We talk, or should I say Harry tries to explain his rationale which makes no sense. Our conversation becomes stilted then begins to fray around the edges. Not wanting to argue anymore I hang up.

He calls me straight back but with what feels like the whole café audience gawping, I mumble through gritted teeth and we end up wrangling again. This time he cuts me off and when my phone buzzes, I ignore it in favour of not only finishing my coffee but the entertainment I seem to be providing to a few amused patrons.

I rest my elbows on the table and cradle my coffee mug in both hands. The caffeine shot beats my heart faster and anxiety creeps in. Despite my phone being face down, a fan of light illuminates around its edges. I swig the dregs of my drink then suck in a deep breath ready for round three.

All fired up, I answer my phone with the intention of telling Harry I am on the next train home but he gives me no chance to get a word in edgeways. Apparently, a car is already on its way to collect me from Euston and my attempts at trying to refuse, on the grounds that we were supposed to be arriving at his house together, fall on deaf ears. His frustrated sigh is followed by a pause then a calm request to stop being stubborn and to please just accept the lift. With no energy left for a come back right now, and in truth not really wanting to go home, I mutter in sullen agreement.

Still in a vague stupor I gather my things together. A quick visit to the little girls room and I catch sight in the mirror of strained features staring back at me. Part of me still wants to jump on that train home but instead I make my way to the station exit and the pick up point where a silver Mercedes with blacked out windows is waiting. The driver gets out of the car and greets me with a polite nod before confirming my name. He takes my case and lifts it into the boot then kindly opens the door for me to get in. This feels very formal and although I appreciate the car, I could just have easily got a taxi.  Now it it me scolding myself for being pedantic.

We pull away slowly from the station and edge across the gridlocked London traffic. The car feels warm and I sink into the leather seat and let the classical track that is floating from the speakers lull me to relax. We follow the outskirts of Regents Park, passing London Zoo, before heading north with signs for Camden Town, Primrose Hill and Chalk Farm.

My stomach lets out a rumble and that makes up my mind; I am craving comfort food. I politely ask the driver to not drop me at Harry's home but the pub nearby. As he pulls into the car park and I exit the vehicle, I am temporarily blinded by the evening sun that has made an appearance.  I can hear that the outside beer garden is bursting with conversation and raucous laughter. Once I regain my focus, I see a labyrinth of wooden tables and chairs are all shaded by large overhanging trees, a few green parasols and pergolas draped in purple hanging wisteria. Stone planters are dotted around and are bursting with red begonias.  I imagine when the sun goes down that the white fairy lights wrapped around most of the tree branches look really pretty.

This place is clearly popular and I can see why people like to gather here. Deciding there is unlikely to be a free table for one outside, I head inside. The painted white exterior is in stark contrast to the classic darkness inside. There is a mixture of scents from the wood panelled walls to dust covered floorboards and brass metallic fixtures. A large copper fruit bowl sits on the bar and the brick fireplace and brown leather chairs give it almost the feel of a Gentleman's club.

Owing to the turn in the weather, the inside of the pub is relatively quiet. A smiling waitress shows me to a small table tucked away in a corner of the upstairs dining room.  She hands me a menu and I cannot help but eye-up the desserts first.  I am so hungry I order straightaway, selecting the first thing to make my mouth water along with a large glass of white wine.  

Now some time has passed and I feel calmer I think about calling Harry to talk as he drives but I do not want to distract him so talk myself out of the idea. As I sip my wine so much is on my mind that I decide to call Olive instead.  

As we chat I feel a pang of guilt. Although I know I would not have seen her this evening, rushing away from her like I did tugs at my conscience. I sense she is trying to hold it together until finally she lets go of the tears. I want to join her and cry it out but my off day with Harry is insignificant compared to her pain. I keep schtum about it all; she doesn't need my worries on top of everything else.

My food arrives soon after saying our goodbyes and promises to speak every day this week.  I tuck into the plate of delicious, locally-reared pork sausages and buttery mash potatoes followed by warm chocolate brownie with hazelnut ice cream. The time alone allows me to reflect on the past 24 hours. 

Harry and I have rarely argued up to this point which makes this disagreement all the more difficult.  I am angry at him, disappointed in myself and generally confused about the whole scenario.  His "I overreacted" was hardly an apology.  It is not the best start to our week together in London but tonight is not the night for that discussion.  

Three hours later and a text message from Harry, I leave my comfy nook and head back outside.  The two large glasses of white wine have blushed my cheeks and the cooler evening air tingles against them.  I catch a glimpse of the pretty garden lit up in the dark and conversations are still in full flow, only much louder!  

I wheel my case across the busy road and sit on a bench next to a red telephone box. The light of the day is fading fast now and I have to shield my eyes from the glare of headlights that stream through the narrowing in the road.  I glance upwards and see it for the first time. His description of his house with its array of sash windows is exactly as I imagined it would look.  The beautiful white stucco home set against the inky night sky is simply stunning.   

A dark car with flashing hazard lights coming to a stop interrupts my wonder at his house.  I meet Harry's gaze from across the street before crossing towards his vehicle on the other side. The boot lifts automatically allowing me to deposit my case.  Once in the passenger seat neither of us says a word to each other. Harry presses his key fob and two black gates open in unison. He pulls the car into the driveway and to a stop on a parking deck.  All the time he never takes his eyes off the rearview mirror. 

Once the gates have come together to a close, he leans over the console and plants his lips on mine before pulling away to say something. He looks as tired as I feel so now is not the time. I silence his words with my finger against his lips.

"Welcome home, Harry."

-/-

Last night we literally came in through the door and headed straight to bed. Both of us were absolutely shattered. This morning waking up in his home, the place he had described to me in such detail, is as amazing as I thought it would be.  There is no time to laze around in bed though because Harry is like a kid at Christmas, eager to show me around. 

With a mug of steaming hot tea in one hand and his hand in my other, we tour his house and he explains his renovations.  The bright pink carpet on the stairs is a surprising touch but I can only laugh as he beams with pride that "pink is the colour of rock and roll!" His home is an eclectic coming together of so many varied tastes.  From the interior designed not-him-at-all leafy curtains to the ultra-modern fully appliance stocked kitchen to a rather decorative circular dining table and a strange wall mural that in all honesty freaks me out a little bit.

At first glance,  the smell of new décor and clean lines presents an almost show home in a magazine feel but his love for art, books and photographs that are randomly scattered around have made the space his. Clearly his return home was planned from the sparkly clean surfaces to the fully stocked fridge.

Since we woke things between us seem relaxed and it is all going so well until he shows me the garden. I fake sheer horror at his postage stamp piece of artificial grass but instead of seeing the funny side he takes it the wrong way. Not wanting to create tension, I pull on his sleeve and he reluctantly stumbles into my hug. I pepper him with soft kisses and laugh that I was only joking. His half smile and tense muscles confirm that some of the strain of yesterday is still hanging between us.

Over a leisurely brunch the atmosphere relaxes again but I know we still need to talk.  All day I try to bring it up but each time it is like he senses it and he changes the subject or immerses us in something else.  That evening we begin to watch a film but I can barely keep my eyes open.  I head to bed hoping he will follow shortly behind me but I fall asleep alone.

During the night, I stir to find Harry's limbs draped over mine. He mumbles a conversation that I am unable to decipher and when he finally finds rest once more his limbs are tight around me like a protective blanket.

The following morning I wake to find his side of the bed is empty. The sheet and pillow are cool so he has obviously been up for some time.  Downstairs I find a sweat dripping him with a towel around his neck having just been for a run around the Heath. He is leant against the kitchen work surface popping segments of clementine into his mouth and he is in such a world of his own that he does not notice me at first.  He pecks my lips good morning, filling my nostrils with the scent of orange and suggests I go and shower while he makes us breakfast.

On my return I  find breakfast for 'us' is actually breakfast for 'me'. On the dining table sits a lonely blueberry fruit smoothie next to an almond croissant. Harry shouts down the hallway, "just in my office won't be a minute." I cannot help the feeling that he is avoiding any possible moment we might sit quietly together.

I push the thought aside again. We have decided to go to nearby Kenwood House today and I will definitely bring up about how we are both feeling. The 17th century stately home now owned by English Heritage is only a ten-minute walk away. Over the smoothest of smooth fruit smoothie (he was right about his blender) I read up about its history online. It has an impressive art collection, acres of tranquil gardens to lose yourself in and a café. It has been used as a location in numerous films including Notting Hill and Sense & Sensib......

I look up from my phone towards the buzzing intercom. Harry did not say he was expecting anyone. I hear his bare feet pad down the hallway and as he passes by he pouts and shrugs, appearing as in the dark as me regarding the visitor.

I am unable to see the front door from the living room but I do hear a commotion of sorts, a "surprise" and what sounds like back slapping.  Harry appears back into view with a large holdall in his hand.  Following hot on his heels is Jeff.