DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.
A/N: A bit of an experiment in terms of format this one. This is a B/F fic, so diehard B/G shippers beware - though Grace plays an important and instrumental part in the story!
Dedication: for my partner-in-crime on the B/F front (Vive La Révolution!), the rest of the OHT and for anyone else who can bear to put themselves through it!
Twelve Months
by Joodiff
June 2008
Even towards the back of the church, standing between Spencer and Grace, she feels uncomfortably self-conscious, and the melancholy solemnity of the occasion only heightens her unease. There's no doubt about it – she feels like an intruder; an interloper who has no right to be observing such intensely personal grief. Maybe Grace, who has always been so perceptive and empathic, senses something of how she feels, because Frankie feels her squeeze her arm gently, reassuringly. She spares her former colleague a brief, tiny smile before concentrating her attention back on the proceedings. The priest has given way to a young man in his late teens or very early twenties who is nervously declaiming, "…if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord…"
Frankie doesn't recognise the passage, but then Frankie has never considered herself particularly religious. She listens to the hush that falls between the words and wonders how long it will take the wounded family huddled at the front of the church to recover from the tragedy that has befallen them. She can just see the back of Boyd's head, and it doesn't surprise her at all to see that he's standing tall and square-shouldered. Pride and defiance, she thinks. It won't be here that he falls apart, not here in front of friends, relatives and colleagues. Doubtless plenty of people will remark later on his strength and composure.
Unconsciously, Frankie sneaks a quick sideways glance at Grace. The older woman's attention is on Boyd, too, and Frankie fancies she can feel the force of the strength and compassion being projected towards him. It will be Grace who picks up the pieces. It's always Grace. There's always been speculation about the nature of the bond between the two of them, but whatever the truth, there's no doubt of the importance of her role in Boyd's life. He's so strong and so dedicated, but it is Grace who provides the equilibrium he needs – always has, always will. It was Grace who called her, Grace who made it quite clear that she would be incredibly disappointed if Frankie didn't appear at St. Joseph's at the appointed hour. Frankie, like everyone else around her, would far rather face Boyd's anger than Grace's disappointment. Every single time.
The short service is moving on, and Frankie finds herself gazing at the coffin resting on its discreet trestles. Simple, plain. She doubts she's looking at cheap wood veneer or mock-brass. She wonders what it's like to pick out a coffin for your only child, and the thought makes her look at Boyd again. She's surprised to see that his arms are now round the slim, dark-haired woman who's been at his side throughout. Mary, ex-wife and mother of his dead son, she assumes. Whatever their former marital differences, it seems they are solidly united in their grief, and Frankie can't help thinking that's a very good thing. No undignified, petty squabbling in front of the rest of the funeral party.
Too soon, it's time for the coffin to be taken outside into the bright June sunshine, and again, select members of the family join the professional pallbearers in their sombre task. Boyd, the young man who gave the reading, and a man who looks so much like an older, stockier, more genial version of Boyd that he can only be the older brother, James. Slowly, the rest of the family follow the coffin out, and eventually the rest of the congregation file out slowly and quietly, too. Frankie doesn't intend to follow the burial party, but the look Grace gives her quells any thought of resistance. Unwillingly, she moves with them, finds herself standing with Stella Goodman, Eve Lockhart and with Spencer, all of them a careful distance away from the open grave – supporting rather than participating. She fights the urge to look at her watch. She has meetings later that she has to attend, colleagues she needs to speak to, time-sensitive tasks that have to be attended to. But she won't walk away, not while Grace is there to give her that long, cool look which says so much.
-oOo-
It's nearly four years since they've met in person, and when Frankie finds herself standing right in front of him, her first shocked thought is just how gaunt Boyd looks. Gaunt and haunted. The hair is shorter and greyer and the grizzled full beard has become a neatly-trimmed goatee, but it's just how much weight he seems to have lost that really startles her. It doesn't suit him – he's too tall, too broad-shouldered for it. The voice hasn't changed. It's steady, deep and self-assured. He says, "Thank you for coming, Frankie."
Acutely embarrassed, she replies, "Grace thought…"
Despite everything, she sees a glimmer of wry comprehension spark briefly in his dark eyes. He understands. The tone remains grave, solemn. "Nonetheless…"
Frankie has no idea what to say to him. She settles on the most honest, most obvious sentiment. "I'm so, so sorry, Boyd."
He inclines his head slightly. "Thank you."
Uncomfortably, she casts around for something else to say, and is appalled to hear her own voice uttering a banal, "It was a lovely service."
It doesn't seem to have any impact on his tight, perfect composure. He just nods very slightly and says a little gruffly, "Good to see you, Frankie. Will you excuse me…?"
"Of course," she says rapidly, only too glad to see him move on. Again, there's an almost imperceptible nod, and then he's walking away towards a knot of similarly black-suited, black-tied men standing awkwardly near one of the funeral cars. One or two of the faces are vaguely familiar. Fellow police officers from other units and divisions, Frankie guesses, come to pay their respects. People are starting to leave, friends and family slowly dispersing, colleagues pausing to talk shop – all suddenly strangely ordinary, as if the young man so recently lowered into the cold earth has ceased to be the focus of anyone's thoughts except those of his devastated family.
"Frankie?" Grace's voice says quietly at her elbow.
She turns, smiles slightly. "Hey, Grace. Are you all right?"
"I'm fine. Are you coming back to the house…?"
A little surprised, Frankie shakes her head. "No – I've really got to be getting back to work. You're all going?"
"I am, but Spence and the others are going back to headquarters. I know you'd be very welcome…?"
"I can't," Frankie says honestly. She hesitates and then says boldly, "He looks awful, Grace."
Grace nods, her serene expression not quite masking her evident concern. "He's not eating, not sleeping – staying in the office until all hours… you know what he's like. He's running on autopilot, but I really don't know how long he can sustain it."
"Can't you get him to take some time off?"
Grace snorts softly. "To do what? Sit around brooding on his own? At least if he's at work I can attempt to keep an eye on him."
"I really can't imagine what he's going through…"
"I don't think any of us can, Frankie," Grace says soberly. "Thank you for coming today. I know it will have meant a lot to him to see you here."
Frankie shrugs, unable to respond with more than a dismissive sort of noise. She glances towards Boyd again, but he's no longer anywhere in sight. Looking back at Grace, she says, "Look after him, okay?"
Grace nods. "I'll do my best."
"Let's catch up soon," Frankie says, meaning it. "Have lunch or something. Now I'm working in London again…"
"Call me," Grace says.
"I will," Frankie assures her, and looks at her watch. "I really do have to go, I'm sorry."
Just a few minutes later she's in her car and driving towards the Blackwall Tunnel, most of her mind now firmly back on her own troubles.
-oOo-
July 2008
The request, quietly but implacably delivered, genuinely takes her by surprise. Phone clamped against her ear, Frankie stares blankly at the muted television in the corner of her apartment's big, modern living room and asks inanely, "Why?"
"Because it's his birthday," Grace's voice responds patiently, as if humouring a small child. "Because he's always had a soft spot for you, and because seeing you there will put a smile on his face for the first time in weeks."
Still gazing at the silent, flickering images, Frankie sighs heavily and says, "I don't know, Grace…"
"Frankie, the two of you used to get on so well; surely you haven't forgotten that?"
Frankie hasn't. Not at all. There are plenty of good memories entwined with the oppressive weight of tragedy and sorrow. It occurs to her quite suddenly that there's a very melancholy anniversary looming in the not too-distant future. Four years, she thinks. Four years since… Quickly banishing the thought, she says, "I really can't promise to come, Grace. The way things are at work at the moment…"
"But you'll try," Grace says, and it's not a question.
Sighing again, she replies grudgingly, "Yeah, I'll try."
"Friday," Grace reminds her pointedly. "Seven o'clock at the George. Look at it this way – all you've got to do is turn up and have a drink or two with some old friends. I've got to get him there, one way or another."
"I'm sure you'll manage," Frankie says dryly, very well-aware of the older woman's uncanny ability to persuade even the most recalcitrant of people into doing exactly what she wants – usually entirely for their own good.
"Even if I have to grab him by the scruff of the neck and drag him kicking and screaming out of the building?" Grace suggests, a touch of dark humour detectable in her tone for the first time.
"Whatever turns you on," Frankie tells her, deadpan.
The reply is a mild chuckle. "Let's not go there. Friday, seven o'clock."
"Friday, seven o'clock," Frankie repeats lugubriously, not sure if she's annoyed with her former colleague or not. Cautiously, she finally asks, "So how's he doing?"
It's Grace's turn to sigh audibly. "Superficially, better than you'd expect, but he knows full well the DAC's keeping a keen eye on him, so he's putting on a good front. Typical Boyd."
"And in reality?"
"Well, that's a completely different story, isn't it? One I'm not privy to, I'm afraid."
Vaguely surprised, Frankie queries, "He won't talk to you?"
"He won't talk to anyone, as far as I know," Grace says. "He's doing what he always does – internalising everything. Something's going to give eventually, it always does."
Frankie frowns. "You think he's heading for some kind of breakdown?"
"Speaking as a psychologist, I'd have to remind you that that's a completely meaningless term."
"But…?"
"Who knows, Frankie? Who knows?" Grace replies solemnly. "I just think the best thing his friends can do is try to maintain some kind of sense of normality around him…"
In the privacy of her own home, Frankie rolls her eyes. "I get the message, Grace. I'll be there if I possibly can."
"Thank you."
They exchange quick goodbyes, and Frankie drops the phone back onto the coffee table in front of her before slumping back on the sofa, a sense of frustrated irritation niggling at her. In her own way, Grace is just as stubborn and forceful as Boyd himself – her demands are delivered far more gently, but generally she's just as successful at getting her own way. Which, of course, Frankie reflects darkly, is just one of so many reasons why Grace and Boyd have fought like cat and dog for years whilst maintaining a very healthy respect for each other. And why working with the pair of them was so often like picking her way delicately through a very dangerous minefield.
-oOo-
In the end, she arrives very late at the familiar old pub – but she arrives. Grace shoots her a look that suggests her tardiness has been noted, but Frankie very deliberately ignores the unspoken rebuke. She hasn't had the best of weeks, and she's not in the mood for the kind of silent, gentle reproach Grace is so incredibly good at. Not when she's made such an effort to be there, late or not. Her gaze sweeps the room automatically, and she very quickly picks out Boyd and Spencer standing together at the bar. That's one question answered, then – however she's managed it, Grace has successfully prised Boyd out of his office, even if only for a short while. Walking towards the two men, Frankie realises she's smiling despite herself. And why not… she was very fond of them both, back in those far-off days when –
Spencer half turns and spots her immediately, a wide grin breaking across his face as he calls out, "Frankie!"
At his side, Boyd turns, too, expression a little bemused for a moment. He is – unsurprisingly – far less exuberant, but he looks reasonably pleased to see her. Momentarily caught in Spencer's enthusiastic embrace, Frankie grins back at him, all the years dwindling to nothing as she says, "Any excuse, eh, Spence?"
"What can I say?" Spencer says, finally releasing her. "I love the ladies and they love me."
Boyd's disparaging snort says everything. From him there is no embrace, just a dry, "Why do I strongly sense a conspiracy? Drink, Frankie?"
"Drink," Frankie agrees with a nod. "Large drink."
"Is there any other kind?"
It surprises her just how quickly the time passes once they are all sitting down together. They form a tight, insular knot in the farthest corner, well away from the bulk of the other patrons, and at some point the vaguely mooted idea of moving on to a restaurant is abandoned in favour of bar food where they are – cheap and cheerful in comparison, but perhaps a lot more conducive to maintaining a determinedly jovial atmosphere. There's a lot of shop talk, a lot of anecdotes and far more laughter than Frankie expects. She finds herself striking up a lively and interesting debate with Eve – the latest of her successors at the CCU – and even sharing a joke or two at Spencer's expense with Stella. The evening is… companionable.
Boyd remains uncharacteristically quiet throughout, which doesn't at all surprise her under the circumstances, but as the time marches on Frankie realises he's easily outstripping them all in the drinking stakes. The pints of beer he started the evening with have given way to whiskies, and those whiskies are coming as doubles – yet he still seems bitterly, coldly sober. The phenomenon makes her study him a little more intently than before, and perhaps he's aware of it, because he gives a long, searching look before appearing to return his attention entirely to the general chatter around the table. In a way they are both outsiders, Frankie suddenly understands. She, because she long ago chose to leave this small, tight-knit group, and he because he can't – or won't – share the jagged realities of the tragedy that has suddenly set him apart from the others.
It's the sudden, unusual intake of alcohol, Frankie decides. There's no other reason why she should suddenly be watching him so very closely. Not one that she's willing to admit to, even to herself; not after all this time. But, damn the man to hell, she's suddenly too aware of that unruly, illicit spark of attraction that sometimes used to arc between them at wildly inappropriate moments. The one that neither of them ever mentioned, but both of them quite clearly felt whenever it happened.
It's time to leave. Before she has too much to drink, or Boyd does, and something dangerously stupid tries to happen.
He's at least fifteen years too old for her, and what didn't happen four years ago – more – isn't going to happen now. Is definitely not going to happen now.
"Another drink?" Spencer asks amiably, already getting to his feet.
Ignoring the voice of reason and common-sense, Frankie nods. "Yeah, why not?"
-oOo-
August 2008
"Saturday," Boyd says. Nothing in his expression changes. "It'll be four years on Saturday."
They are sitting outside the little restaurant, lunch already half-eaten, and the summer sun's oppressive heat just seems to intensify the smell and the noise of the great city heaving around them. Frankie nods, hiding her surprise that he's so accurately able to pinpoint the date. Tentatively, she says, "I was thinking about going to the cemetery."
"Yahrzeit."
Even more surprised, she nods. "Yeah."
Boyd doesn't comment further, and after a moment Frankie returns to disinterestedly picking at her unexciting salad. It's a long, long way from becoming a habit, but for no particular reason they've met for lunch a few times over the last month. All very cautious, all very decorous, the cool distance between them strictly observed; always lunch, never dinner, and always during a working day. The first determinedly casual invitation came from him, the second – just as casual – from her, and if things between them are still nothing like they used to be, well, maybe that's for the best. In some ways, at least. For one thing, the intense need to maintain a strict professional propriety belongs in the past.
Abruptly, Boyd says, "I'm sorry you felt you couldn't stay with the unit, after…"
Frankie doesn't meet his eye. "Wasn't your fault."
"I should have handled it differently. Your resignation, I mean."
It's not an admission she's never expected to hear from him. Awkwardly, she shrugs. "It wasn't a good time for any of us."
"It's not my job to be popular," he says, and something in his tone tells her he's voicing something he's thought about often and at length. "It's my job to run the unit as efficiently as possible, to take the hard decisions and make the tough choices. You understand? If you weren't happy – it was going to have an effect on everyone else."
"It was my choice to go," Frankie says.
"Maybe I should have tried to talk you into staying."
She shakes her head. "No. Oh, it did sting a bit at the time that you just accepted it without a fight – but you're right. If I'd stayed, it wouldn't have been good for anyone's morale. I needed to get away. Make a clean break and move on."
"I'm not the heartless bastard everyone thinks I am, Frankie," he says quietly.
Bewildered, she shakes her head. "You really think I don't know that?"
Boyd's reply is quiet. "I've no idea. You didn't stay in touch."
A touch of guilt flares inside her. "I didn't think it was… appropriate."
"I see. But it was appropriate to stay in contact with Grace? And Spencer?"
Defensively, Frankie counters, "Oh, come on, Boyd – a few casual phone calls now and again…? I was in bloody Scotland, for heaven's sake. It's not as if we were all meeting up for coffee behind your back every five minutes. Anyway, what does it matter? Who on earth stays in touch with their ex-boss? I mean, really?"
"Thanks for that, Frankie."
Frowning, she gazes across the little table at him, trying to interpret his closed expression. "Why does it bother you so much?"
"Why do you bloody think?"
"I really don't have a clue," she says honestly.
Boyd checks his watch ostentatiously. "I have to go. We've got an important witness coming in this afternoon."
Frankie watches as he reaches for his wallet, doesn't comment as he extracts a couple of banknotes and places them neatly under his empty glass. Only when he stands up does she say, "Boyd…?"
He looks down at her. "Yeah?"
"You are doing okay, aren't you? I mean, with…"
His expression becomes even more unreadable. "As well as can be expected, Frankie. That's what they say, isn't it?"
"It will take time," she says, immediately hating herself for how banal the words sound.
"Yeah," he says, shrugging into his jacket. "They say that, too."
-oOo-
September 2008
It's not the first time in the last few weeks he's simply turned up at her door late at night looking lost and lonely, and desperately in need of something he can't even begin to name – and Frankie seriously doubts it will be the last. The closer they get, the more she understands just how all-consuming the fathomless depths of his misery really are. Behind the brittle façade Peter Boyd is a spectacularly unhappy man for far more reasons than she can fully comprehend, and sometimes she seriously questions her ability to cope with the sheer extent of all the dark things twisting malevolently inside him. He doesn't talk very much, but he doesn't need to. When they sit and drink with the lights low and the silence heavy between them his guilt and despair reach out to her wordlessly, eliciting a very powerful need just to offer some kind of comfort, some kind of human contact.
"Talk to Grace," she says in the end, and not for the first time.
"I can't," Boyd answers curtly – also not for the first time.
"Why the hell not?" Frankie demands in frustration. "She's your friend, and she wants to help."
"For God's sake, we've been through this – it's not appropriate. My unit, my staff. She's under my command."
From where she sits at the opposite end of the couch, feet tucked up under her, Frankie offers a short, derisive laugh. "In your dreams, Boyd."
He glowers. "You know what I mean. There are boundaries; professional boundaries."
"When did you ever give a stuff about that sort of thing?"
"Always," he says, surprisingly brusquely. "Just leave it, Frankie."
"Look at you," she snaps back at him, her own inability to provide any meaningful help irritating her. "You're a mess, Boyd. You're not eating, you're not sleeping, you're drinking too much – "
"Oh, give me a fucking break, will you? I get this every bloody day from Grace as it is, without you starting on me."
Frankie ignores his bristling irascibility. "So how long do you think you can go on like this? How long before you're so tired and so out of it at work that you make a catastrophic mistake?"
"I didn't come here for a lecture," Boyd snaps at her, dark eyes flashing a very clear warning.
Angrily, she demands, "What did you expect? You turn up without a word whenever you feel like it, drink half my Scotch and then bugger off again. I have no bloody idea what's going on in that head of yours. Your son is dead, Boyd. Deal with it."
For a moment he looks as if she's just slapped him hard across the face. He looks stunned, wounded, unable to react. Frankie winces, already regretting her harsh words, and mentally prepares herself for the storm he's going to unleash on her. She knows how fierce Boyd's temper is, how readily the seething, molten fury at the core of him rises to the surface, but as she readies herself for the seemingly inevitable eruption he simply leans forwards and places his empty glass carefully and quietly on the glass-topped coffee table in front of them. Sounding abnormally calm, he says, "I should go."
Something very angry spikes inside her. "Oh, that's right – go on, run away from the truth just because it hurts."
"Why not?" Boyd says, getting up from the couch. "After all, that's exactly what you did, isn't it, Frankie?"
-oOo-
He's right – and maybe that just makes Frankie even more angry. Mel's tragic, violent death hit them all hard, but she was the only one who fled, unable to deal with the ghosts and the memories. Boyd, Grace, Spencer… they all stayed and faced the cruel aftermath. While she ran away to Edinburgh and the quiet security of research.
The firm but quiet tap on the front door behind her brings Frankie out of her angry reverie. A quick glance at the clock confirms it hasn't been much more than twenty minutes since Boyd walked out slamming that self-same door loudly behind him. And now he's back. Of course he is – no-one else would knock like that at such a late hour. Strangely, it doesn't occur to Frankie to ignore him, and she gets to her feet immediately. Opening the door, she glares at him in pointed silence.
The deep brown eyes look back at her unflinchingly. He says, "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."
Frankie shakes her head at him. "Lashing out at the people who care about you won't make the pain go away, Boyd."
"Do you?"
Confused, she blinks. "What?"
"Care about me?"
Frankie stares at him, caught off balance by the unanticipated question. There's something in his eyes, something in the look he's giving her, and almost without thinking she instantly quashes the sardonic flippant answer that rises automatically to her lips. Instead, she says quietly, "You know I do."
It's still there, the connection they used to have – and there's something else there, too. Something that's much more fragile, much more tenuous, but which seems to be promising to open a completely new avenue to explore between them. Something that is both more and less than that occasional sharp spark of attraction, something that's already beginning to whisper promises of totally new territories, totally new vistas.
Swallowing, Frankie waits for him to speak, waits for him to act. But Boyd simply gazes at her steadily for several more long, long moments before nodding very slightly and saying, "Goodnight, Frankie."
Wondering what the hell just happened, she watches him walk away towards the stairs. And she says nothing.
-oOo-
October 2008
"Oh, just trust me, will you?" Boyd demands and as far as Frankie's concerned, that's almost certainly a recipe for complete disaster – but it doesn't stop her wryly shaking her head, grabbing her coat and following him out of the apartment. Pausing only to lock the door, she wonders briefly what she's letting herself in for. Given that it's late October it's a surprisingly warm and sunny Saturday morning, and Boyd is in the kind of boisterous, exuberant mood that reminds her very forcefully of times past. It pleases her to see him so buoyant – it pleases her a lot. Following him, she nearly laughs as she watches him bouncing his way down the stairs, so full of energy and good-humour that she almost – almost – admits to herself that she's sorely tempted just to grab him by the hand and drag him back into her apartment – and straight into her bedroom. She's not quite sure if he'd be completely averse to the idea, or not.
Boyd is already heading for the second flight of stairs, and he calls back impatiently, "Come on, Frankie, get a bloody move on…"
The loud declamation seems to severely startle a skinny young man making his way up the stairs towards them. He gives them a guarded, bemused look and says absolutely nothing. What he thinks they're up to is unclear, but there's definitely a hint of suspicion in the way he perceptibly hurries to pass them. It's darkly amusing in a way – Frankie has, just this year, said hello and goodbye to her thirty-ninth birthday, and her enthusiastic, disruptive companion is very definitely in his late fifties however athletic and attractive he still is. Still, Frankie's never been one to care very much what other people think, and she smirks to herself as the young man disappears rapidly from view. Let him think whatever he wants to – it's nothing to her. To either of them.
"This better be good, Boyd," she says, making a concerted effort to catch him up as he continues his descent. "I could be lounging around on my sofa in my pyjamas right now – drinking coffee and watching cartoons."
"My God, you know how to live it up at the weekends, don't you, Frankie?"
"Oh, like you've never sneakily done that."
"Absolute impossibility."
"Yeah, right," Frankie scoffs. Something in the way his eyes glint at her makes her sigh and take the bait. "Go on, then. Enlighten me. Why?"
Boyd grins at her in a startlingly feral manner. "I don't wear pyjamas."
-oOo-
It feels a lot more glamorous than it probably is, hurtling along the road to the coast in Boyd's ridiculously tiny open-topped classic sports car. Frankie pictures herself arranged decorously in the passenger seat in the manner of some minor 'sixties Hollywood starlet – the car, after all, is exactly the right vintage – but she grudgingly recognises that the reality is probably some way from her imaginary vision. Still, it does feel exciting, and whenever they slow down she notices the admiring glances that come their way. Sadly, she very quickly accepts that it's the jaunty little Sprite that's drawing the attention, not its windswept occupants. On balance, however, it's definitely a lot more fun than the sofa, coffee and cartoons option.
"If it rains," she says, as they wait at a set of stubbornly red traffic lights, "We're going to get soaked, you do know that, don't you?"
"If it rains, I know I'm going to curse myself for leaving the hard-top in the garage and not bothering to fit the soft-top."
"Not as much as I'm going to curse you for it."
Boyd chuckles quietly, evidently not at all bothered by the implied threat. "Live a little, Frankie. If you're a really good girl, I'll even buy you an ice-cream on the pier."
And that moment, she will realise much, much later with the clear benefit of hindsight, is the moment when something inside her finally accepts that it's become completely impossible not to go blindly ahead and risk falling in love with him.
-oOo-
"Thank you," Frankie says, and she means it whole-heartedly. "It's been a great day – I've really enjoyed myself."
Boyd shrugs with a very studied sort of nonchalance. "So I'm not a miserable pain in the arse all the time, then?"
"Maybe not all the time," she tells him, straight-faced. "You coming up for coffee?"
He shakes his head. "It's late, and I have an unbelievable amount of paperwork waiting at home for me."
Slightly aggrieved, she turns slightly to open the car door and says over her shoulder, "No problem."
Perhaps he's not quite as insensitive as she thinks he is, because he immediately says, "C'mon, Frankie, you know I'd like nothing better…"
"No," she says, more in resignation than in bitterness. "That's half the problem, half the time I can't figure you out at all – you blow so hot and cold. One minute I think… Oh, it doesn't matter. 'Night, Boyd."
"Frankie."
She looks back at him – and is immediately startled to find he's shifted in his seat and he's suddenly close enough for her to feel his breath on her cheek. Very close. Too close. An involuntary shiver runs up and down her spine – anticipation, fear, a complicated mix of things. In the half-light of the streetlamps his eyes look even deeper, even darker. She thinks – she knows – he's going to kiss her, and he does. Gently, cautiously, as if he genuinely expects to be instantly rebuffed – or worse. Frankie has an all-too brief moment to lean into him, and then Boyd's drawing back, still more wary than she's ever seen him. She swallows hard.
He says, "'Night, Frankie."
-oOo-
November 2008
Same basement, different area, Frankie muses as her nameless escort disappears, but really, nothing much has changed. Same big, clear evidence board covered with pictures and Boyd's bold, impatient handwriting; same central cluster of desks and tables pushed together to form a big central island of technology and paperwork. Same smell of dust and damp and cleaning fluid. Same Grace, too, she thinks with an inward smile as the woman in question emerges from her office with a smile and a warm, "Frankie, what a lovely surprise."
"Grace," she says, gladly returning the light embrace. "How are you?"
"I'm fine – busy as usual, but absolutely fine. You're here to see Boyd? They called down from reception…"
"Yeah," Frankie admits, look past her to the empty office beyond. "They said he was here…?"
"He is," Grace confirms with a nod. "He's in the lab with Stella and Eve. Charming case of multiple dismemberment. Rogue body parts strewn halfway across London twenty years ago."
"Lovely. Sometimes I'm really glad I went back to research."
"This one's giving us all nightmares, I think."
Frankie grimaces and quickly changes the subject with, "Spence not about?"
"Out touting for potential witnesses. Grab a coffee and come into my office," Grace says, nodding towards a small cafetière balanced a little precariously atop a filing cabinet.
Frankie does so, asking, "What happened to that old vending machine we used to have?"
Grace gives her a rueful look. "Boyd happened to it. It stole his money once too often. They're supposed to be replacing it eventually, but until then we have Stella."
"She seems to have fitted in well," Frankie comments, only slightly grudgingly.
Grace nods as she ushers Frankie towards her office door. "She has – after a bit of a bumpy start. Boyd likes her."
"I bet," Frankie says dryly.
Grace smiles. "I think he sees something of himself in her – she can be a bit… fiery. Come in, ignore the mess."
Again, the location might be different, but the office is essentially the same as the one Frankie remembers so well. Functional office furniture, packed shelves of books and files, and an eclectic mix of photographs, knick-knacks and curios randomly dispersed in every direction. Nothing like the utilitarian workspace she can see on the other side of the glass partition – Boyd's office.
Finding a space amidst stacks of papers and piles of open files, Frankie settles herself down. Before she can utter a word, however, Grace says, "You've been seeing quite a bit of Boyd just recently, haven't you?"
The tone is mild and friendly, but the look in the clear blue eyes is shrewd. Frankie shrugs, seeing no reason to deny the truth. "Yeah, I suppose so. Why? Do you have a problem with that…?"
"God, no," Grace says quickly, her tone absolutely sincere. "Quite the contrary, in fact. I wanted to thank you – you seem to be doing an excellent job of keeping him on the straight and narrow."
"I wouldn't put it quite like that, Grace."
"No? It's not quite six months since Luke died, but he seems to be coping with everything remarkably well."
"'Seems to be'," Frankie quotes back. "He's doing exactly what you predicted, Grace – he's locking it all up inside himself. He certainly doesn't talk to me about it, if that's what you think."
"Reluctant as I am to admit it, perhaps he's finding his own way through it without talking to anyone."
"Maybe," Frankie says noncommittally, realising how uncomfortable she now feels discussing Boyd with Grace. The evolving – and still largely unclear – situation between them feels too new, too delicate and far too personal to be shared with anyone. Knowing Grace, however, Frankie has a dark suspicion the older woman has already formulated a fairly accurate assessment of what's been slowly happening over the last few months.
She's saved from any risk of further interrogation by the loud and irritable return of the man himself. By the way he's barking orders at Stella, he is far from a happy man. Despite herself, Frankie can't quite help exchanging knowing glances with Grace and she suspects they both start a mental countdown at exactly the same moment.
Right on cue, the roar goes up: "Grace!"
Boyd barrels into the office at full force, features set into a dark scowl, and Grace neatly pre-empts him with, "You have a visitor."
His expression changes to a blank sort of surprise. "Frankie."
"I was just passing," she says mildly, and not altogether honestly.
-oOo-
"It's fine," Frankie says as he rather gallantly walks her back to her car, and it really is. She knows from personal experience just how many extra hours – most of them extremely anti-social – go into a criminal investigation that is inexorably heating up. Boyd doesn't look convinced. She tries, "Look, if you want to come over later…"
"It could be very late," he says. "Frankie – "
"It's okay, Boyd, I've been on your side of the fence, remember? I know how it goes."
"I just don't want you to think…"
In the lee of the big, ugly concrete building Frankie is fairly sure they're largely unobserved. And if they're not, well, she finds she really doesn't care very much. She stops so abruptly that he collides with her shoulder, and while he's still bewildered and off-balance, she takes the gamble. He's tall – much taller than she is – but it doesn't stop her stretching up to kiss him firmly. Unambiguously. When she draws back, she says simply, "I'll wait up for you."
"Frankie…"
"Come over or don't come over, it's up to you," she says.
And eventually, much, much later, he does. It's very late, just as he warned, but when Frankie boldly suggests that he simply stays the night instead of driving home, Boyd doesn't argue.
-oOo-
December 2008
Well on the way to forty or fourteen, it really doesn't matter – the idiotic excitement is still the same, and Frankie rushes back into the bedroom with unseemly haste, heading straight for the big window that overlooks the neglected stretch of canal below. There's a very predictable growl of annoyance from the direction of the bed as she impatiently jerks the curtains open, flooding the room with cold, brilliant light. A little too loudly and enthusiastically, she announces, "It's snowing!"
"Fuck's sake, is that all? I thought the world was coming to an end, the fuss you're making."
Refusing to be disheartened by Boyd's bad-tempered reaction to the news, Frankie peers out at the unexpected blizzard and says, "It's settling – must be three or four inches deep out there already."
He groans. "And we're so excited by this because…?"
"It's London, Boyd," she says over her shoulder. "How often do we get any real snow in London? That settles like this, I mean."
"Tell you what," he says, not making any attempt to move. "Why don't you go outside and play? Build a damned snowman or something. Just don't expect me to get out of my nice, warm bed."
"My nice warm bed, actually," Frankie points out. "Come and look. It's magical."
"How old are you, exactly? Come back to bed."
"No," she says stubbornly. "Grumpy old bastard – come and look."
More growling accompanies reluctant sounds of movement, and a moment later she hears him padding across the thick carpet towards her. Bare arms snake around her waist from behind and he drops his chin onto her shoulder, morning stubble coarse against her neck. Close to her ear, he says, "Yeah. Terrific. Traffic chaos and broken bones, that's what I'm seeing."
"Why do I love you?" Frankie asks acerbically, and mentally kicks herself as she realises exactly what she's unwittingly admitted.
"No idea," Boyd says, still close to her ear. He kisses her neck softly. "Do you? Love me?"
The snow's falling heavily, relentlessly. There's no point in lying. She says, "I guess so."
-oOo-
It's Wednesday, it's Christmas Eve, and outside the chic bistro not far from the CCU's headquarters the cold grey streets are surprisingly empty. Not so Oxford Street, Frankie imagines, and Piccadilly Circus must be like, well, Piccadilly Circus. Last-minute shoppers working themselves into a frenzy. She feels faintly smug in comparison. Refilling her glass, she asks, "Are you going back to the office later?"
Grace raises her eyebrows. "What, and risk getting caught for something that can't possibly wait until next week? I don't think so, do you?"
"I'll know who to blame if he's royally pissed off later, then."
Shaking her head, Grace says, "He's going soft in his old age. He told everyone they could go at four. Must be love."
"Must be," Frankie deadpans.
The look Grace gives her is amused and speculative. "Santa Claus wears Armani and shops in New Bond Street, did you know that?"
"Oh, God, don't. I don't think I've ever had such a hard time trying to buy a Christmas present for anyone."
Grace laughs, her disbelief quite clear. "Frankie, he's the easiest man in the world to buy for – if he can play with it, take it apart or otherwise tinker with it, he's happy. A couple of years ago it was radio-controlled planes, then it was model cars… for heaven's sake, just go to Hamleys. He's a big kid at heart."
Frankie can't help chuckling. "I'm sure he'd be absolutely delighted to hear you say that."
"Oh, he knows what I think. Frankie, for all his foibles I love him dearly. We might squabble and fight, but he's been a very good friend to me over the years."
Mildly, Frankie enquires, "Is this the start of the 'don't hurt him' speech?"
"If you like," Grace says simply. "Emotionally, he's nowhere near as tough as he pretends to be."
"You really think I don't know that?" Frankie asks quietly.
Grace seems to ponder for a moment before saying, "I'm glad you've been there for him – God knows how he would've got through the last six months without someone besides himself to think about – but the thing you have to remember about Boyd is that he doesn't do anything by halves. I think he's a lot more serious about this thing between you than you realise, and if you don't feel the same…"
"Grace," Frankie says, choosing her words carefully, "I appreciate your concern – really I do – but he's a big boy. He can look after himself. We both can."
"Losing Luke has left him very vulnerable."
"I know," Frankie says. For a moment she studies the wine remaining in her glass, and then she says, "I'm not going to lie to you, Grace – I have no idea where this is going, or how permanent it's going to be, but I like him; I like him a lot. This isn't just some kind of casual fling."
"Good," Grace says. "Because messing him around after he's been through so much wouldn't just be unfair, it would be downright cruel."
"I'm not intending to mess him around. Cards on the table, Grace?"
The older woman nods purposefully. "All right. Cards on the table."
"I'm not prepared to think about the long-term, not yet. Who knows what's round the corner? But I would never deliberately hurt him. Now, you tell me – why are you so bothered?"
"He's my friend."
"Come on, Grace – cards on the table, we said. I've been completely honest with you, now it's your turn. What is it between you and Boyd?"
Grace doesn't reply immediately, but when she does, her tone is solemn. "I told you, Frankie – he's my friend and I love him dearly. If you're asking me if there's any more than that to it, well maybe once – purely on my side – but not anymore. I'm too old and too set in my ways to take on a man like Boyd, and he's never once seen me in those terms. What we have is very… platonic."
The painful honesty of the words touches Frankie. Thinking about her reply, she says slowly, "That's a hard place to be, Grace."
The answering smile is rueful but surprisingly gentle. "I've had a long time to get used to it. Loving the man is damned hard work, Frankie – believe me, I know – but maybe he's worth it. I hope it works out for you. Genuinely, I do."
And not for one moment does Frankie disbelieve her.
-oOo-
January 2009
Winter continues to bite hard in the capital, the snow coming and going, but the icy chill never really lifting. Even Frankie's enthusiasm for the snow palls as day after day is characterised by dirty, frozen slush and a ridiculous amount of disruption on the roads, the trains, the Underground… just about everywhere. It seems that the well-known accusation that the British simply can't cope with a bit of snow is absolutely true. Conversely, the bitter weather outside makes warm, intimate evening inside an even more attractive proposition, and though Frankie's far more fond of her sleek modern apartment than she is of Boyd's large, chilly period townhouse, he has the possibility of enjoying something she most assuredly doesn't – an open fire.
He grumbles on principle about the effort and inconvenience involved, but by mid-evening on that particular Tuesday night there's an almost too perfect fire crackling in the grate, and Frankie is curled up in the armchair closest to the hearth trying to proofread an extremely convoluted academic paper written by one of her colleagues. Boyd himself is at the far end of the room, sitting at the dining table with his work laptop alternately muttering, cursing and typing. In its own idiosyncratic way it's a painfully domestic scene – and Frankie likes it. Likes it more than she might ever have expected she would. Mentally giving up on proofreading, she turns her attention to covertly studying him over the top of the papers she's still holding. Jacket off, sleeves rolled up, reading glasses on, Boyd is a perfect picture of irritable concentration.
Frankie is grinning to herself. She knows she is. She's warm, she's happy and he looks incredibly… cute. And maybe that's why she's grinning – because she knows how utterly appalled he'd be by the description. He's put some weight back on over the last few months, and as far as she's concerned he looks much better for it – far less drawn and haggard. Still not quite as stocky as he used to be, perhaps, but she thinks he's looking pretty damned good for a man of his age. The intensity of her gaze seems to attract his attention because he glances her way, expression faintly quizzical, and asks, "What?"
"Nothing," Frankie says easily, not about to share her wandering thoughts.
"Hmm."
She waits for him to return to his staccato typing before saying, "You fancied me, didn't you? Back in the good old days, I mean."
He looks round again, regards her consideringly. "You know damn well I did."
"Must have been all that flirting that gave you away," she says smugly. "You weren't very subtle about it."
Boyd looks over the top of his glasses at her. "Subtle has never been one of my specialties."
Frankie smirks back. "No, really?"
Amiably enough he growls, "Oh, shut up and leave me alone to get on with this, will you? Grace will nail me to the floor if I don't get this lot emailed across to her tonight."
Again, she deliberately waits for him to return to whatever it is he's doing before interrupting again. "Boyd?"
This time he doesn't even look at her. "Frances."
"That's a bloody sexy look you've got going on over there, you know."
Boyd leans back in his chair, gaze still firmly fixed on his laptop screen. There's a fatalistic note in his voice as he says, "Do you know just how much grief I'm going to get in the morning…?"
-oOo-
She's not sure why it still surprises her just how gentle and affectionate he can be. His strength, his occasional, unconscious arrogance and his lightning changes of mood are all so familiar that she barely registers them, but his gentleness… that still disconcerts Frankie sometimes. Not, however, in moments like this, when the silence between them is tranquil and Boyd is supine, sleepy and sated. She's very glad he took the time to switch off the artificial lights because the gentle gloom makes the dancing flames seem even more hypnotic. They could be anywhere, Frankie thinks; anywhere in the world. It's just him and her and the firelight that flickers flatteringly across the planes and hollows of smooth skin.
Sitting up and starting to trace abstract, intricate patterns on his bare chest with her fingertips, Frankie says softly, "We should go to bed, you know."
Boyd doesn't stir, doesn't even open his eyes, simply replies, "We should."
Just to needle him, she continues. "After all, you're far too old to consider sleeping on the floor."
"I am," he agrees, still not moving. Eventually, though, he opens his eyes and looks up at her. "Does it bother you?"
Bemused, Frankie frowns slightly. "What?"
"That I'm so much older than you are?"
Startled, she says honestly, "Of course not. I'm not exactly just out of the cradle, am I? I'm going to be forty in a few months' time, for heaven's sake. And anyway, I always did have a bit of a thing for older men."
Boyd still looks sombre. "Don't joke, Frankie, I'm serious. I've got more than fifteen years on you."
"And…? Oh, please don't tell me you're having some kind of late-middle-aged crisis about it?"
"I just wonder sometimes – "
"Well don't," Frankie interrupts firmly, leaning down to kiss his forehead. "If things had been different, I wouldn't have hesitated to jump on you years ago."
"Now she tells me," he says, sounding glum, but the sudden glint in his eye belies his tone.
"It wouldn't have ended well," Frankie tells him. "Sleeping with the boss? Never a good idea."
"Could've been a helluva lot of fun, though..."
She can't help grinning. "God, yeah. Until it all went hideously wrong."
"Pessimist."
"Realist," Frankie corrects him. "This time round we don't have any of those pressures."
Boyd moves suddenly, rolling onto his side and getting to his feet with an odd, characteristic mix of athletic grace and long-limbed clumsiness. Reaching down to her, he says, "Come on; it's bedtime, and if you're very lucky I might just forget how bloody old I am..."
"Promises, promises," Frankie says. But she isn't slow to take his hand. Not at all.
-oOo-
February 2009
"Doctor Wharton…?"
Preoccupied, Frankie doesn't look away from her computer screen, just mumbles, "Mm?"
"Telephone call for you," the young laboratory technician says. "Came through to the main office. Apparently your mobile's switched off."
With good reason, she thinks. There are several important deadlines looming, none of which she thinks she has any real hope of meeting no matter how many extra hours she puts in while Boyd's involved in a particularly unpleasant investigation into the murder of several young children eight years previously. Looking up, she says, "Who is it, Mike?"
"A Doctor Foley from the Met," the technician replies with a slight shrug. "She says it's urgent…?"
And Frankie knows. She just knows.
-oOo-
It's Spencer who's waiting for her in the long, stark hospital corridor, Spencer who says, "He's doing okay, Frankie. Grace is talking to the doctors now, but it looks like they're not even going to bother to take the bullet out."
"So what happened, Spence?" Frankie asks wearily. "I thought this case was ice cold?"
He nods. "So did we – but it suddenly got very hot indeed. Boyd and Stella went to see Bowen again, and he panicked. Took a shot at Stella and hit Boyd. Bad mistake – she just about kicked the crap out of him in retaliation. We've got him in custody."
"And Boyd?"
"Bullet hit him in the left shoulder. It's messy and he's lost a fair amount of blood, but last time I saw him he was still more than capable of shouting the odds."
It could be so much worse, Frankie knows that. She knows it very well indeed. She looks at Spencer and she knows without question he's thinking exactly the same thing that she is – there are no guarantees, just a series of gambles. Some are won, some are lost. She thinks of Mel, and she knows Spencer's thoughts still mirror hers. She can still remember the look on his face that day when he came to tell her the terrible news. Can still remember shakily asking him, "Who?"
Behind her a door opens and Grace's voice says softly, "Frankie…?"
-oOo-
"He's heavily sedated," the doctor informs them as she leads them to a side room. "He was very… agitated… so we thought it would be for the best."
Best for them, Frankie thinks. Not necessarily best for Boyd. Not that it will do him any harm, and if it helps him through the very first stage of recovery –
Grace asks, "Why not take the bullet out?"
"To be honest, in cases like this, it's usually far better for the patient to avoid such an invasive procedure. The x-rays have confirmed it's not in a dangerous location – taking it out could lead to serious complications."
"She's right," Frankie confirms. To the doctor, she says, "There's no skeletal damage?"
"None," the woman assures her. "We'll keep him in overnight for observation, but all being well he'll be discharged tomorrow. There will be Outpatients appointments, of course. Physiotherapy, that sort of thing. In here..."
Boyd is asleep. Or simply unconscious. Either way, he's still and silent, breathing slowly and steadily, his eyes closed. There's nothing to fear, Frankie tells herself. The wires and tubes attached to him are all standard treatments and precautions – fluids going in to compensation for the blood loss, monitoring equipment quietly doing its job. Nothing untoward at all. Except for the very simple fact that the man she loves has been shot doing his job on a very ordinary working day. The doctor withdraws quietly, leaving them alone with him.
It's Grace who says, "It doesn't seem fair, does it? He shouldn't be going through this."
"None of us should," Frankie says, aware that her tone is brusque.
"We all accept the risks," Grace states quietly. "Or we don't. We all have a choice, Frankie."
"All I could think of as I drove here was Mel and the day she died. That was a perfectly ordinary day, too, wasn't it? Do you ever think about how scared she must have been as she fell?"
"It was so quick, Frankie… I honestly don't think – "
Frankie makes a sharp, autonomous gesture at the man lying in front of them. "He still has nightmares about it, do you know that? Sometimes he wakes up in the night shaking and sweating, and he can't say a bloody word. You were there when it happened, too – what about you, Grace? Do you have nightmares?"
"Sometimes," she admits. "What happened to Mel was a terrible, terrible tragedy, but – "
"I can't go through it again," Frankie says flatly. "I just can't."
Grace stares at her. "Frankie…"
-oOo-
March 2009
Stubborn as ever, Boyd bounces back remarkably quickly from the shooting. He's left with an angry, puckered red scar and some residual stiffness in his shoulder, both of which will fade in time, but it is Frankie who feels traumatised. Time and again her mind takes her back to the sudden brutality of Mel's death, to the sense of loss and shock that affected her so badly for so very long. Boyd is not Mel. Boyd is infinitely tougher and wiser, a wily, battle-scarred old fox who isn't easily brought down by anything or anyone – but he is far from invulnerable, and that's what scares Frankie so much. He's become so much a part of her life that the thought of losing him so abruptly and so senselessly is… unbearable.
He is not a patient man and it doesn't take long for his growing irritation with her morbid preoccupation to lead them into the kind of petty bickering that ends in cold sulking from her and angry outbursts from him. She sees – very clearly – what's happening, but the insight doesn't stop the ever-increasing amount of quarrelling or the steadily rising number of nights they spend apart on some pretext or another. Frustrated, she finds herself pouring her heart out to Grace at one of their semi-regular work-day lunches, finishing the sorry tale with, "It's not entirely his fault, I know that – but you know what he's like."
"Won't back down?" Grace suggests wryly. "Won't walk away from a fight? Oh, yes, I know exactly what he's like."
"So what do I do?" Frankie asks. "We only have to be in the same room for ten minutes at the moment and we start arguing about something ridiculously stupid."
"Are you asking for my advice as a friend or as a psychologist?"
Frankie shrugs. "Either. Both."
"As a psychologist," Grace says slowly, "I would suggest you need to accept that what happened to Mel was an appalling, unforeseen tragedy, that it was neither probable nor inevitable. You need to free yourself from the fear that something terrible is going to happen to Boyd."
"Grace, you called me yourself to tell me he'd been shot!"
"I know. I also know he's been stabbed, beaten and God knows what else in the line of duty – but when you consider he's been a serving officer for well over thirty years…"
Frankie pulls a face. "I'm not stupid, Grace. That's the logical way to look at it, I know, but…"
"You're both afraid of loss," Grace says simply. "That's why you're fighting, Frankie. He's got the first anniversary of Luke's death looming ahead of him; you're frightened that what happened to Mel could happen to him. You both know how much it hurts to lose someone you care about, and neither of you can bear the thought of going through it again – that's why you're both on edge."
Thinking about it, Frankie nods. "That makes sense, yeah."
"I stand by what I said before: loving the man is hard work. But if you do love him – "
"I do."
" – you need to learn not to be afraid of losing him."
-oOo-
"I'm not here to fight," Boyd says, sounding just as weary as he looks as he holds up a placatory hand. "I'm here to talk."
Frankie bites back the inevitable sardonic reply and simply looks at him steadily for a moment before stepping back to allow him past. As she quietly closes the front door she guesses, "Grace?"
"Grace," he confirms, dropping down onto the sofa. "I should know by now that 'can I have a quiet word' translates into her pinning me up against the wall and giving me a damned good kicking."
"Literally?" Frankie asks with a faint, sympathetic grin.
"Sometimes I think it would be a lot less gruelling."
"She thinks the world of you, you know," she tells him, settling on the sofa herself but keeping a careful distance between them.
"The feeling is entirely mutual – but, Christ, she's not afraid to hit below the belt when it suits her."
"I know exactly what you mean," Frankie says dryly.
Boyd nods in fellow-feeling. "She did point out – several times – that as far as she's concerned banging our heads together is a perfectly viable option if we can't sort this out by ourselves."
Frankie isn't surprised – nor does she doubt that Grace will follow through on the threat if necessary. She gazes at him silently, waiting for him to continue. When he doesn't, she says heavily, "I don't know, Boyd. Talking things through has never been our strong point, has it? Not then, not now."
He grunts disparagingly. "Why do women always think that talking is the answer to everything?"
"Why do men always think that talking is somehow a weakness?"
"Touché."
"I think," Frankie says slowly into the resulting silence, "I think that we've reached some kind of crossroads, don't you? This… relationship… just happened around us. We just sort of wandered into it without stopping to think about the future."
"Isn't that how most relationships start? I don't know about you, Frankie, but the last thing I'm thinking about when I'm falling in love with someone is sitting down to have a cold-blooded conversation about what might happen at some nebulous point in the future."
She believes him. There is nothing cold-blooded about Peter Boyd. He's impulsive, capricious and reckless; a little cautious now and again, maybe, but never cold-blooded. Never. She says, "The point is, we've never talked about it. Neither of us really knows where we stand. There's just no… stability. We're so bloody frightened – "
"Ah," he says, nodding. "Grace. Yeah, I had that lecture, too."
Frankie looks at the floor. Swallowing hard, she asks quietly, "Do you love me?"
His sigh is heavy and very audible. "Frankie…"
"Do you?"
The reply is impatient. "You know I do. That's not the issue here."
"Isn't it? Surely if you love me and I love you, we shouldn't be afraid to talk about the future?"
Sounding increasingly irritable, Boyd says, "What do you want me to say? Frankie, I'm heading for retirement, for God's sake. I'm old and tired and jaded, and when they finally put me out to pasture the only thing I'll be fit for is the knacker's yard. Christ, when I'm in my seventies you'll still only be in your fifties. Why do you think I'm not interested in talking about the future?"
Frankie stares at him, letting his words settle. She says, "Is that what all this is really about? You think this is strictly a time-limited thing? That at some point I'm inevitably going to trade you in for a younger model? You're unbelievable sometimes, Boyd. You're the one who's been obsessed with the age-difference thing all the way along, not me. It's never mattered to me at all."
"Maybe it should," he says, his tone harsh. "You know where conversations about the future between men and women always end up, Frankie? They always end up in discussions about weddings and kids and happily ever after."
"I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man alive," she says tartly.
"Thank you so much for that."
"And I've never wanted kids."
"Good for you, because I've done the whole parenthood thing and the pain it caused me – "
Her own patience ebbing, Frankie snaps, "Oh, fuck off, Boyd. Not everything in this world revolves about Luke and what a bad father you think you were to him."
"And not everything in this world revolves around Mel bloody Silver," Boyd lashes back at her.
The blood is roaring in Frankie's ears, but her reply is instant and cold. "Get out. Get out now."
-oOo-
April 2009
"Be quiet," Grace says sharply, and the instant silence that falls is a significant tribute to the esteem in which she is held – by both of them. Shaking her head, she continues, "Honestly, you're acting like children, the pair of you."
Frankie opens her mouth to protest, but seeing the look in Grace's eye she thinks better of it. Instead, she settles for glaring across the room at Boyd. It doesn't seem to have much effect – he just stares resentfully back at her, expression closed, dark eyes unreadable. They have, of course, been caught by the oldest trick in the book, both of them turning up at Grace's North London home unaware that the other has also been invited over for a quiet evening meal. It's not the most subtle tactic their hostess could have employed – but since they've both fallen for it, Frankie suspects they're in no position to criticise.
"By definition," Grace says, "having an adult relationship requires you both to behave like adults."
"And what, exactly, has this got to do with you?" Boyd demands. "Fuck's sake, Grace, this is none of your business, and if you think I came here to be patronised – "
"Peter."
Frankie raises her eyebrows at the other woman's uncharacteristic use of his first name, but it seems to have the desired effect because he again lapses back into sullen silence.
"The only thing that this has to do with me is that you're my friends," Grace says once it becomes clear that she has, indeed, curtailed the outburst. "If you can't sort this out for yourselves, one way or another, then you'll have to find someone to mediate – and I'm warning you, my services don't come cheap."
Boyd mutters something Frankie can't quite decipher – but it doesn't sound polite. To Grace, she says, "This won't work."
"Oh, it will," Grace says. She smiles sweetly at them both. "I'm going out into the kitchen to finish making dinner. You are going to talk to each other. Civilly, like adults. Do I make myself clear? Peter…? Frances…?"
-oOo-
"How does she do that?" Frankie asks as they plod their way wearily up the stairs to her apartment.
Boyd shakes his head. "Fucked if I know, Frankie. Fucked if I know."
"It's an uncomfortable feeling, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Suspecting she can see straight through you."
"I don't suspect it," he says. "I know it."
Frankie spares him a glance. "Think she's right? About why we have such trouble talking to each other?"
"Grace is always right – or as near as makes no damned difference. It's an extremely irritating fact of life."
They reach the top of the stairs. It's late and the building is very quiet save for the faintest sound of classical music filtering out from one of the apartments adjacent to hers.
Frankie says, "You do realise she knows full well she's got you firmly wrapped round her little finger, don't you, Peter?"
"Don't you bloody start."
She grins at him, quite deliberately impish. "What…?"
Boyd merely growls in response.
-oOo-
May 2009
It's unseasonably cold. A grey, bleak sort of day, heavily overcast. The weather matches their mood, and they spend a lot of time in silence, not just at the two cemeteries, but afterwards as they walk through Greenwich Park together, both lost in thought. When they do talk, they do so quietly, gently. They are both melancholy, but for almost the very first time, there's a genuine empathy between them. They have taken flowers to one grave, none to the other. Both acts are marks of love and respect.
At some point as they walk past the boating lake at the northern edge of the park, Frankie slips her arm through his. Boyd doesn't comment, but that's all right – she really doesn't expect him to. She tells him about her childhood, about the pony she always wanted and the boy she kissed on a school trip to France. It takes Boyd far longer, but eventually he tells her about the trials and tribulations of the despairing parents whose rambunctious, disobedient little boy eventually grew up to be a highly-decorated police officer and a father himself.
When it starts to rain, they stand under the trees and they tell each other tiny, unimportant things that mean everything and nothing, and when she starts to cry he gathers her against him and holds onto her until the pain of memory and regret subsides enough for her to simply listen quietly to the sound of the rain and the steady beat of his heart. It's only when she finally looks up at him for reassurance that she sees the tears that mirror her own – but her heart warms when he tentatively smiles down at her, a little weary, a little wan, but still indomitable.
It's cold and grey, a day to speak softly of both the dead and the living. A day to kiss tenderly in the rain.
-oOo-
"Mum," she says cautiously, several days later, "this is Peter…"
Her mother's hard, glacial expression doesn't change. "I see."
Predictably, things only go downhill from there.
Happy birthday, Frankie, she thinks, doing her best to stoically endure each and every long, agonising minute as it drags excruciatingly past. For once, none of it is Boyd's fault. True, he may be just seven years younger than his icy, unwilling hostess, but that – at least in Frankie's eyes – does not make him the villain of the piece. He behaves impeccably, no hint of irritation or impatience breaking through the polished veneer of affable charm even though it's patently obvious that his presence at Frankie's side is only barely being tolerated.
Familial duty done, Frankie extricates them both from the small, smart house as quickly as possible, inordinately glad when she's able to take a deep, steadying breath and look up at the clear night sky for a moment.
"I don't think she liked me much," Boyd says mildly, taking her elbow and guiding her towards the car.
"Do you think?" Frankie queries sardonically.
"I could be wrong."
She sighs. "Please tell me you're now taking me to a really expensive restaurant that's incredibly well-supplied with really expensive wine?"
"Oh, far too boringly predictable."
"But it's my birthday," Frankie complains. She pulls a face. "God, I hate being forty."
Boyd snorts. "I can barely remember being forty."
"That's 'cos you're such an old man, Boyd."
"As so delicately pointed out by your charming mother. Is she always like that?"
Frankie nods gloomily. "Pretty much."
He opens the car door for her. "She's not going to take well to me asking you to live in sin with me, then?"
Frankie gives him a look. "I think you can take that as a given. Why, were you going to?"
"Are you going to marry me?"
"Absolutely not," she says firmly, settling into the passenger seat.
"Then you can damn well live in sin with me instead. And no grumbling later about not having a ring on your finger."
"One small point…"
Boyd looks down at her, one hand still on the car's roof. "Yes?"
"I don't want to live with you."
"Not even to infuriate your mother?"
"Actually, when you put it like that…"
"See? Makes perfect sense."
Frankie scowls. "I'm not living with you. In sin, or otherwise."
Sounding completely imperturbable, Boyd says, "You are, you know. Otherwise Grace will want to know the reason why."
"Oh, that's a dirty trick, Boyd. A very, very dirty trick."
He grins at her. "All's fair in love and war; isn't that what they say?"
"Shut up, Peter," Frankie says. "Just get in and drive, will you?"
Boyd is still grinning as he slams the door and walks round to the driver's side of the car. Frankie just shakes her head in mock despair and wonders just how and why they've ended up where they are. It's a conundrum that deserves the consumption of a significant amount of alcohol. But since it's her birthday, she thinks that seriously considering such wanton over-consumption is probably perfectly acceptable.
- the end -