Really Long Author's Note: I really do have a life, sort of. In fact, I'm insanely busy, but I'm also going travelling for a few months starting in May, and you were all so kind and warm and lovely in your responses to Same Time, Next Week that I want to get this posted before I meander off into the sunset. I originally intended this as the mid-point of the story, because I'm much more interested in what might happen after Sandra and Gerry come to their "agreement." I've tried to keep them in character, but this is uncharted territory. I hope you enjoy the ride.
Recipe for Disaster
Chapter One: Feast or Famine
The trick is simplicity: few ingredients, very fresh, not over-seasoned or drowned in sauces or spices. Flavours so full that they make you see the sun-warmed Tuscan hills, the teeming streets of Naples, the haunting beauty of Venice, La Serenissima. Not elaboration, but simplicity.
Maybe that's why he chose this particular restaurant, his favourite Italian. He can ply her with wine and regional delicacies and, if he's lucky, reduce this situation to something less difficult to sort out than a plate of spaghetti.
If she turns up at all. She's twenty minutes late, which would be in good time if it were him, but she's punctual. If Gerry Standing were the type to get nervous about a bird, he'd be getting nervous by now. He isn't, obviously, so he orders a second glass of primitivo. Cool as a cucumber.
Right, Standing, he thinks as he takes a sip and refuses to look toward the door. Keep telling yourself that.
Sandra has behaved so normally for the last seven days that Gerry has almost convinced himself he imagined everything that took place one week ago tonight.
Almost.
He's fairly creative and has a decent imagination, but hallucinations this vivid would require psychotropic drugs – or a brain tumour. That would explain a lot, not least the sense he has of having fallen through a black hole into some alternate reality where his governor takes him up on the implied offer he's been making for eight years, where she makes appointments with him, of all people, to share good food and better sex; where he has visceral sense memories of sweaty skin and rumpled sheets and a low, clear voice murmuring in his ear.
Yeah, brain tumour. Gotta be. He's probably not even here, standing at the blond wood bar, feeling the bite of the red wine on his tongue. He's probably in hospital, hooked up to loads of horrible machines, vegetative. Carole and Alison are somewhere nearby, weeping at the prospect of lost alimony, and if he's lucky Sandra will pop in to mutter "Poor old tosser" and hoover up the inevitable green grapes left by unsuspecting well-wishers.
That must be reality, not this illusion that a gorgeous blonde is threading her way as quickly as she can through the prime dinner-hour crowd, catching Gerry's eye and smiling. She's not stopping well within conversational distance, grousing about the traffic, ordering her own glass of wine. She's not wiggling out of her coat and scarf to reveal a snug sweater the same colour as the wine and raising her eyebrows as she asks, "Earth to Gerry – Are you in there?" But sod it, he prefers the illusion and doesn't want to know. Besides, hospital food is terrible.
"Cheers," he says, tapping his wine glass against hers. "Drink up, then."
"Why, you trying to get me drunk?" she retorts sharply, and he hears himself lob back, "Do I need to?"
Sandra regards him expressionlessly for a few seconds before she smirks. "No," she says frankly.
This can't be the same woman who has done nothing slightly out of the ordinary in over six days; who has just hours ago made a very large, very angry man weep; who yesterday specifically assigned Gerry the task of "attempting to be less useless." If he doesn't have a brain tumour, she has developed multiple personalities. Better her than him, but one of them is screwed.
As they're led through the restaurant with its rosy brick walls and copper accents to a table tucked into a corner, he thinks, Please don't let me wake up right now.
When she suggests they order the bisteca alla fiorentina and wild mushroom risotto for two, looking as pleased at the prospect as if all is right with the world and God in his heaven, he contemplates the possibility that this is what Brian would call a coping mechanism for dealing with her mother's death. But Sandra seems calm and rational, even cheerful, enough.
Sandra picks one of the thin grissini from the bread basket, snaps it in two, and as she pops a piece into her mouth, asks, "Why the hell do you keep staring at me like that? Have I still got ink on my face?"
Gerry mentally shakes himself and physically shakes his head. "Still?"
She shrugs. "I had a small disagreement with the office printer earlier this evening." She pauses to sip her wine. "Ruined my other jumper."
"Who won?"
Sandra frowns slightly. "It's a war of attrition at this point," she says darkly, "but I'll win eventually, of course."
"Of course."
She flashes that brilliant smile in his direction, and he thinks, Nah, this isn't happening. No bleedin' way at all.
They share a delicious meal and a gloat over the very reasonable price of the wine, which isn't quite a fashionable vintage yet, all the while engaging in desultory conversation. It's all so very strange in its normality that Gerry expects his dinner companion either to disappear into thin air or to tell him that this has all been some sort of elaborate joke or sociology experiment. Maybe Jack and Brian are out front with a surveillance team. Maybe Sandra's wearing a wire – although, quite frankly, he can't imagine where she could be hiding it, and he prides himself on being something of an expert on women's undergarments.
After he has paid the bill, shrugged into his overcoat and helped her into hers, a gesture she tolerates, they stand outside in the wintry darkness, their breath making little puffs of steam in the frigid air. He lights a cigarette.
"Christ, Gerry, it's bloody freezing. Do you really want to smoke that badly?" Her eyes narrow. "You sure you're all right?"
"Yeah, fine."
He must not sound convincing. She shifts her bag from one shoulder to the other, fishes out her car keys, and stands studying Gerry intently. "Do you want me to go home?" she bursts out, an edge to her voice.
He straightens, drops the cigarette, and grabs her wool-covered elbow, as if she's skittish and might bolt. "No," he says forcefully. That's the last thing he wants. "Sandra –"
As he says her name he releases her elbow and finds her hand, the nearest exposed part of her that he can reach. They haven't put their gloves on yet, and as he curls her frigid fingers into his, he realises he could've saved himself over an hour of extreme confusion if he'd simply touched her when she arrived. A tingle of electricity sweeps up his arm at the casual contact, and when her eyes widen fractionally, he knows she feels it too.
"I may not be very good at this whole thing at first," he admits. "The learning curve may be a bit steep."
She knows exactly what he means, but chooses to misinterpret his words. "I don't know," she says lightly. "You did well enough for a beginner last time."
"Oi, I'm no beginner."
"You are with me," she retorts. "But don't worry, I'm an excellent teacher."
"Oh, well, in that case I'll be your star pupil." He steps into her and they kiss, and despite the freezing air temperature Gerry feels a flare of heat.
Lack of oxygen and the knowledge that this is Sandra he's kissing have begun to make Gerry a little light-headed when she pulls away. "Lesson one," she says. "This is better done, if possible, where there's no imminent risk of frostbite."
She follows him back to his flat. He's had just enough time to get in the door when she arrives, and he tugs her inside and kisses her again, better this time. When they break apart her coat is on the floor and his hands, still cold, are inside her sweater, splayed across her spine. Her nose is still cold and her eyes are the colour of a frozen ocean, but everything else about her is gloriously warm.
"Lesson two," she murmurs. "Skin to skin contact is good for generating body heat."
He grins. "I wouldn't want you suffering from the cold." Their fingers link together as he draws her toward the stairs.
"I'm more concerned about you. The elderly don't tolerate extreme temperatures well at all."
"Then we'd better get you out of those clothes right away," he suggests helpfully, "so you can warm me up," and she laughs as she steps out of her shoes just inside his bedroom door.
"There's the Gerry I know and tolerate," she says, but pulls the sweater over her head and drops it to the carpet in one fluid motion. "Wanna help?"
For once, the governor doesn't have to ask Gerry twice to do something.
He wakes up when she shifts and slides out of bed. In the dim glow cast by the street lamps he watches her efficiently gather her discarded clothes and put them on, and then turn back toward the bed. He waits, curious. Will this Sandra slip away under the cover of darkness, vanish and mysteriously rematerialize next week at whatever funky little ethnic joint she chooses? He knows now that he will walk into the office and find the other Sandra, the one he's known for eight years. The gov.
But no. She leans into the bed and lightly touches his shoulder through the duvet. "Gerry? I'm going." Her eyes find his in the low light.
"All right." He won't push, but – "My repertoire isn't exclusive to dinners, y'know. I can also cook breakfast."
She grins at him. "I'm sure you can."
"Bad idea?" he surmises.
"Bad idea." She straightens and smoothes her hair. "I'll see you tomorrow."
He listens to her pad downstairs in her bare feet, and knows that she is slipping her shoes on, then her scarf and coat. The frozen door hinges whine in protest when she lets herself out.
Simplicity, not elaboration.
Right, he thinks. This is very simple, as long as they both play by the rules. Gerry has never exactly excelled at rule-following, but he has also never tried very hard.
This seems worth trying very hard indeed.
Sandra has drawn clear lines to protect herself and him. Black and white, work and play, the other mundane six days in the week and Thursday evenings.
Famine and feast.
He smirks into the semi-darkness. That seems the most fitting way to express it. Feast or famine. After all, they'd never be, er, feasting at all if not for their shared love of food and ability to appreciate it as an art form, something to be consumed slowly and savoured.
Gerry plans to savour this for a long time, much longer than a week.
Yeah, so… Let me know if this doesn't suck.