Malcolm continued, "I keep tabs on her. She's still living in the same place, still at the same job, haven't seen a name change yet, no licences applied for, and Sarah's certainly not the girl to live with someone. I suppose she's now classified as a middle-aged spinster. So I have to assume she still pines for me a bit as well." Harry didn't say anything, but was listening intently.
"We were ... are, I think ... very much in love. She's a teacher, English Literature, O Levels, and brilliant. Not a supermodel, but then again ... " Malcolm glanced over to Harry with an amused smile curling his lips, "Neither am I." He paused for a moment, his eyes focused on the road, but his sight was somewhere else entirely. "I think she's the most beautiful woman I've ever met. She never could believe that, but it was true then, and it's true now." His voice grew softer, more wistful. "We were very good together, Sarah and I."
Suddenly it came into Harry's mind that he had never seen a request from Malcolm to socialise with the lovely Sarah. Malcolm, the rule follower. But Harry didn't ask. He understood better than anyone how the rules can be bent for love. "But it ended. How did it end, Malcolm?"
Malcolm sighed. "She ended it. Didn't much like my job. It was the only thing we ever argued about, you know?" He looked over at Harry and realised that was a rhetorical question if there ever was one. "She said I was secretive, that I didn't trust her, that I would get myself killed one day, and then where would she be? She wouldn't even have known me." He sighed again. "She was right."
"I walked out of her door all those years ago, and told her that I would always love her but that one day I would no longer love my job. That someday I would be back. She said she might not be there. I said I hoped she would be."
Harry was still reeling a bit. He knew this conversation wasn't a random one. Malcolm had probably been planning it since before he'd asked Harry to come to Liverpool. The reason for Malcolm's revelation was obvious, it was a gift, and Harry wanted to honour it. Might as well get to the heart of the matter. "Did you ever think of leaving the Service for her, Malcolm?"
Malcolm turned and smiled. Yes, this was the question he was waiting for. Harry hadn't yet spoken of leaving, but Malcolm had been feeling it from his friend since the last letter had arrived from Ruth over a month ago. He nodded, his lips tight together. "Many times, Harry. You can't imagine how often." He looked pointedly at Harry. "Well, perhaps now you can."
Harry was grateful for this conversation, grateful to Malcolm. He had wanted to talk to someone about this very much. "But you never did leave. Why didn't you?"
Malcolm paused. "Do you remember the story of Edward VIII?" Malcolm knew it was a non sequitur of sorts, but he also knew that Harry would make the connection immediately.
"Yes." Of course, Harry knew the story. Edward VIII, King in 1936. He fell in love with Wallis Simpson, American socialite, twice divorced. Edward was told by the Church of England that he could never marry her. In December of 1936, after only ruling since January of the same year, he abdicated the throne with a famous speech. Harry frowned, "What was it he said in his abdication speech, Malcolm, about 'the woman I love'?"
Malcolm recited it exactly, and with some reverence. "I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility, and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love."
Harry smiled at the perfect recitation. "Yes, that one."
Malcolm continued, "I was rather obsessed by the story when I was younger, read everything I could get my hands on. Thought it was at once the most romantic and the most absurd thing I'd ever heard of. A Monarch of the Realm giving up his throne for an American divorcee who was thought by all round to be only after his money and his power."
In truth, Harry had fallen more on the side of thinking the whole affair absurd rather than romantic, but it seemed much sadder to him now, as he recalled it. As he looked out at the passing countryside, Harry thought how interesting it was that his own pain had opened him up to the pain of others so completely. He said softly, "He became the Duke of Windsor, and wasn't even given the honour of having her officially called his Duchess."
Malcolm turned off on to the M6 toward Liverpool. "It was like fiction, really, wasn't it? I couldn't let go of it, and I always found myself scanning for news of the two of them. And do you know, Harry, I never saw a photo of Edward after that where he looked truly happy. For twenty-five years."
Malcolm waited for that to sink in, and then he looked directly at Harry, with purpose. "I mean, you would hope that if you gave up a Kingdom, you would spend the rest of your life in bliss with the person you gave it up for, wouldn't you?"
Harry smiled at his old friend. "Yes, you would hope so."
Malcolm looked back at the road. "But then I started to think, if you've given all that up, isn't it practically a foregone conclusion that your life will never live up to it? Who even knows if they were happy? Everyone wanted to believe they were, of course, but they had to stay together, didn't they? It's not as if you can abdicate all of England, and then say, 'Gosh, I guess this wasn't such a good idea after all.'"
Harry didn't answer right away, but when he did, there was great affection in his voice for his old friend. "Thank you, Malcolm. With the obvious understanding that the Grid and the Kingdom are two quite different seats of power, I appreciate the analogy. And yes, I have thought often of leaving, but something has always stopped me."
"And it's how I always felt about Sarah. It was too much pressure to put on her. On us." Malcolm sighed. "I will give this up someday and she'll be the first one I call. She may not be there, but it was still the right decision, Harry."
"I hope the lovely Sarah is still there, Malcolm."
"And I hope Ruth is still there as well, Harry."
Harry dismissed the thought with a shrug. "Well, our situation is entirely different."
Malcolm looked at him and smiled. "Not so different, Harry. And the sooner you realise that, the better off you'll be. This too shall pass. And love will find out the way."
As he looked at Malcolm, Harry felt a glimmer of something that had been achingly absent from his life since Ruth went to Cyprus. Hope. He had been thinking in black and white terms, which he knew was never how things turned out. He was in a frame of mind of having her or not having her, but he hadn't allowed for the possibility that their situations might be different someday, and that their love might survive it.
And Harry thought, despite six years, four months, and whatever it was, Malcolm was still as full of hope as if it had been days. It may be foolish for him to think that Sarah was still there for him, but no more foolish than assuming it was impossible that she would be.
Malcolm saw a slight shift in Harry. He had that look in his eyes when he was working something through, a new idea. Malcolm thought this conversation had worked out quite as well as he'd planned it in his head. He made his final point. "How long would you wait, Harry, if you knew you could have Ruth at the end of it? It's only been two months. It may be that you can't have her now, but who knows what the future holds?" Malcolm paused, and then said with a sly smile, "Faith, Harry."
Harry always tried not to underestimate his old friend, but he continued to find that he did. "Thank you, Malcolm, for getting me away from the Grid. I needed a new way of thinking."
Harry took a deep breath and leant his head back, looking out the window. He felt his heart relax, as he loosened his vice-like grip on it. His love for Ruth had always been there, but Harry realised he had been trying to hold it off for months now, as if it were an enemy.
Now he let it flow back through him, and the relief was indescribable. "Yes, Malcolm. I must have faith."
Ruth had never been paid in fish before, but a small hospital in a rural area needed to be prepared for that eventuality, she supposed. She was astonished the first time she took a bag of freshly-caught bass to her supervisor. In return, she received an unconcerned look and was pointed in the direction of an ice cooler. At the end of the day, the doctors came through and helped themselves. She was told that she was welcome to it as well, if she would promise that she would eat it that night and enjoy it.
But it was up to her to make the books tally, and it was a process that amused her no end. They had developed a sort of barter schedule for fish, game, grapes, various quantities and types of vegetables, and even farm animals. In fact, one of Ruth's first tasks was to calculate the value of a burro as payment for an appendix removal. That was one for her resume, she thought.
Ruth had quickly learned to appreciate her job. Where the Grid had been all grey areas and intuition, the Polis Chrysochous Hospital and Rural Health Centre required nothing of her but common sense and steadiness. Be on time, do your job, and then head off to the market or a swim. She'd had to switch her morning swim to an afternoon one, but that was really the only change she'd been required to make. The dress code was as casual as it could be, and the hours were Cyprus hours, start early, and leave early, before the heat of the day.
One of the first people she had seen there was Dr. George Constantinou, but he had clearly taken her last communication to heart. He was offering her only friendship and asking for nothing more. The disconcerting softness that she had seen in his eyes on that night a month ago was gone. It had been replaced by what seemed to be only a kind desire to help her acclimatise and not feel so alone in her new life.
Ruth found she was increasingly grateful for George's friendship, because, aside from the tourists, there weren't many who spoke English. She loved the Greek language, and was getting to a point far past fluency with almost no accent. But she still felt an ease, a comfort, of speaking her native tongue.
And now she knew more of his story, which was an interesting one. He'd been married to an English girl, Emily, and they'd had a son, Nico, who was eight years old. George had met Emily when he was in London at his studies. They'd fallen deeply in love and married quickly, against the protestations of his Greek Orthodox family. They'd lived in London, where Nico was born, until George finished his internship. George and Nico had taken frequent trips to Cyprus, but Emily always had a reason to stay behind in London.
When George achieved his degree, everything had fallen apart. It had never occurred to Emily that she would one day move to Cyprus, to a town where people paid for their medical services in burros. George had never thought he would use his skills in any other way than for the good of his people. Each had skimmed over their differences, thinking they could change the other, but when it came down to it, neither was willing to budge.
So Emily stayed in London with the opera, and the art galleries, and the West End. George went back to Cyprus to offer the fruits of a London medical education to the poor people of Polis. Nico vehemently chose, at seven years old, to live on the vineyard with his father, grandmother, aunts, uncles, and myriad cousins in the sunshine of Cyprus.
In fact, the wine Ruth had been drinking on that night a month ago was from their vineyard, named for Nico. Nicolo Vineyards covered 20 acres of rich land, but it was a young vineyard, the first bottles having been decanted the year Nico was born eight years ago, hence the name.
George's sister, Christina, was a favourite of Nico's, and his connection to her seemed somehow stronger even than the one he had to his mother. Nico would visit his mother on holidays, but she seemed cold and distant to him, and he had never taken to the city. He preferred to swim, to play in the green hills of Polis with his cousins, and to help out on the vineyard for extra money. And he dearly loved his father.
So George was nursing a broken heart of his own, and Ruth found that strangely comforting. Two damaged people with their own language, finding each other on a small island, and offering companionship.
Ruth had discovered all this on a Sunday morning when she had taken her copy of The Times to read over a cup of coffee in the Square. She had looked over and two tables away, George was doing exactly the same thing with his own copy of The Times. She had laughed, and with her now-familiar suspicious look, had said, "George?"
He'd put his hands up and said, "No, not this time, Faith Ruth! I didn't know you were here. I promise I am not following you." She then moved to his table, and they'd had a lively and very pleasant discussion of the news in Britain. He'd told her his story, and she had told him nothing. And she was again grateful that he didn't ask.
So Ruth was finding her way on Cyprus, and the Grid was gradually fading. So was Paris, although she missed Isabelle terribly and thought often of writing to her. She didn't, because she knew that just once wouldn't be enough. And she trusted that somehow Harry had gotten word to Isabelle that Ruth was safe and cared for, so that she wouldn't worry.
She wondered about her flat in Paris, and if Harry had done as she asked and retrieved her necklace and ring. She missed them terribly as well.
But she missed nothing and no one as terribly as she missed Harry.
Ruth still loved Harry every bit as deeply as she had when she said to goodbye to him in Dover. He was with her everywhere, a permanent resident of her heart. She felt broken, and she knew the chronic pain would always be with her, the way a physical pain can be, from a severe wound that has never fully healed. She was resigned to it, and just as someone may groan each morning under the strain of waking with injured muscles, she started each day with an ache that gradually worked its way to a feeling of relative normalcy.
No matter how she tried to move on, she found she couldn't. She fell asleep crying most nights, although there was no catalyst, no difficult moment, no specific memory that brought it on. She would put her head on the pillow and find a wave of emotion in her chest that wouldn't be held down. As she lay sobbing, Ruth knew that she would always love him, as she had told him so many times. Forever. He would always be in her life, whether or not he was physically present.
Tonight, as she did every night as she fell asleep, she wondered where he was, what he was doing, how he was feeling. And in her deep love for him, she hoped Harry wasn't in the same kind of pain she felt, although she doubted that was true.
Ruth looked at the clock. Two in the morning. Midnight in London. Was he awake, thinking of her? She reached her legs back, to where he should have been, and felt emptiness. As the tears spread again into her pillow, she said aloud softly, "Oh, Harry … will it ever get better?"
The question hung heavily in the sultry Cyprus air. She knew it was just her imagination, or perhaps the beginnings of a welcome dream, but Harry put his arms around her, and as she fell asleep, she felt his lips warm on her ear, whispering, "Yes, my Ruth. Yes."
~~~~~
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
"And then ..." Harry said, attempting to drain the last of his scotch in the middle of a laugh, nearly resulting in disaster, " ... he pulled the bloody trigger!"
"You shoot your boss once, you never hear the end of it," Tom said with a huge smile. He looked up at Harry, protesting, "I aimed."
Shaking his head, Harry said, "It was a very traumatic experience. I must be exceptionally drunk to be laughing about it. Christ, I almost lost a lung."
"Yes, but you didn't, did you? As I said, I aimed." Now Tom, Malcolm and Harry were talking at once, as Christine stood to get another beer. She looked around, and Harry's glass was the only empty one. She touched his shoulder lightly and pointed to his glass. He looked up, smiling at her, and said, "Thank you."
It's so good to see Harry smile again, she thought. It's been a long time. Ruth had been gone for two months now. Harry hadn't told Tom and Christine where she was, he'd only told them that she'd been abducted and they'd gotten her back, but just barely. When he related the minimum of information to them at their last restaurant dinner, Christine had seen a fear in Harry's eyes that chilled her to the core.
At the same time, he'd asked them to stop their Maudsley investigation. He'd said that not only did he not want her cleared, he wanted her as far away from him and from England as possible. She could see that he felt to blame for what had happened to Ruth, and there was nothing, and no one, who could persuade him otherwise. So Christine and Tom were no longer helping Harry on a freelance basis. They were back to being simply friends, which was wonderful in its way. But the fourth chair was empty, and all three of them missed Ruth very much.
Christine's affection for Harry had grown in the time they'd spent together, and now she knew absolutely why Tom felt as he did about him. "A marshmallow wrapped in stone" was how Christine described him to Tom recently, and Tom had laughed, nodding. Since Ruth had left, the difference in Harry seemed inevitable, of course, and Christine found it had made her inexpressively sad for him. The light had gone out of his eyes.
It really was as if a blind man had been given sight for a period of time, and then it was wrenched away from him. As if he had experienced the beauty of colours, but could no longer see them. Harry's heart had expanded, but now it was big and empty, with his beloved Ruth gone. He had told them briefly of the last few letters he and Ruth had sent to each other, but it was too painful for him to talk about at any length.
Christine hoped time would heal Harry and Ruth, but she also harboured a hope that things would change, somehow. Stranger things had happened. But bless Malcolm, he'd managed to get Harry up for the week-end, and gradually, with lots of laughter and a liberal dose of single malt, Harry had begun to enjoy himself. Christine filled his glass and got a beer for herself, and walked back into the lounge.
She heard Malcolm speaking in a somewhat high-pitched voice, with a bit of a brogue, " ... and then Sam says, 'I've already thrown out all my pills, and it's not the best time of the month for me to do that, I can tell you that much.' My God, you should have seen Harry's face." The three of them dissolved into laughter again, as Christine placed Harry's glass in front of him.
Tom said, "Sorry I missed that briefing. She was an original, wasn't she?" Tom put his arm around Christine again, as she sat down next to him." Where did Sam end up?"
Harry said, "We seconded her to GCHQ, to research. She was always good at it. The only thing she couldn't do was manage her emotions, deal with the loss. I've heard excellent reports, she's doing well." He took a sip of his scotch. "And it was a trade of sorts, they'd wanted Ruth back ... so ... " He'd spoken before he thought, and stopped himself.
The room went silent for a moment, and then Malcolm said, "None of that. New subject. What are we doing tomorrow?"
Tom said, "You're applying your magic to our possessed computer system, that's what. We've added one more to the network, and now the whole thing is a load of bollocks."
Malcolm rolled his eyes. "Tom, I as I continue to try to impress upon you, computers don't have personalities. They only do what you tell them to do. If they're not doing what you want, then you're telling them the wrong thing."
Tom shook his head. "Then thank God you're here, because there's definitely a language barrier. We need an interpreter, Malcolm."
Malcolm emptied his glass. "And as that's the case, it's very late, and I'm slightly drunk. We should be off to the inn if you want to get anything remotely helpful out of me tomorrow." He looked over at Harry, who nodded.
Christine said, "I wish we had more room here. I wish we could put you up. " She glanced over at Tom, "Someday soon, we'll have a nice big house of our own, and you'll have to come back and stay."
Malcolm stood a bit unsteadily. "Yes, but you don't have a view of the sea, and that is what I require right now. I want to hear the waves crashing on the shore." He started to put his coat on, but missed the armhole. Harry stood to help him, and as he walked by Tom and Christine, he whispered, smiling, "We'll get a cab and pick up the car tomorrow. I've a feeling neither of us should be driving."
Tom laughed softly and started toward the phone, "Good idea."
They said their goodnights, and Harry and Malcolm went to the same hotel Malcolm enjoyed every time he came to Liverpool. Now that Malcolm had shared his story of Sarah with Harry, he couldn't stop talking about her. As Harry got him safely to his room, Malcolm was saying how much Sarah would like this place, and how it would be the first holiday they would take together. Harry shook his friend's hand, said goodnight, and went to his own room.
Harry's room had a balcony and a mini-bar. After getting ready for bed, he poured himself one more drink and went out to hear the waves and look at the moon. He always wondered where Ruth was, and if she was looking at the moon at the same time he was. He pulled his dressing robe around him and thought it must certainly be warmer where she was.
Taking a deep swallow of his scotch, Harry sighed and laid his head back on the chair. He had to admit he felt better. The combination of Malcolm's insights and the good company of tonight had done wonders for his disposition. Things had been looking rather black lately, and now, Harry could see a glint of light just on the horizon. As Malcolm had said, who knows what the future will bring? It had only been two months, after all.
He and Ruth had talked about destiny during their two days at Harry's house, about what was meant to be. She thought they'd scaled every wall that had been put in front of them, and she saw it as a sign that they would ultimately be together. Harry was naturally more sceptical and pragmatic, but he'd begun to come round to her way of thinking as they'd sat in front of the fire.
At the very least, he'd felt that they were a force to be reckoned with. It seemed that anything could be thrown at them, and through sheer will and stubbornness, they would overcome it. He'd forgotten that feeling in the last two months. Ruth had always been the one to talk about how many people in the world had to live through separations. She'd talked about Isabelle and Pierre, about the year they'd spent apart, and how strong they became in spite of it, or perhaps even because of it.
Would he feel the same about Ruth in a year, even with no communication? Harry had no doubt he would. He thought of Malcolm and his six years away from Sarah, and Harry felt he hadn't even scratched the surface of those around him. What had Ruth said? Everyone you meet has a story that can break your heart.
So as he looked at the moon, the same moon that was in her sky on Cyprus, he reached out to her. Closing his eyes, he concentrated all his love toward her. Do what you have to do, my love. Live your life, but hold a place for me. I will do the same. I'll keep a space in my heart that is exactly your size and shape, forever, in hopes that someday you'll come back to fill it. We can't know what fate has in store for us, but we can believe that it means us to be together.
Harry heard Ruth in his head often, her voice as clear to him as it had been the last time he'd seen her. And now as he looked out at the vast ocean, he thought he heard her under the sound of the waves, speaking softly. "Harry ... will it ever get better?" He heard the pain behind the question, but it was definitely Ruth's voice. He'd been wondering the same thing, so it didn't surprise him that he'd conjured her saying it.
His eyes were still closed. To comfort himself, he imagined his arms around her, and he said "Yes, my Ruth. Yes." It was midnight in Liverpool, two in the morning on Cyprus.
Harry finished his drink, crawled into the clean white sheets of his hotel bed, and fell fast asleep. But not before he also imagined that Ruth's arms were warm around him.
August 8
My dear Harry,
Honestly, I give up. I talk to you all day long in my head, and I find I can't remember what I've told you and what I haven't, so I repeat myself endlessly. It's distracting me, and in order to preserve my sanity, I must write things down. No, my love, I will never send this, and yes, I'll transfer it to code the moment I finish. I have a moderate library of books now, and I'll be using a worn-out reprint edition of Pride and Prejudice for the source book.
Ah, the conundrum. Did I just give away the key here? But if someone can read it, haven't they already found it out? I shake my head, acknowledging that my spook sense is rusty, and then I find on second thought that I don't much care. I'm weary of spying. It took you from me, and right now I'm extremely angry with it.
I should tell you of my life here, because although everyone in Polis seems to know my business, I fear you have broken with me completely. I wonder sometimes if the newsboy, or the large woman at the fish stand who hugs everyone, or the ancient man who watches me swim every day, is someone who reports back to you. I would like to think that you still need word of me, that you receive Eyes Only communiqués of my wine consumption (which is rather significant, I'm ashamed to admit), and my consorting with doctors at the hospital.
On that note, just in case, I want to ease your mind. If a satellite photo should cross your desk of me reading The Times in the Polis Centre Square, you will see, every Sunday, a very dark, male head sitting next to me. He is my friend. His name is George Constantinou and he's a doctor.
And if you see fit to be jealous, you're welcome to, as I think it shows a healthy respect of my ability to attract a man, even in my weakened condition. But I will never be in love with him, Harry. It's simply a matter of physics, my dearest love. A glass that's already full cannot have more poured into it.
Cyprus is the same place you and I spent those lovely days together, and I thank you for that. Actually, as I write this, I realise I could probably go wherever I wanted to at this point. Just pack up and head to New York, become the Atlanticist I always professed to be. But I won't, because this is where you can find me, should you ever decide to try.
The tears are starting again, on the power of that last sentence, but I'm as tired of crying as I can be. My life seems to be taken up with either crying, or getting over crying, or trying not to cry, or trying to make it look as if I haven't been crying. What a bore that makes me.
There's an old woman who frequents the Square who seems to be a professional widow. She wears black, yards of it, every day, all day, no matter how hot. She still begs anyone who will listen to hear the story of her Eleftherios, her husband, who died suddenly of a mysterious fever at twenty-six when they were passionately in love.
Her name is Inessa, which coincidentally means chaste in Greek, and her life stopped the day he died. Now she simply re-runs the seven years they were together so long ago, in an endless monologue to every person passing, and she is ignored by most of the people here. She's become a part of the landscape, like the babbling fountain in the centre of the Square, with only neophytes such as myself able to be roped into listening to her story. And listen I have, because I see her as a warning.
But you're not dead, are you, my love? You're very much alive, and I have the disadvantage of having memorised you so thoroughly that you hover everywhere. There's an office with a wall of glass at the hospital, and God help me, it's just across from my desk. I imbue it with red light, and instead of the heavily-moustached Director with his florid cheeks and precariously overhanging belly, out you walk. Looking so blindingly handsome to me, Harry, and wearing the tie I picked out for you this morning.
You glance surreptitiously at me with that smile that only I can see, and I glance back, casually, as if I don't care. And again, we've spoken volumes. Not only "I love you," which is at the beginning and ending of every sentence, but we've practically planned dinner with our eyes.
Oh, how I miss you. My love, my Harry. And here come the tears again, damn them. I wonder if wine turns to tears? "And her tears flowed like wine..." Bukowski, I think. Not much use for my analyst skills here, although I cannot seem to stop analysing.
And despite the wet spots now leaking into my keyboard, I must admit I do feel slightly better. I don't want to make this too long, or I'll be up all night coding it, so I'll close now with the words I say every night as you climb into bed with me: I love you, Henry James Pearce, and always will. Find your way to me. Soon.
Your Ruth
September 3
My dearest Ruth,
I suppose if I must find a silver lining to being without you, my diary entries have increased exponentially. Why do I keep a diary? I'm not quite sure, but it has something to do with Graham and Catherine understanding what their Dad was doing while he wasn't with them.
Of course, for the last 106 days (yes, my love, it has been that long since I kissed you goodbye in the Dover mist), they will hear little of British security, and plenty of their Dad's sentimental heart overflowing. Not a bad thing, I suppose, for them to discover what lurks beneath the cold exterior which is all they really know of me.
Christine let slip the other night that she once called me a "marshmallow surrounded by stone." You will smile at that, I think, but it disconcerts me a bit. The surface is too easily breached with a hard rap on anything solid. And my love, I have been breached, badly.
But, for the sake of the realm, you'll be pleased to know that I've gone back to compartmentalising. I spend my days in relative competence, and have actually been of some use to Her Majesty's Security Service lately. Then in the evenings, I come home to my three steadfast girls and bore them to sleep with stories of my love for you.
With evident concern on their furry little faces, they tell me that I drink too much, but I can't seem to impress upon them the number of drinks I don't have that I would like to. They worry about my eating habits, which tend toward the take-away and pre-packaged sort. But especially, they see me pacing and hear me talking into this microphone every night, and I'm sure they fear for my sanity.
What do you do all day? What do you do at night? Who are you with? Does anyone make you laugh? And who do you bless with that radiant smile of yours? These are the questions that set me to pacing. And no, my love, not in a good way (I still wonder what you meant by that – another Ruth question I forgot to ask while I could, and so I file it away here to ask you later. Later. I can't conceive of there not being a later, my Ruth).
And I know I would only need to ask Malcolm a few simple questions. Where does she work? Where does she live? Who are her friends? Does she have a car? He would quickly come up with answers, and I would know so much about your life. It's more tempting for me than you can possibly imagine, but I don't do it.
Why? Because that's a slippery slope, my Ruth. Like having one cigarette after quitting, one drink, one fix. It would never stop there. Not until I was back in your arms and we had erased the last three-and-a-half months in an instant.
I'm not willing to have the pain of this time apart mean nothing, to be back where we started again, with you in danger. It's the only thing that stops me. That, and the vision of you there, safe in the lush vegetation, by now I'm sure looking less like a pale English rose and more like one of Rousseau's brown and sleek beauties.
So, with that picture in my mind, I'll move on to news of the Grid, to save myself from another of the dozen maudlin entries I've made to this diary. As I said, I'm getting better at compartmentalising.
We're moving closer to retrieving an agent who's been held in a Russian prison for eight years. I'm in negotiations on the phone with my Russian counterpart, and we hope to make a trade soon for one of their agents we've recently acquired. But the wheels are turning slowly, and I'm impatient for a resolution. Our officer's name is Lucas North, and although I wasn't responsible for his capture, I feel responsible that he's been there so long. He was a good man eight years ago, but I confess I wonder who we will get back.
And here's a very big secret, my love, that I can only tell you. Ros is working for us again, under very deep cover in Russia. It did surprise me to hear from her, through a monumentally complicated network of our agents there, but it didn't surprise me that she was bored to distraction with exile and private life. She said if I didn't allow her to come back to work for us she would leap summarily from a tall structure, or stand in front of a speeding lorry, or some such. Ros is just not an everyday girl, and I understand that she was working at a dress shop in St Petersburg and almost murdered a customer who couldn't make up her mind. Probably safer for the general public to keep her busy with spying. I will keep you posted.
Adam is still walking the fine line between his paralysing grief and his work, and I must admit that at times I despair that the grief will ever completely leave him. I say that from the perfect vantage point of my own insanity, having lost you, the love of my life. He and I have talked about it, and we've created a very small, very tentative support group of sorts, without acknowledging it. I do feel closer to understanding him than I ever have done. Wes keeps him sane, I think. Adam has to care for him, which requires him to be places on time and offer adult supervision, but having seen them together, I sometimes wonder who supervises whom. That little boy is wise beyond his years.
I also worry that our Jo is not doing well. She has a fearsome combination of hurt, anger, hatred, and terror behind her eyes, and they're all mixed in with the sweetness that is her natural way of being. Quite surreal, actually. I can be looking at her and see them all flashing by in a split-second. She's working with Diana, but she looks haunted, and very thin. Adam says she's been running obsessively, sometimes until her feet are bloody and bruised. If it goes much further, we may need to have her stay at Tring for a time, at least until the memories of her captivity recede a bit.
Every time I look at Jo, I think it might have been you, my Ruth. And it gives me the strength I need to prevent me from boarding a plane and coming to you. We are without each other, you and I, but you're in one piece. And although I suspect you are very, very angry with me right now, at least you're not irretrievably damaged by the same traumas as Jo faced.
I wonder if Jo can ever be touched by a man again without thinking of what she's been through. I have even seen her shrink back from a friendly hand from me. The only one she really trusts is Adam.
I'm getting to the end of this disk, my love, so I must stop now. I'll ask Malcolm for another one tomorrow, and he will roll his eyes, seeing me for who I truly am. I suppose I must add him to the group of our three girls who think I'm irreversibly daft to speak to you so often and at such length, but talking to you is the way I get through my nights, so I try not to question it.
Tomorrow night I believe I'll tell you a story that will make you smile, the story of Malcolm and his lovely Sarah. It's a side to our friend that I imagine you suspected as little as I did. But on second thought, perhaps not, my psychic Ruth.
And if you are psychic, you may not be as angry as I think, because you can reach across the miles and see into my heart. You did say in your letter, "if you still feel you are loving me best by removing yourself from me," so I think you do understand, and that gives me more comfort than you can know.
Have I quoted your entire letter in these recordings? I think I have, numerous times. I did finally destroy the evidence in a moment of fear. But I don't need the paper in my hands. It's memorised now, with me forever. I wander through the house like the book-keepers in the forest in Fahrenheit 451, remembering parts of it to hold it with me always.
I love you, my Ruth. I can only hope you still know that. Malcolm says that the future may hold more than we can imagine. And Malcolm is in good company. Hamlet's words, "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy," come to mind.
I live in hope that one of the things I don't know, that I can't even dream of, is how we will be together again. But I hope that it's already happening, that the puzzle pieces are moving without our knowing it, pulling us toward each other.
Your ever faithful and always loving,
Harry
~~~~~
CHAPTER SIXTY-SEVEN
Ruth had to admit she was a little nervous. She was meeting the entire Constantinou clan today, and she knew they would ask questions of her. She had only to allow herself to think deeply of Harry and her eyes would fill. George had caught her in that state enough times now that he simply didn't ask. As far as he knew, she'd been married, her husband had deserted or abandoned her, and she was doing her best to forget.
But Ruth was nervous today because she had learnt enough of the warmth, compassion, and general nosiness of Cypriot women to know they would have a hard time curbing their inquisitiveness at the answers that had stopped George. Not to mention the fact that she was an English woman, and they were already pre-disposed to be suspicious of her. She was worried that she would be paying part of the price that Emily had avoided.
So why was she doing it? Because George had asked her to, and he had been a very good friend to her. Also, Ruth was curious. It was the end of September, and this was the grape harvest. Nicolo Vineyards covered acres of rolling hills, and the Constantinou family, three generations of them, joined together with neighbours and friends to harvest the grapes that would then be turned into their Cypriot wine. George had described it as a time of hard work, laughter and fun, and he thought she would enjoy it.
The grapes had to be harvested at just the correct moment, and it needed to be done quickly. That took the entire family to accomplish, and another set of hands would be welcomed, British or not, George had told her. She wore a blue work shirt, her jeans, second-hand trainers, and a floppy hat as she climbed into George's truck, ready to toil in the fields on a very hot day.
There was little preamble to the work, which started very early. She worked alongside George all day, and she had to admit, although strenuous, it was very enjoyable. Cursory introductions were made to those they shared their row with, but she soon felt at home, and among them all there was a natural joy in the land and its abundance.
With a minimum of patiently imparted instruction, she learned to use the curved-blade knife that hooked around the vines and freed the clusters of rich, bursting grapes. As she tossed her filled bucket into the passing wagons, she wondered if she would drink this Cabernet one day, and her participation in the cycle pleased her.
The morning went by rapidly, and they stopped to join together under the shade of a trellis at a huge wooden table groaning with every delightful indigenous food Ruth could imagine. Olives of every shape and size, feta cheese, freshly-baked breads, garlic-cucumber yogurt, fish roe salad, roasted eggplant, succulent watermelon, honeydew, tomatoes, green peppers, cabbage-carrot salad, wild greens, rice, oven roasted potatoes, grilled mackerel, lamb, and sausages. Ruth lost count of the dishes, and the addition of red summer wine and the ever-present coffee left everyone happily chattering, and then dozing, until the strongest heat of the day had subsided.
Ruth was ashamed to admit she had overestimated her importance on this busy day. Not only did no one have the time to be nosy about her personal life, they really seemed not to have the inclination. She liked everyone, and if her accent was noticed, it wasn't commented on.
The one she was most drawn to was George's sister, Christina, a large, warm woman with a great love of her two sons, one daughter, and her nephew Nico. Christina seemed to be everywhere. She cooked, she worried that everyone had enough, and when first introduced to Ruth, she enveloped her in a huge hug, thanking her profusely for being a part of the day. When Christina finally rested, fanning herself over a glass of red wine, she sat next to Ruth under the trellis, and they talked.
Christina talked of her love of family, the energy and creativity of her children, and her pride in her brother. Ruth talked of the hospital, of her impressions of Cyprus, and even generally of Paris, which fascinated Christina. Never prying, always allowing, Christina made Ruth feel safe, and she realised there was much to be talked about between two women that held no danger even for Ruth in her exile.
At about three, they found themselves back in the vineyard where they remained until eight. Exhausted and satisfied, they gravitated to their homes after the work was finished. George said there had been over seventy people, with the extended family and friends, and no money had changed hands. It was understood that the work, the company and the food was the payment.
That, and the first bottles of wine that came from this day, which would be delivered to all participants with great ceremony and thanks. In a little less than a year, George said, there would be a knock on Ruth's door. It was a Constantinou ritual, and Ruth was now a part of it.
Ruth had spent almost the entire day in happiness, not crying, and not thinking morosely about Harry. When she talked to Christina, her love for Harry had informed almost everything she had said, but she hadn't felt sad about it. As she said goodbye to George at her door, Ruth was so filled with the joy of the day that she had spontaneously given him a friendly hug and a quick, chaste kiss on the cheek to say thank you for including her.
She immediately regretted it. His eyes held hers, and without warning, he leant down and kissed her full on the lips. She pulled away in surprise, putting as much distance between them as was possible in the doorway, and he shook his head, looking down, saying, "Sorry, oh, I'm so sorry ... I couldn't ... I shouldn't have ... I..." He took in a deep breath and stepped back, finally meeting her eyes, and seeing the hurt there.
Her eyes were beginning to fill, as she said, "I thought you understood."
"I do, but ... " George said. Finally, in frustration, he added, "I'm falling in love with you." Ruth was frozen in the doorway, and George sighed. "I can't help it. I've tried. I'm sorry."
Ruth saw the look in his eyes, and she recognised it from her own mirror. The pain of love with no outlet, no place to express itself. That she should cause pain to someone as kind as George Constantinou was almost more than she could bear, and the tears spilled over. "No, I'm sorry. I should have seen it. I'm sorry."
He longed to reach out to her, to comfort her, to hold her, but he knew that wasn't what she wanted. So he stood and watched, helplessly, as she cried. Ruth leant against the door, her eyes closed, and cried on a day she didn't think would hold tears.
"Faith," he spoke softly to her, willing his hands into his pockets to keep them still. Softer still, he said, "Faith Ruth." She looked up at him. "If I can't have you, and I can see that clearly now, I want your friendship. Please accept my apology, and my promise that this will never happen again unless you want it. I promise you that."
He was so earnest, his words so heartfelt, that she wondered if, in another world, she might be able to love him. What she had said to Harry was completely true, about the glass being too full to hold more. There was no room in her heart for George, but her heart did go out to him as a friend. She would feel his absence if she were to lose his friendship, and she didn't have the luxury of giving up friends in this new place, and in her state of mind.
She controlled her tears and looked at him, frowning, "You're a good friend, George. I don't want to lose that. Can you, really?"
He stood a little taller, and she could see how much he regretted that they were having this conversation. He looked fearful about how this would change things, but angry with himself more than anything else. "Yes. I'm a strong person." His voice softened, "It was a wonderful day, and I got carried away. It won't happen again, Faith. I won't let it." She saw his jaw set, the muscles there contracting, relaxing, contracting again.
Suddenly, Ruth was so bone-tired that she found she was leaning on the door jamb for support. "Let's talk about it tomorrow? Thank you for including me today. It was a wonderful day, George, really. Tomorrow is Sunday. We'll read our papers and talk tomorrow, yes?"
Some of the fear went out of George's eyes. "Yes. Tomorrow. Same time?" Ruth nodded. "Good night, Ruth." It was the first time he had called her that, and they were both surprised. He shrugged, again apologetic. "It's the name I use in my head. It feels more like your name than Faith. Is it all right if I call you Ruth?"
The name washed over her, and she basked in the comfort of hearing it again. She said, "Yes. Call me Ruth. I'll see you tomorrow."
She closed the door and leant against it, exhausted. She could still feel the scratch of his beard and the pressure of his lips on hers. She wasn't repulsed by him, but the only description that came to mind was not Harry. Putting her hand up to her lips, she pressed against it, remembering again the feel of Harry's mouth on hers. The soft yielding, the warmth, the fullness of Harry's lips compared to the thin, slightly hard feel of George's. The softness of his beard compared to the roughness of George's. The sharp contours of George's face, compared to Harry's gentle, smooth ones.
Nothing will ever compare. The tears started again, as Ruth realised she was lost, and probably forever. No one would ever compare to Harry. And if she could never have Harry again, she was doomed to a life of meagre comparisons, men that wouldn't measure up, and a life of wanting more.
Knowing that a major cry was on the way, Ruth hurried up to her flat. First she cried, and then she got angry. Despite an exhausted body that was begging for a bath, she opened her laptop.
Harry,
What have you done to me? Why did you give me your love if you were only going to take it away? Don't you see that you've ruined me for anyone else, for life?
Still crying, sniffling, Ruth stopped. The dilemma of writing coded letters is that it takes so long to do the coding that you have to really want very much to say what you write. She re-read it, and slowly moved the cursor in reverse, until she had erased everything except for his name. Then she added an endearment as her heart softened. She allowed a faint sob to escape with a sigh as she went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Nicolo Cabernet.
Ruth had been in Polis for four months now. For four months, she hadn't had any contact with Harry, unless she counted Martin Wingate's cold email back to her. She could forget about him for short periods of time, with a particularly absorbing challenge at work, or occasionally when watching a film, as long as its subject wasn't love.
But as she swam, when she was alone in her flat, even during conversations with George, he was standing off to the side of her thoughts ... Harry would think, Harry said once, Harry would like that ... as if he were the proverbial Greek chorus of her life. She didn't want to be angry with him, but she thought that if he were going to be so bloodypresent in her life, the least he could do was actually be present.
She surprised herself by finishing the glass of wine remarkably quickly. This has to stop, she thought, pouring another. But not tonight. As she poured, she wondered idly who had picked the grapes that made this wine. It had been a year ago, long before Cyprus had even been in her mind. A year ago, she was on the Grid, in love with Harry from afar. After she lied to Angela Wells, but before the threats to the Prime Minister's son. A world away, a lifetime away. She began to pace.
Was she happy then? Ruth thought so. She'd wanted Harry, especially after her encounter with Angela Wells on that night that changed so many things. That night she had felt the real power, the exhilaration, and the shame of being a spook. On that night he had nearly brushed her face with his lips in the hallway.
That night had changed everything, really. She remembered sitting with him in a meeting a month later, right after Adam came back from hospital. She'd noticed that he either sat across from her or next to her now, almost every time they all met. She'd reached for a file, and their legs had touched. It was only for a few seconds, but instead of apologising or moving away, they'd stayed there and felt the contact. A moment later, he'd looked at her, and there was something in his eyes, something intimate, wanting, so personal. And then it was gone.
Ruth had often wondered, since Cotterdam, if that relationship was sustainable. If they could still be there, wanting, but at least together. She wondered if, in their desire for each other, they'd flown, like Icarus, too close to the sun. But like Icarus, they'd been in a prison of sorts, and maybe the prospect of losing it all was worth the flight.
The wine had achieved Ruth's aim now, and she'd calmed. Her anger and confusion just faintly numbed, she could think. It was that kiss from George that had brought so much to the surface. She'd been living here on Cyprus in a sort of holding pattern, waiting, she thought, but for what? For Harry to show up, for an email to appear in thel'Alcove mailbox that she still checked, for some indication that there was a future for them. Hadn't his last letter well and truly put a full stop on any of that?
Ruth sat down again at the computer. She had to make sense of this. She knew she wouldn't be sending this letter anywhere, that she would code it and put it in the folder that now held many such letters, but she knew it would be the only way to round up her thoughts. She took another long swallow of the heady red wine, and began to type.
Dear Harry,
I've not spoken to you in over four months. One hundred and thirty days. I've no idea what you're thinking, what you're feeling, if you have any plans to be with me, or if you've forgotten me altogether. I have a vague notion that you've separated from me completely because you love me, but even that idea has begun to fray a bit at the edges.
I begged you to answer me, and you didn't. Is this a test? If it is, which kind of test?
A test of my patience, my steadfast adherence to us, to what we signify, even if I never see or hear from you again? I wonder if I am expected to become Inessa, chaste, living in the past, grabbing the sleeves of strangers so that they can hear of a love that I once had, long ago. But you haven't died, this is a choice you're making. Perhaps the reasons are good, but I'm not privy to them, and they leave me no less alone.
Or is this a test of my love of life, my ability to reinvent myself, to move on? Again?
An offer of love has been made to me by a very nice man, and I've rejected him. Not because he's lacking in any way, really, but because he's not you. And I see a parade of men who are not you, stretching out into my future.
He kissed me, Harry, and all I can think of are your lips. How could anyone compare to them? I've kissed them so many times that I can conjure them now as I sit here, in absolute detail. As I can conjure your mind, and your body, and your inspired, intuitive touch.
I wonder how I will ever make love again. Won't there always be three of us in the bed? You and I, and the poor man I compare to you?
I wish I knew your mind right now. If you're thinking that this is only for a time, please don't be too long, Harry. You see, now I've known love. When I met you, I was somewhat resigned to never finding it, but now that I have, I find I don't want to be alone. I get lonelier than I used to, I feel the emptiness of my bed more deeply. Solitary meals hold less charm, and I have a need for conversation. I've found a friend here who fills some of those needs for me, but he wants more. I don't fool myself into thinking it will be the last time that happens, and I feel guilty using him. He wants my heart, but it's completely yours.
I'm feeling very confused, and must fall back on the detachment of my analyst skills. There are really only four ways this can all turn out:
1. You write/call/show up on my doorstep (In case you're wondering, this is my favourite outcome), and,
- a. Tell me it's all blown over and you're taking me back to England. We kiss.
- b. Tell me it's all still a shambles, but you don't care because we're running away together. Ditto the kiss.
2. I never hear from you again (This one clutches at my heart and makes it hard for me to breathe), and,
- a. I wear the widow's weeds and join Inessa in the Square. I tell everyone, ad infinitum, what a wonderful kisser you were.
- b. I lower my expectations and find a nice man to spend the rest of my life with. His kisses never measure up to yours, but I make do.
And right now, "2b" is what I wrestle with. If I do lower my life's expectations, I know that George, or someone like him, will be there. He's a nice man, good to the core. I enjoy his mind, his heart is true, but best of all, he's simple to be with. Uncomplicated. He already has a son, and wants no more children. He's solid, and steady, and there's something to be said for that.
But I can't stop comparing. I stand the two of you across from me in my mind. If I close my eyes, I can feel your heat even without seeing you. Bright, incandescent, passionate, all yellows and oranges and reds, and yes, some hot blue in the centre of the flame, at your heart. Your temper and emotions flaring. Hungry in your desire and your deep love for me. Your work and your life dramatic and immediate. Rainbows of colours, explosions. And then, your colours go to cool, peaceful blue, Harry blue, warm, soft, so full of love for me when we lie holding each other, not talking, just 'being' together.
George is the white, grey, tan and adobe colours of the buildings here, some green from the vineyards, the brown of the earth, neutral tones. I fight to stop myself before I say predictable, boring, banal, but after the drama of this year, that holds its attractions as well. He wouldn't ask much of me, I suspect.
With George, I might be able to float on that river we talk about, even knowing it was the wrong river, with only the memories of the other one, the exciting one. The word elegant comes to mind, Harry. There is an elegance to this life, the orderly movement from one thing to the next, without much thought required.
I know that today I can't make that choice. I still want to hold out for all of your colours. But in two months, or three, or four, will I feel the same? I've read enough heartbroken, turgid literature to know that time passes, that people give up on perfection in favour of a lesser, more calm future. Will I move the measure back to more reasonable proportions, knowing that what you and I had is not something anyone gets twice?
Oh, I've given myself a long night of coding. I shudder to think how many glasses of wine I will drink. I can't go on like this, my love. I'm in the half-life we talked about, and it's wearing me out. I stand suspended, barely touching your fingertips, but another strong hand has been reached out to me. I said no tonight, but I fear the possibility that the answer may not always be no. That makes me feel guilty and untrue to you, and that's not fair.
Please send me a sign. We've always been connected in that way. Communicate with me, Harry. Help me to know what to do.
I love you so dearly, and I miss you,
Ruth
It was late, but Ruth did feel just a little better. As she poured her third, and what she promised herself would be her last, glass of wine, she thought of the bottle that would arrive for her in a year. The bottle that was made with the grapes that she had picked today.
A simple life, an orderly life, a life lived on the land, with the love of family around her, the constancy of a man who clearly adored her. Even his name, Constantinou. Constant in you. She wasn't there yet, but for the first time, Ruth allowed that someday she could be.
With a sigh, Ruth opened her copy of Pride and Prejudice and began to type again.
"Come in." Harry stepped through the richly panelled door to the Home Secretary's office. His outstretched hand was taken warmly by Nicholas Blake. "Harry, thanks for coming."
"You said it was important, Home Secretary." Harry sat as Blake poured two fingers of scotch into the cut crystal glass. He reached out and gratefully took it. It had been a very long day.
Harry looked expectantly across the desk, waiting to hear what had been so important that he had been summoned at seven in the evening. The Home Secretary seemed nervous, almost embarrassed. Harry wondered for a fleeting moment if he was being sacked.
Blake finally spoke. "So, what's going on, Harry? What are you working on?" He was obviously stalling, and Harry curbed his curiosity for the time being.
"It's very tense with the Russians, Home Secretary. They've got a new man in London, Arkady Kachimov, and I'm in negotiations with him to make a trade for one of our officers. He's a hard one to read." Harry took another sip. "If they'd simply leave someone in England long enough for us to establish a relationship, things could get better ... "
"Hmm," Blake said. Harry frowned slightly. The Home Secretary was distracted, and didn't seem to be listening. Stopping, Harry gave him a hint of a smile, and waited to find out what this was really about. It didn't take long.
"Harry, are you free on Saturday night?"
The question took him so by surprise, that Harry actually laughed just a bit before he collected himself and said, "I believe so. Why do you ask?"
Now Nicholas Blake's embarrassment was evident. He couldn't even meet Harry's eyes. He sighed, and spoke to his glass. "My ... my ... " he finally spit it out in resignation, quickly. "My sister Rebecca is in town this week. She's going through a nasty divorce, we have tickets for the opening of La Boheme, and Charlotte and I were wondering if you would be willing to escort Rebecca for the evening."
Harry couldn't have been more astonished. His mouth opened and closed more than once, and if he could have run from the room, he would. At this moment, he thought the prospect of this conversation was more frightening than the Russians.
But the Home Secretary had more to say. He was saying it rapidly, and with some extra colour in his cheeks. "I know this is asking a lot, but we've known each other a long time, and it would be a personal favour to me." He shook his head. "Everyone I know is bloody married, or with someone, and this came up suddenly, and I was hoping that you could help me out."
At last, he met Harry's eyes with an apology in his own. "Charlotte wouldn't let me rest until I asked you. Honestly." He gazed up at the ceiling, and finally sighed and took a long swallow of his drink.
Harry drained his glass and placed it on the desk. Blake refilled it, along with his own. Harry thought the words "awkward silence" didn't begin to describe the feeling in the room. Blake had said, Everyone I know is bloody married, or with someone, and Harry's only thought had been, As am I. I am married, I am with someone, whether she's here or not.
He continued to think it through, as the silence lengthened a bit. But no matter how uncomfortable this made Harry, no matter how many different ways he wanted to say no, he knew the only possible answer was yes. Nicholas Blake was asking a favour of him, one that seemed on its surface to be relatively harmless. It was only one evening, after all. It could be nothing more than that, because Harry's heart was utterly unavailable.
After another swallow for courage, Harry looked him right in the eye. "Of course, Home Secretary. What time shall I meet you?"
Blake released a long, deep sigh. "Christ, thank you, Harry. I owe you one." He raised his glass and smiled painfully. "A big one."
It was a beautiful, late October Cyprus day. Not too hot, and Ruth and George had found their favourite table, just by the fountain, to read their papers.
Ruth poured another cup of coffee out for both of them. George was speaking animatedly, using his spoon for emphasis, "They've earned that power, Ruth, by virtue of their hard work and initiative. These aren't people who inherited money, they earned it."
Ruth shook her head, "But how is it fair, that these men, men mind you," she said, challenging him, "have the right to influence world events simply because of how rich they are? Doesn't their wealth, by its nature, make them unfit for that? They've lost touch with reality."
George smiled at her. Sunday was his favourite day of the week, and this was his favourite time on Sunday. He was so grateful that his time with Ruth hadn't been affected by his impulsiveness on the night of the harvest. It had taken three Sundays for the discomfort of that kiss to truly disappear, but now it had, finally. Ruth had started to trust him again, and their friendship seemed to be deepening. It was enough for him. It had to be enough.
Whatever she'd gone through, whoever this man was that she pined for, the man who had so foolishly let her go, it didn't matter. George knew now that he was completely in love with her, and he was willing to wait until she was ready to move on to a new life. He had her every Sunday morning, and it usually stretched into lunch. He saw her every day at work, and just last week, she had said yes to a casual dinner in the Square. Wanting her to be completely comfortable, he had stood far away from her as he left her at her door at the end of the evening.
Christina wanted him to bring Ruth to dinner at the vineyard house, but George would wait to ask. He had a firm hold now on his earlier desire to rush things. Ruth was a like an injured animal, tentative, guarded. She had secrets, and he would let her keep them as long as she felt necessary, forever if need be. He wanted only to be with her, and he was with her today.
And this morning, she was speaking in her usual impassioned way. "They have no idea what the lives of ordinary people are. And they've lost their sense of right and wrong.Because of all that money."
George had known what her reaction would be, in fact, he had baited her with the article they'd just read. The writer expressed a suspicion that there was a very powerful, very rich group of men directing public policy in numerous countries. Ruth's passion was a beautiful thing to watch.
He smiled at her. "Calm down, Ruth, or you're going to need medical attention."
She laughed. "Good thing I know a doctor, then." She took a sip of the hot coffee, and looked back at him, smiling, "You get me going on the news on purpose, don't you?"
George was unapologetic. "Yes. It's most entertaining."
She tilted her head at him. "Well, then I'm going to read something that can't possibly affect me, just to spite you." She turned to the Court & Social pages, "We'll see what people are wearing these days ..."
She stopped suddenly. There in brilliant colour were a number of photos of couples, of groups of people, all dressed beautifully for the opening night at the opera. In among those photos was one of Nicholas and Charlotte Blake, a woman she didn't recognise, and Harry. In a tuxedo.
The breath was knocked out of her and for a moment everything but that photo disappeared. The people in the Square, the sound of their talking, even George, who was actually becoming slightly concerned for her state of health. All disappeared.
"Ruth? What is it?"
Harry. Cripes, he looked handsome. And a very beautiful woman, probably late forties, in a blue satin dress. Blue.
The shock subsided, and Ruth heard the sounds around her return, but intermittently, beating along with her heart, the way sounds do when you push yourself too hard. She thought she might actually lose consciousness for a moment, but then she rallied.
And after the shock came the hurt. A pain that was so layered it almost couldn't be described. London, a beautiful woman, the opera, somewhere Harry and Ruth could never go together. She saw his aristocratic bearing, how gently the woman laid her hand on his arm, not a smile, per se, but a comfort standing there, a sameness to them. They looked good together. She wore blue. Midnight blue. Oh, God, my heart hurts.
All the pieces tumbled before her. The Home Secretary and his wife, a double date, the eminence of Harry's job, his title, his place in society. Sir Harry Pearce, the caption said,and Mrs Rebecca Doyle. Rebecca was her name. Mrs. Divorced? Did he take her hand when she stepped from the car, did they talk amiably about the opera, did he kiss her goodnight? First shock, then hurt, then jealousy. Ruth felt gripped by it.
But then Ruth moved closer. She looked into Harry's eyes, the eyes she knew so well. There was something missing. He had a vacant look that she'd never seen before. He was distant, removed, almost cold. It was the look she'd heard Zoe and Danny talk about, a look Sam had mentioned, the look that told them there was to be no more discussion. Ruth realised she had never seen that look because he'd only looked at her with his heart engaged.
He doesn't want to be there. His heart's not in it. And Ruth sighed, feeling her breath come back. But he's there, and I'm here, so far away. And it occurred to Ruth that she might not be the only one wondering about how long she could wait.
Ruth looked over at George, and saw the concern in his eyes. She said, "I'm fine, really." She took a sip of her coffee to cover the fact that she was very far from fine. "Just give me a moment, will you?" George nodded, but his eyes gravitated toward the paper, to see what had caused this change. Ruth deliberately folded the pages and put her hands on them, looking off to the people wandering the Square.
I asked for a sign. This was certainly a sign, but what did it mean? Getting hold of herself, she acknowledged that she was currently sitting with a man having coffee, a man she saw regularly. Ruth wondered what Harry would think of that. Was Harry escorting another woman to the opera any more of a betrayal than the many hours she had spent with George?
Ruth wanted very much to open the paper again and look at Harry, but George's nearness stopped her. She would have to work this through later, when she was alone. She turned and forced a cheerful smile at George. "Thanks. Better now. Just saw an old friend. A bit of a shock. So, what were we talking about? Rich men, I think."
She opened the paper to the second page, and George knew without a doubt that the subject was closed. A little later, Ruth begged off his offer of lunch. After she left the table, George spent a good deal of time with his own paper, studying the faces on the page that had so affected her. He felt certain that somewhere in these pictures was the man that Ruth still loved.
Back in her flat, Ruth was doing the same, lying on her bed, but she only looked at one face on the page. She was thinking that in all the time they'd known each other, she and Harry had never had a photo taken together. She wished now that she could see what his eyes would look like standing next to her in that blue satin dress.
She thought his eyes would be smiling.
~~~~~
No comments:
Post a Comment