DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
Dedication:
For Never Stop Believing in Love.
For all the lovely OHT, too, but particularly for her this time.
*hugs*
Perspective
by Joodiff
"On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes,
The weather conditions brought tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove,
And try not to notice I've fallen in love."
- Wendy Cope
Perspective. That had been her primary objective. Six months and four thousand miles of perspective. Now she's back in London, and Chicago already feels like a distant memory. Still, Grace knows she's gained a lot from the experience, the perspective she sought only part of it. She feels strangely invigorated, absolutely ready to begin a new chapter in her life. The unsolicited offers of work are still coming, and one or two of them are very tempting, but she still hasn't quite decided whether she wants to commit herself back to fulltime employment. It's tempting to look closely at some of the lesser offers, to work just a few days a week and thoroughly enjoy the unaccustomed luxury of plenty of time to concentrate on her writing and her research. To happily embrace semi-retirement, in fact. There are decisions to be made, but on the very first morning that Grace wakes back in her own comfortable bed, she simply stretches, yawns and enjoys a few relaxing moments of peace and quiet.
It takes her a few minutes, but eventually she gets out of bed and opens the bedroom curtains. The street outside is quiet; most of her neighbours have already gone to work. Even though it's late October, the morning sky is cloudless and very blue, and for a moment she stands and gazes out at the familiar view of rooftops and houses. Nothing in the uninspiring vista has changed in the six months she's been away and Grace finds the fact comforting. London has been her home for so long that it's difficult to remember a time when she didn't belong to it and it to her. It's been good to her over the years, her adopted city, and she's very fond of it. Finally turning away from the window, her eye is drawn to the antique dressing-table against the far wall, its big mirror dulled by a slight film of accumulated dust. Walking towards it, she smiles at the things she left behind – a tangle of good-quality costume jewellery, her faithful but hopelessly out-dated phone, SIM-card removed, a slew of potions, lotions and cosmetics that didn't make the final selection.
Her attention is caught by the small, elegant box neatly positioned to one side of the mirror, and Grace picks it up, opens it carefully to look at the watch nestled inside. Elegant; expensive but not ostentatious. Leaving it behind was a conscious choice, but as she extracts it from the box, she smiles fondly. A leaving gift from her former colleagues. She knows, of course, who undoubtedly provided the lion's share of the capital, but it came from them all, and the short, simple inscription on the reverse reflects that. Replacing the watch carefully, she studies her dusty reflection for a moment before finally allowing herself to look at the small rectangle of card tucked between the glass and the frame. The face of the business card is hidden – and now redundant, of course – but it's the rear that's important. Eleven digits, boldly written in black ink. Nothing else. For a moment her hand strays towards the card, but she changes her mind abruptly and turns her back on the mirror.
Without thinking, Grace falls back into the routine established over so many years. Bathroom, bedroom, down to the kitchen. Tea and toast and a long, contemplative look at the minor wilderness her small back garden seems to have become during her absence. Perhaps the boy next door will cut the grass for her at the weekend if she offers to pay him. A voice on the radio is talking portentously about recession and economic decline. She wonders what the weather's like in Chicago. Her new friends will still all be asleep. She wonders about her old friends, where they are, what they're doing.
Perspective. The chance to appraise, to assess. To think without pressure. Six months of lectures and conferences, six months of students, case studies and bright, interesting new friends. Six months away from everything threatening to inevitably suffocate her. Six months away from the slow inexorable stumble into a future she didn't know if she really wanted. Six months away from London… and away from him. She thinks he might have understood better than anyone, though he was certainly the most serious casualty of her abrupt decision. Characteristic of the man to uphold her right to do as she pleased regardless of the emotional cost to him. So many mistakes made so quickly in those first chaotic days when nothing in the world seemed to make any sense, Grace thinks. If she closes her eyes and concentrates hard, she can still feel the smooth press of his skin against hers, still feel the raw, muscular heat of him on her, in her.
Grace has a promise to keep. She gets to her feet, puts her empty mug in the sink and walks through into her small, cosy living room. The card with its eleven digits is in her hand. She dials the unfamiliar number with care, walks from the fireplace to the sofa and back, unable to settle. When he finally picks up, she says, "I'm back."
-oOo-
He lets her choose and Grace chooses Parliament Hill. The day is cold, but bright and sunny, and the city lies spread before her like a picture postcard. She walks for a while because she's very early, and then she selects a bench and settles herself so she can watch both the city and the path. Even at a distance, Boyd is not difficult to spot when he eventually appears. Tall and square-shouldered, with a robust, athletic gait that combines both economy and power. He comes towards her steadily, neither speeding up nor slowing down, and as he draws closer Grace studies him with hungry affection, smiling to herself as she sees the neatly-trimmed silver beard and the dark sunglasses. He looks exactly what he is – a highly-strung predator equally ready to pounce or to flee. The long black coat adds an edge of drama to his appearance that she absolutely knows is quite deliberate.
As the gap between them gets even smaller Grace stands up and turns to face him full-on. She's never been afraid of him in the past and she isn't afraid of him now. She says, "Boyd."
The last few yards are covered at exactly the same pace; he doesn't rush, nor does he dawdle. The expression is impassive, the dark eyes are hidden, and the deep voice is utterly calm. "Grace."
For a ridiculous moment she feels almost as if she should hold out a formal hand for him to shake. Polite strangers meeting on the hill. They are not polite strangers. Solving the foolish dilemma for her, Boyd embraces her quickly and firmly, kissing her cheek lightly as he does so. His beard prickles her skin softly, and she's briefly tempted to reach up and stroke it. Not yet. Not ever, perhaps. He steps back easily, displaying no trace of awkwardness, and Grace asks immediately, "How are you?"
His lip curls a little at the banality, but he replies gravely, "I'm very well. How are you? How was the Windy City?"
"Very hot," Grace admits wryly, thinking of the summer just gone by. "But I'm really not sorry I'm going to miss their winter. How's retirement?"
"Wouldn't know," he says, waving her to sit back down and then following suit. "But consultancy pays well."
Startled, she says, "Oh, you're not…? I thought you said hell would freeze over before you'd take on consultancy?"
"I got bored," Boyd says with a shrug. "Stewart Redridge and Associates. Heard of them?"
"No."
"Specialist security for at-risk operations in Africa and the Middle East."
"Oh, for God's sake, Boyd. Have you finally gone completely mad?"
He frowns at her. "I'm a consultant, Grace. I carry a laptop and a phone, not a bloody Glock. What else was I supposed to do with myself once you'd pissed off to the States to 'find yourself' or whatever the damned phrase you used was?"
She's never met anyone else who can infuriate her quite so strongly. Or quite so quickly. It takes considerable effort to force down the instinct to snipe back at him, and she only manages because she knows he has a point. She was the one who left, not Boyd. He grudgingly defended her right to do it, but she isn't naïve enough to imagine he isn't still smarting over her decision. It wasn't the path anyone expected her to take, least of all Boyd. Carefully, she says, "To find some perspective. I told you I'd be back in six months when my contract ended."
"Well that's all right, then. Pardon me for not spending those six months quietly sitting alone by the fireside pining for you."
There's no doubt Boyd intends the words to sting, and they do. Angrily, Grace automatically picks on the most emotive word. "Believe it or not, I'm actually not stupid enough to have imagined you were going to spend the time alone."
He bares his teeth at her in what is very far from a friendly grin. "If you can't be with the one you love…"
The provocation is deliberate and Grace is momentarily tempted to slap him. Very tempted. But she knows she gave up any such right the day she booked her flight to America. Instead, she asks icily, "So who was she? I'm assuming, of course, that given your track record you're not still together?"
"Does it matter?"
"Who she was, or whether you're still together?"
Boyd shrugs. "Either. Both."
"Well that rather depends, doesn't it? I told you I'd come back, and you said you'd be here when I did."
"And as far as I'm aware, we've both upheld our part of the bargain. You're here, I'm here."
"So was it wrong of me to assume that the intention was to talk about our future?"
He raises his eyebrows at her. "'Our future', Grace?"
She says coldly, "That's what I understood we'd do when I came back. But it seems I was… misguided. You obviously – "
"Don't try to turn this round onto me," he interrupts her brusquely. "You left me, remember?"
Striving to remain calm, Grace sighs. "I didn't leave you, Boyd. We weren't together."
"I'm sorry?" Boyd questions, the dark, sardonic note in his voice more than obvious. "That's not the impression you gave me – either before, during or after I fucked you."
She suppresses the urge to wince at his blunt terminology. "Very mature, Boyd. Can we forget about your wounded male pride for a moment?"
"Why not? After all, it's only you that matters, isn't it?"
"That's not fair," Grace says quietly. Staring out across the city, she continues, "You have no idea how I was feeling, how much pressure I felt I was being put under… by everyone and everything. It wasn't just you they shot down, Boyd – we were all caught in the crossfire. Spence, me, Eve… all of us. Peter Boyd flies too close to the sun once too often and the whole CCU falls with him, but that's all right – Spence'll go back to CID, Eve's got the body farm to run to, and everyone else gets quietly reassigned. Oh, and don't worry about Grace – Grace is going to go off with Boyd and live happily ever after. Everything's going to work out just fine…"
"Have you finished?" Boyd asks evenly as her words trail away into silence. "Anything else you'd like to get off your chest?"
"Yes, as it happens," she snaps back at him. "Who the hell was she, Boyd? Some pretty young blonde you couldn't quite resist chatting up?"
"You're so contrary," he says. "Weren't you just telling me we weren't together…?"
"That's not the point!" Grace retorts, though she's uncomfortably aware that it probably is, indeed, the whole point. She adds accusingly, "You said you'd be here."
"I am bloody here."
Something about the tone of his voice makes Grace look at him, and look at him properly. He's the one looking out over the city now, his chin raised a defensive fraction, his mouth set in a hard, stubborn line. Comprehension prickles through her as she realises that Boyd has always known that his presence at this awkward reunion was not a foregone conclusion. It's a very sobering thought, and not as shocking as the insight into just how vulnerable he was to the consequences of her actions. It's dangerous territory to venture into, but Grace says quietly, "I went because I had to, not to hurt you."
"I know why you went," he responds tersely, clearly not in the mood to discuss the matter.
"Do you?" Grace asks. "Do you really…?"
"Of course I do. And don't think the irony of it is lost on me, Grace, because it damn well isn't."
-oOo-
It was everything she expected, the moment in those last, chaotic days when the palpable, crushing force of complete inevitability finally caught up with them. He was everything she expected – a contradictory mix of tenderness and fury, big and sleek and powerful, absolutely capable of giving her everything she wanted, and so much more. Nothing surprised her – not his strength, his heat or his passion. Not even the smell of him, warm, musky and intensely male surprised her. It hadn't even surprised the next day her when she'd seen the veiled smirks of dawning comprehension from their soon-to-be ex-colleagues. Somehow they just seemed to know…
Boyd was the one everyone expected to run, not her. Everyone predicted that he would be the one who couldn't cope with the idea of a future suddenly set in stone by the sheer weight of universal expectation.
She ran. No-one expected that. In fact, so unexpected was her action that she knows Boyd was universally blamed for it. What other reason could there be, after all, for her sudden decision to fly halfway round the world leaving everything and everyone behind? To everyone else the answer was simple – it had to be his fault.
Again, Grace tries to explain it all because she desperately needs to. He lets her try because he knows she needs to. The result is the same. They sit side by side on a wooden bench high on Parliament Hill, caught in a moment that prevents them from either going back or moving forward. Impasse. In the end she says, "I just wasn't ready."
"I know."
"I felt trapped, as if I had no choice whatsoever in what was happening."
"I know."
She shakes her head. "Can you please stop saying that?"
"What else do you want me to say, Grace?"
"That you forgive me."
"Nothing to forgive," he says bluntly, but his tone is hollow. "I was… naïve, that's all."
"You weren't, Peter. Don't think that, please. It really wasn't like that."
Into the sudden heavy silence that follows, Boyd finally says, "I suppose I always assumed that when circumstances changed…"
Heavy-hearted, Grace looks at the worn patch of ground between her feet. She understands. "We both assumed. Everyone did. But when it came to it… it felt as if everything was preordained. Immutable. I just didn't know I was the one who wasn't going to be able to cope with that."
"Ironic."
"Yes," she murmurs, watching a young couple walking hand and hand along the path. Even in the autumn chill they look so happy, so content, their whole lives stretching ahead of them. Masochistically, she says, "You would have given me the world, wouldn't you?"
He looks up at the sky for a moment. "You know I would."
Close to tears, Grace chuckles softly. "Someone up there must really hate us, Boyd. We're never going to be together, are we? Something's always going to get in the way."
"Superstition?"
"Experience. A whole decade's worth."
He doesn't look at her. "Maybe some people just aren't supposed to be together, no matter how much they think they are."
"Do you believe that?"
"Not really," he says getting slowly to his feet. "I should go."
There's no point in arguing. She nods. "Okay."
Boyd looks down at her, the dark glasses successfully hiding whatever traitorous emotion might be visible in his eyes. "It doesn't matter whether you believe it or not, but I want you to know something. There wasn't a single day – or night – while you were gone that I wasn't on my own."
Grace swallows hard, furiously willing herself not to cry. "Peter…"
"Goodbye, Grace."
She watches him walk away, watches as he gets smaller and more indistinct, and when he finally disappears from her sight altogether, Grace continues to stare at the deserted path for a long, long time. She doesn't notice the sky gradually clouding over or the breeze picking up. She doesn't even notice the first few heavy spots of cold October rain.
-oOo-
The rain is falling steadily by the time Boyd reaches his car, a deliberately anonymous gunmetal grey coupé, and he growls bad-temperedly in response to the windows starting to fog up the moment he gets into it. He is not having the best day of his life. True, he's had worse, but he's not a happy man. Not at all. He mutters to himself as he puts the keys in the ignition and when his phone starts to ring, the dark muttering becomes heartfelt cursing. He's already running late for a meeting with some very important clients, and he doesn't need to check his phone to know that he's being chased. He bristles on principle and stubbornly refuses to answer the imperious summons. The consultancy fee they pay him is very high – far more than he's probably worth – and some of the work coming his way is genuinely interesting, but he knows he's not temperamentally suited to it. The thoughts don't improve his mood.
The rain's getting harder. Solid, gloomy London rain, cold and depressing. The incessant ringing of his phone is getting on Boyd's nerves, and he extracts it from his jacket and determinedly switches it off. Stewart Redridge and bloody Associates can go screw themselves as far as he's concerned. He stares out at the rain and the other parked cars and he mutters again. Damned woman's going to be soaked to the skin out there. He can see her car, deliberately chose to park near it when he first arrived. There's not much shelter in the vicinity of Parliament Hill, just a few scattered clumps of trees here and there. He tries to picture what she was wearing – some sort of light winter coat, he thinks. Not nearly enough to keep her dry in such a downpour.
He shouldn't care. Not anymore. But he does. Of course he does.
Boyd wonders sometimes why he stupidly presumed that they'd go into the future together. Why he was foolish enough to think she might feel the same way towards him as he did… does… towards her. Bad mistake. One minute they're rolling around together in her bed and the future's bright and full of promise, the next she's heading for Chicago saying she needs to find some perspective. He doesn't even really know what that means. All he knows is that she was gone faster than he would ever have believed possible. Leaving him licking his wounds and wondering what the hell just happened.
No doubt about it, she's going to be half-drowned.
Not his problem.
Wretched bloody woman.
Chicago, for heaven's sake. Not just a different city or a different country, but an entirely different continent.
He's out the car again almost before he realises it, the cold rain lashing him mercilessly. Grumpily, Boyd turns the collar of his coat up, puts his head down and starts to retrace his steps.
-oOo-
The raindrops make fascinating interweaving concentric patterns on the surface of the water as they hit. It's strangely hypnotic to watch, and despite how cold and wet she is, Grace can't quite break the spell the endless swirling patterns seem to have cast on her. There's some sort of analogy to be drawn from the way the circles form, expand, meet, join and are eventually lost, she's sure. Lives touching lives, but all of it ultimately meaningless, all the ripples amounting to absolutely nothing. A matter of perspective.
She doesn't hear him approach, doesn't even sense his presence until she feels the warm, heavy topcoat being draped firmly around her shoulders. He says gruffly, "Bloody intellectual types. Haven't got the sense you were born with, any of you. Why didn't you go and stand under the trees, for God's sake?"
Somehow she can't quite make herself look round at him. "Isn't that supposed to be dangerous?"
"Only in a thunderstorm, obviously. You worry me sometimes, Grace, you really do. Half the time I don't even know how you manage to get across the damned road safely."
Grace can hear an olive branch when it's being grudgingly rustled in her ear. The rain is falling steadily, sullenly. Turning round slowly, it doesn't surprise her that he's already almost as wet as she is. He looks cold and thoroughly morose, the damp pallor of his skin making his eyes look even darker. She knows Boyd doesn't believe in fairytales any more than she does, but she also knows just how stubborn he is, and maybe that's why he's standing in the pouring rain watching her instead of sitting in his warm, dry car driving across the city on his own.
There's no point in trying to explain any further. He's a very pragmatic sort of man, and he sees things in very simple, straightforward terms. Different perspective altogether. He will never understand why she needed to go so far away to reach the exactly same conclusions he presumably managed right here in London, but perhaps that doesn't really matter. Grace tries, "Friends…?"
The reply is grumpy. "Yeah."
She smiles slightly. "A little bit more than friends?"
"Maybe."
"Quite a lot more than friends?"
"Don't push your luck."
They'll probably work it out, she thinks. They usually do, eventually. On their own terms. She says, "You know, you really could have brought an umbrella with you, Boyd."
The dark eyes glint at her. "If you're going to be like that, I'll have my damned coat back."
-oOo-
The rain finally stops as they approach her car, but the sky remains cloudy and uncertain. No allegorical ray of sunshine breaks through and falls on them. Grace is warm now, but uncomfortably damp, and Boyd still looks chilled to the bone and even more like the proverbial drowned rat than she does. He also looks extremely bad-tempered, but she's used to that. They're never going to be Romeo and Juliet. Though that might be a good thing given that they've both already seen more than enough tragedy in their lives. Not knowing what else to say, Grace asks quietly, "So what happens now?"
"Well, I don't know about you, but the idea of a hot bath and some dry clothes has a certain appeal."
"That's not… Oh, forget it. Are we all right, Peter?"
He leans against her car and favours her with a look that's both placid and imperturbable. "Guess so."
Laconic as ever, Grace thinks with an inward smile. Impulsively, she says, "Do you remember the first time we met?"
"No."
"Liar," she challenges gently. "It was about six months before they gave you the CCU. You were heading the investigation into the disappearance of the Rogers girl, and your Super brought me in without telling you."
She's fully well aware that Boyd recollects the whole incident perfectly. A muscle in his cheek twitches, but his answer is merely a nonchalant, "I'm sure I took it very well."
"I seem to remember you not so much hitting the roof as going straight through it. I'd never seen a supposedly mature adult throw such a colossal temper tantrum before then."
Looking faintly smug, he says, "Still went out to dinner with me that night, though, didn't you?"
"It was the smile that came with the eventual apology that tipped the balance."
Boyd folds his arms. "Where are you going with this, Grace? Or are you just reminiscing for the hell of it?"
"Maybe I'm just trying to say that nothing's ever been straightforward between us."
"Does that matter?"
"It might…"
He shakes his head. "You're over-analysing again."
Grace is silent for a moment as she turns things over in her mind. Eventually she says slowly, "We play games with each other, Boyd. We flirt and we tease, and we never say what we really mean, and while we were working together that was… almost a necessary evil, if you like. But patterns of behaviour that are established – "
"Oh, God. Spare me. Please."
"Boyd – "
"Why do you always have to make things so bloody complicated?" Boyd asks, his tone simultaneously weary and angry. "You confuse the hell out of me, woman. I never know where I am with you. One minute I think everything's great between us, the next you're flying off halfway round the world just to get away from me..."
There it is again. All the incomprehension, all the pain. Brutally raw. Grace sighs. "I've told you why I went."
Suddenly straightening up, he says with a warning glare, "If you say one more damned word about 'finding some perspective', I swear I'm going to walk away for good."
For a moment Grace genuinely thinks he's joking and then she sees the dangerous look in his dark eyes and she absolutely knows he's not. The temper's rising. The fierce, legendary Boyd temper that scorches everyone and everything in its path without distinction. She's stood in its blistering heat often enough before to know how much damage his anger can do. The darker side of the man's nature is not pleasant, and Grace is far more aware of that than most. She's not afraid of him, even when he's in a towering rage – but all the years of working at his side have certainly left her with a healthy respect for that quick, ferocious temper. She holds her hands up in placatory fashion, palms towards him. "Please… for once, will you just listen to me?"
It's too late. His temper reaches boiling point and Boyd rounds on her with sudden force. "No. I'm done listening to you, Grace. I'm sick and tired of being kicked in the balls."
"Oh, that's not fair – "
The retort is brutal. "You know what? I don't care. Not anymore."
It hurts. It hurts more than she could ever have imagined. "Don't say that."
"Why not?" Boyd demands, the anger in his voice only increasing. "Guess what? I'm not your fucking lapdog, Grace – and I never was."
He pushes past her roughly and Grace watches in hurt silence as he strides away towards a low, expensive-looking grey car. Watches as he gets into it, slams the door and fires up the engine. Revving hard, the car leaves the small carpark at speed, tyres squealing in protest. She can still hear the vehicle long after it's out of sight. It takes her a moment to realise his heavy coat is still draped around her shoulders.
Slowly, Grace gets into her own car. She's not entirely sure what just happened and why, but she knows attempting to follow him is a very bad idea indeed.
-oOo-
He always was a volatile, contrary force of nature. Inconsistent, arbitrary and infuriating. A man who very definitely marched to the sound of his own drum. Still does, she thinks wearily as she pours herself a second extremely stiff drink. It's late in the afternoon now, and Grace feels that she's fully entitled to a moment or two of self-indulgence. She looks round the empty room for a moment, needing to be soothed by its quiet familiarity. It doesn't help that she can clearly picture him lounging on her sofa, feet up on her coffee table just to irritate her. There have been times – quite a lot of times – when they've sat for hours in this room, often locked into complex, work-related discussions, but sometimes just talking idly as any two good friends would. They know each other very well. She likes ballet and opera, he detests both. They're both fond of Mozart and Tchaikovsky and agree to differ on Debussy. She loyally upholds the genius of Lennon and The Beatles, he staunchly champions Daltrey and The Who. He likes boxing and rugby, she won't watch either. They squabble, but they get along. Mostly.
Poor impulse control. That's always been his problem. One among many. He's fiery and impetuous, and he too-often speaks without thinking. Speaks his mind, regardless of the consequences. Doesn't hold back, doesn't listen and doesn't suffer fools gladly. Grace suddenly thinks of Leanne, one of her new friends in Chicago. Thinks of one particular night of drink and conversation, and the other woman finally suggesting wryly, "Maybe it would be quicker if you told me what it is you actually like about the guy, huh, Grace?"
Perspective again. It's so easy to focus on his faults – so many of which are glaringly obvious – that sometimes it's equally easy to overlook his better qualities. His courage, his loyalty and tenacity, his startling, mordant sense of humour, his generosity and humanity. Difficult and infuriating Boyd may very well be, but fundamentally he's one of the most decent and honest men she's ever known. An angry man, no doubt about it, but a good man.
Her glass is almost empty. Outside, it's already dark and the rain has started to fall again.
What is it about us? Grace wonders. Why do we always end up like this?
Perhaps he's right after all, and they are simply not supposed to be together. Maybe every truce and reconciliation will ultimately fail because they simply don't know how to communicate without raising each other's hackles. He's wounded, and when Boyd is wounded, he lashes out at even the slightest provocation. Always has, probably always will. He's never more dangerous than when he's hurt and cornered.
But what about me? Grace thinks irritably. Why do I always end up feeling as if I'm the one who should make all the compromises? Why does it always end up being about him? How he feels, what he wants…?
-oOo-
The knock on the door she secretly expects doesn't come. She waits and tells herself she's not doing so, she makes a start on all the household tasks that so desperately need doing but can't settle to anything. The antique clock on the mantelpiece ticks steadily and still he doesn't come. Grace glowers and frets and persuades herself that she doesn't care, that the whole idea of completely abandoning her comfortable, independent lifestyle so late in life is simply ridiculous anyway. Over the years men have come and gone, and all of them have eventually failed to live up to her expectations in one way or another. Peter Boyd is only different because her expectations were so much lower to start with. And what is he really, if she looks beyond the fading good-looks and the spurious charm? Just another damaged, divorced, dysfunctional man whose glory days are long behind him. She doesn't need him, and half the time she's not even sure she likes him very much.
Except… she does.
Wasn't that the whole point of putting so much distance between them? To work out for once and for all how she really felt?
Which she has.
Which is why she came back.
Even though he's the most thoroughly aggravating man in the entire world.
Damn.
-oOo-
Victoria Embankment, where the traffic never seems to stop, night or day. The autumn chill is fierce, given the lateness of the hour, but the rain stopped falling over an hour ago, and for that, at least, Grace is deeply grateful. The Thames looks dark, inky and brutally cold, but the reflected lights twinkling on its choppy surface give it a sense of life, of hope. It's an emotive place for them, this one. A place that comes with too many memories, some good, some bad. Her phone – her new phone, small and complicated – starts to ring, and although the shrill sound isn't unexpected, she still jumps.
Fumbling to answer it with increasingly numb fingers, Grace wishes she'd thought to wear gloves. The night is really very cold, and her breath forms small clouds as she answers with a hesitant, "Hi."
"Don't think I'm coming over there," his voice says gruffly, "because I'm bloody not."
Gripping the rail with her free hand, she peers hard across the stretch of water. She can see the Festival Pier and the buildings on the South Bank, but not, of course, any human shapes. Too dark, too far away. She says, "I'm not asking you to."
His tone is unmistakably weary. "I'm really not in the mood for games, Grace. Well?"
"If you want your coat back," she tells him, "you'll have to meet me in the middle, won't you?"
"You can chuck it in the damned river for all I care."
"Play nice, Boyd."
There's a short, tense silence followed by a growl of, "Fine. But you'd better start walking, because I'm not hanging about waiting for you."
-oOo-
Impeccable timing. Probably, Boyd deliberately sauntered while she rushed breathlessly, because they approach the no-man's land in the middle of Waterloo Bridge at the same time, heading unerringly towards each other, she walking south while he walks north. The traffic rolls past them, and the river flows beneath them, but in the end, it's just them. Exactly as it has been for years. Not breaking her stride, Grace wonders which of them will stop first. They're definitely on a collision course, and the whole thing's completely absurd, like a showdown in a cheap sub-Hollywood Western. She's coming to the conclusion that they're never going to be able to behave like ordinary, reasonable adults with each other. But maybe that's okay.
"What is this?" Boyd asks as the gap between them continues to close.
"A demonstration," Grace says finally stopping. She holds out her arm. "Your coat."
He stops. There's very little space between them. He looks down at her. "I told you, you can throw it in the bloody river for all I care. I didn't come here for my damned coat, did I?"
"Good."
"So…?"
"So?"
"Oh, for God's sake. Yeah, okay, I get it, Grace, all right? We need to learn how to meet in the middle. But – "
"No buts. I went to the States because I didn't know if I could do this," Grace says steadily. "I came back because I knew I could. You accept that, or you don't. We have a future, or we don't. Your choice."
"Why?"
Perplexed, she asks, "What?"
"Why does it have to be my choice?"
"Because one of us is awkward, stubborn and difficult and won't be dictated to. And it's not me."
"Oh, and you're absolutely sure about that, are you?"
Grace is about to answer firmly in the affirmative when she catches the unexpected gleam of wry humour in his eyes. Grudgingly, she concedes, "All right, I admit it. I'm not exactly perfect, either."
"Care to sign an affidavit to that effect?"
"Do you really have to be so irritating?"
"Do you really have to be so condescending?"
They glare at each other under the harsh artificial lights. The traffic continues to flow, the river continues to flow. Grace starts to chuckle, and although his glare deepens, it becomes quizzical too. She shakes her head, there's no point in trying to explain that between them, in two short, sharp accusations, they have neatly managed to summarise the elemental core of what always ultimately sets them in opposition.
She says, "We're too old to keep wasting time like this."
Boyd glowers. "Speak for your bloody self."
Grace ignores the deliberate provocation. "We're not going to do this just because it's what everyone expects. We're not going to just drift along together because it's an easy option – "
"'An easy option'…?"
Again, she ignores him. "We're only going to do this if we're sure it's what we want – and if we're both prepared to stop behaving like sulky teenagers every time there's a problem."
"Grace?"
"What?"
"You're killing the moment."
She stares at him, incredulous. "I can't believe you just said that. When did you become Mr Romantic?"
"I can be romantic."
"When?"
Boyd growls impatiently, and then sighs. "Your trouble is you think romance is to do with hearts and flowers and the grand gesture. It's not. Romance is about being on a bloody freezing bridge in the middle of the sodding night because you love someone so much that – "
It's her turn to interrupt. "Boyd?"
"Oh, for… What now?"
There's so much Grace could say, but perhaps he's right. Perhaps there really is such a thing as too many words. So she simply stretches up on her tiptoes and kisses him. Gently. Tenderly. Lingeringly. It has the desired effect. She literally feels all the tension, all the aggression and uncertainty drain out of him. She wants him, he wants her, and everything else is just trivia.
She does make a final, vain attempt to lay down some ground rules. It's the way she is. He ignores her and kisses the words away. That's just the way he is, too.
It gradually starts to rain again, but neither of them notices.
-oOo-
EPILOGUE
They eventually settle on St. John's Wood. It's a compromise. North of the river, because that's what she wants, but only a stone's throw from the vibrant streets that he loves. Sandwiched between Regent's Park and Lord's, the house, tiny though it is, costs them his house, hers and a bit more besides, but they agree it's probably worth it. Not for the bricks and mortar, of course – they both feel as if they've been roundly fleeced – but for the symbolism. This is their home, chosen and bought between them, a carefully negotiated compromise that suits them both. It's a gesture towards permanence, towards the understanding that though there may be plenty more disagreements ahead, the dark days of deliberate, wilful misunderstandings are dead and buried.
They fight – of course they do – and she will cold-shoulder him in withering silence, sometimes for days, while he shouts and storms and slams doors, but neither of them walk away. It's a tacit boundary neither of them crosses. He grudgingly touches on the subject of marriage, and she laughs and doesn't hold him to it. They get along. Friends and former colleagues visit from time to time, and leave bewildered, not quite able to understand why the friction in the Boyd-Foley household is still so tangible when it's patently obviously to everyone that they utterly adore each other.
No-one else understands. But they do. It's just how they are. Two people who shouldn't be together, but who are far too stubborn not to be. He says she's over-critical and over-analytical; she says he's unpredictable and unreliable. They're both right. It's who and what they are.
But they love and they laugh, and they stay together.
- the end -
After the Lunch
by Wendy Cope
On Waterloo Bridge, where we said our goodbyes,
The weather conditions brought tears to my eyes.
I wipe them away with a black woolly glove,
And try not to notice I've fallen in love.
On Waterloo Bridge I'm trying to think:
This is nothing. You're high on the charm and the drink.
But the juke-box inside me is playing a song
That says something different. And when was it wrong?
On Waterloo Bridge with the wind in my hair
I'm tempted to skip. You're a fool. I don't care.
The head does its best but the heart is the boss -
I admit it before I am halfway across.