DISCLAIMER: I own nothing

The Dinner Party

by Joodiff

"I think I'm considered to be quite an even-tempered guy, you know… outside of my work."
– Peter Boyd, Anger Management

One

Alighting from the black cab parked close to the elegant, well-appointed Highgate house that's her destination, Grace can't help but feel a distant but very real touch of apprehension as she pays the driver. Fond as she is of Elaine and her intelligent, affable husband Lochlan, she suspects that somewhere amongst the invited guests for this evening's dinner party there will be the obligatory unattached male friend that she will be effusively introduced to, and will be forcibly seated next to at the dinner table. All her past weary protests about such blatant attempts at match-making have fallen on deaf ears, to the point where she has more-or-less given up complaining about it. The widowers, the divorcees, the misogynistic, and the plain old-fashioned dysfunctional, she's met them all at Elaine's parties – each and every one of them lined up as a potential suitor despite her repeated assertions that if she had the time and inclination for such things she could find someone without any help from well-meaning but misguided friends thank-you-very-much. Still, her exasperation is not great enough for her to decline the warm invitations when they arrive. She's known Elaine for more than thirty years, both personally and professionally, after all, and they've been good friends for almost as long, so it's no real hardship to be sociable for a couple of hours to whichever poor, unfortunate devil has been selected this time.

Lochlan answers the door, leaning in to kiss her cheek with genuine affection as he greets her. Lochlan Buckley, everyone agrees, is absolutely the best thing that could have happened to Elaine after her messy and painful divorce from her philandering first husband, Paul. He came to London from Dublin at some point in the late 'sixties to study law, and has lived in the capital ever since. A successful barrister, he's a slim, gentle man with dark curly hair that's only just starting to grey, a wicked twinkle in his eye, and a warm, inclusive smile. Unusually, there doesn't seem to be anyone in their mutual circle of friends who has ever had a single bad word to say about him. Yet, despite never having witnessed him in action herself, Grace knows he has a reputation for being a shark in the courtroom; that he's well-known as a clever, cunning adversary who's notorious for delivering a crippling blow to the prosecution at exactly the precise moment when it will do the most damage. She's heard his name being angrily muttered by frustrated police officers on more than one occasion, but that doesn't stop her from liking him enormously.

"Grace," he says, stepping back to allow her into the narrow, tile-floored hall. Forty years away from his home city, and his Irish accent is still perceptible. "So lovely to see you again; it's been far too long."

It has, she realises, as she murmurs quiet pleasantries in return. Not only have things been busy at the CCU in the wake of the official investigation into Eddie Vine's murder, but on a more personal note there's been a sudden slew of family and academic commitments, not to mention a pleasant if far too-brief holiday in the South of France catching up with other old friends. Inevitable unwanted match-making or not, she's looking forward to a pleasant evening of gossip and chatter, of relaxing with good friends and forgetting all about the stress of work for a few hours. Tuning back in to whatever it is Lochlan is saying about the eclectic array of friends and friends-of-friends gathered for the evening, she's about to pass comment when the door at the very end of the hall, the one that leads directly into the large, expensive kitchen at the rear of the house, opens, and Elaine appears. She looks every bit as immaculate and expensively-dressed as ever.

A delighted smile of greeting accompanies, "Grace!"

Swooped upon, Grace chuckles at the heartfelt, demonstrative greeting, then allows Lochlan to take her coat as she says, "I was going to bring a bottle of that Cabernet Sauvignon you liked, but – "

"Oh, don't worry about that," Elaine interrupts with a dismissive wave of her hand. Unlike her easy-going husband, the auburn-haired, hazel-eyed Elaine is energetic and active. Always on the move, or so it's always seemed to Grace. Originally an overworked hospital psychiatrist, she's run her own private clinic for several years now, specialising in the treatment and management of psychosis, schizophrenia and some of the more difficult, exotic personality disorders. Like Lochlan, she's good company and universally well-liked. Trying to seize Grace by the elbow, she says, "Come with me, there's someone I'd really like you to meet."

Offering a forbidding scowl in response, Grace retorts, "What have I repeatedly told you about trying to set me up with someone?"

"Oh, I know, I know," her impatient friend says, sounding unrepentant, "but I really do think you'll like this one. He's an old friend of Lochlan's, and he plays tennis with Daniel – you remember Daniel? Julia Newman's husband? Anyway, you'll like him."

Amused and infuriated, Grace can only say, "Will I?"

"Actually," Lochlan reassures with a wink, "I rather think you might. Don't worry, he's not another Colin."

"Colin's all right," Elaine protests, despite her husband's pained grimace.

"I'm sure he is," Grace dutifully agrees, briefly calling to mind the balding, stocky man in question. A financial advisor, she recalls. Harmless enough, but dull. Incredibly dull, in fact, if his stolid conversation over dinner the night they were introduced is anything to judge by. "He just wasn't my type."

"Maybe not, but I think," Elaine says, with what might be a slight smirk, "that Tim just might be."

Grace raises a pointed eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Single," her old friend elucidates, "well, divorced, anyway. Tall. Athletic."

"Solvent," Lochlan puts in. "Drives a rather nice little Alfa Romeo coupé."

Elaine nods, adds, "Nice house, too. South of the river, unfortunately."

"Really," Grace protests, feeling as if she's already fighting a losing battle, "I'm not remotely interested in those sorts of things. You both know that."

There's a definite knowing smirk from Elaine this time. "Did I mention that he's also very handsome? And I mean, really veryhandsome."

"I'm not that shallow," Grace insists. Before her assertion can be in any way challenged, she continues, "So, what's the catch?"

An innocent look. "Catch? There's no catch, Grace."

Sighing, she says, "Oh, come on, now, Elaine. You know as well as I do that at our age there's always a catch."

Her friend shakes her head reprovingly. "So cynical…"

"All right," she contests, "why is this solvent, apparently handsome divorcé still single then, hm?"

"He's lovely," Elaine insists, not answering the question. "Charming, intelligent, fascinating… just your type."

"Lochlan?" Grace appeals.

The man in question holds up his hands in a placid gesture of surrender. "Best to just go along with it once she gets the bit between her teeth, I always find."

"Come along," Elaine says, this time succeeding in grabbing Grace by the elbow. "He doesn't bite. You'll like him."

Finding herself exuberantly escorted into the huge open-plan room that serves as both living and dining room, Grace has very little opportunity to protest further. A small knot of people lingers near the dining table, their polite chatter not quite drowning out the quiet background music that sounds as if it might be Vaughan Williams. One of the women, olive-complexioned and petite, Grace recognises immediately: Helen Price, a fellow psychologist and another of Elaine's erstwhile colleagues from days long gone by. Not exactly a close friend, but interesting company and pleasant enough to talk to at such social events. Attention momentarily diverted, Grace doesn't notice the tall, grey-haired, bearded man Lochlan is now talking to.

Not, that is, until Elaine tows her towards the two men and announces, "Grace, this is Tim. Tim, Grace."

Elaine is right. Tim is tall, athletic-looking in a late-middle-aged sort of way, and rather more than passably handsome. He is also incredibly familiar.

Dark brown eyes widen a fraction in surprise as they acknowledge each other. Grace thinks his is probably a less obviously shocked and horrified reaction than her own. She stares at him, bewildered as much by his casual attire as by his presence and the unusual mode of address. Realising that the moment of strained silence is stretching, she manages an inarticulate, "Um…"

"Grace," he says, irony heavy in his smooth baritone as he extends a hand towards her. "It's a pleasure."

"Drinks," Elaine trills, darting away and dragging Lochlan with her before anything more can be said.

"'Tim'?" Grace accuses, trying to make sense of the sudden bizarre turn of events. She's beginning to wonder if she's slipped into one of those alternate dimensions people sometimes talk about. One of those parallel places where everything is nearly, but not quite, the same.

Peter Boyd inclines his head in an almost sheepish half-nod. "Indeed."

"Tim," she repeats. Her brain doesn't seem to want to let go of the idea.

"Yes." A rather more askance look is followed by, "Peter Timothy…?"

Grace waves an ineffectual hand at him. "I know that… it's just… Tim?"

The way he starts to bristle is palpable. Also, reassuringly familiar. "What's wrong with it? It's a perfectly good name."

"Why are you here?" she manages, still not at all sure she hasn't fallen asleep at her desk and slipped into a particularly strange dream.

"Because I was invited?" he suggests.

"'Tim'?" she says again, searching for a credible explanation that makes rather more sense than unexpectedly finding herself in an alternative universe.

Boyd sighs, his growing irritation evident. "I was his first son, so my father insisted I was called Peter after his father, but my mother never liked the name. She only agreed to it on condition that I was known to everyone as Tim like her father. Happy now?"

The explanation is plausible enough, but Grace isn't quite satisfied. "But I've heard people call you Peter."

"People at work."

"Oh. True." Mystery solved, she frowns and says, "I didn't know you were a friend of Lochlan's."

He scowls back. "Is there a reason I shouldn't be?"

Realising that she probably does sound rather shrill and reproachful, Grace quickly shakes her head. "No, of course not. Sorry. I'm just… still a bit surprised."

Boyd's response is dry. "Yeah, you and me both."

"Bloody Elaine," she says with some feeling, glaring across the room at their oblivious hostess. "No matter how many times I tell her not to, she keeps trying to set me up with someone."

"You, too, huh?"

There's so much resignation in his tone that Grace finds herself shaking her head again and allowing a slight smile of fellow-feeling. She sighs, mentally squares her shoulders and says, "Well, this isn't excruciatingly embarrassing at all, is it?"

Boyd snorts. "I've had better starts to an evening."

"Thanks," she sniffs, but she knows exactly what he means.

"No, I didn't mean…" An almost helpless shrug. "Sorry, Grace. I'm a bit off-balance here. I expected Elaine to be up to her old match-making tricks, but…"

Feeling rather noble, she rescues him. "It's all right. I understand perfectly."

He looks past her towards the other end of the room where Elaine is now talking to a vaguely familiar big, fair-haired man with a luxuriant and eye-catching moustache. "Should we tell her? What's the etiquette for this sort of snafu?"

"I don't – "

"Timmy," a loud, enthusiastic female voice interrupts. Its newly-arrived owner, a statuesque brunette with the kind of figure that heterosexual men notice and keep noticing, sweeps towards them, a mild, ineffectual-looking man in an old-fashioned tweed sports jacket trailing in her wake. To Grace's intense amusement, the woman bears down on Boyd with predatory tenacity and cranes her head up to kiss him soundly on both cheeks. With no less volume, she demands, "Where have you been, darling? We haven't seen you since Erin's twenty-first…"

"Fiona," Boyd says by way of greeting, detaching himself to extend a hand towards her male companion. "Stannard."

"Boyd," the other man replies, shaking hands with a vigour that surprises Grace. "Still got the Alfa?"

"And who's this?" Fiona inquires, her appraisal sharp and curious as she all-but looks Grace up and down.

Boyd gestures in a vague, languid sort of way. "Oh, this is Grace. She's – "

"A friend of Elaine's," Grace cuts in and finishes for him, before he can offer any further explanation. As a deterrent to further questions it seems to work. The jealous spark of interest in the other woman's gaze dies away and she offers polite, if lukewarm, words of greeting. Further conversation is prohibited by Lochlan's loud and amiable announcement that dinner is ready and that the assembled guests should take their assigned places at the long dining table. Grace makes a quick head-count as people start to obey, and reaches a figure of twelve including herself before she finds herself being ushered to a seat halfway down the table. She settles with Boyd one side of her and the moustached man who introduces himself simply as Simon on the other.

Opposite them, Fiona is muttering to Stannard in a manner that makes Grace suspect she is thoroughly berating him for something. Stannard, however, doesn't look at all bothered, just nods in patient silence and keeps on smiling. To Boyd, Grace whispers, "Husband?"

"Stannard? God, no," is the low reply. "He's nowhere near brave enough to take on that job."

Smirking to herself, Grace picks up her cloth napkin and unfolds it. Now her initial shock has ebbed, she's beginning to see the limitless number of potential possibilities the evening could offer. If she's not mistaken, she's going to be able to tease Boyd about this dinner party for months – possibly years – to come. In a quiet murmur, she asks, "Who's Erin?"

A quick sideways glance. "My goddaughter. Well, one of my goddaughters, actually."

"Really?" Fascinated without really knowing why, she asks, "How many do you have?"

He seems to need to think about it. "Three. And a godson."

"Good Lord." She can't imagine who would consider him a good candidate for such a position, let alone there being more than one misguided parent with the same idea. Unless all four children are Fiona's, of course.

"Chardonnay?" Lochlan says at her shoulder, and before she can answer, he shows her the label on the bottle. "Moreau Blanc, obviously, not a cheap – "

"Pretentious bastard," Boyd interrupts, taking the bottle from him and pouring a healthy amount into Grace's glass without waiting for confirmation before also filling his own.

Lochlan's answering grin is easy, not at all offended. "At least I can afford to be, eh, Tim?"

"Now, now," Grace chides, shaking her head as the still-grinning Lochlan reclaims the bottle and moves away. To Boyd, she says, "It's considered bad form to insult one's host, you know."

His dark eyes glint at her. "Is that right? Good thing I've got you here to keep me in line, then, isn't it?"

Not sure what to make of the sly way the comment is delivered, she opts for a derisive sniff in reply. Let him play games if he wants to. On the other side of the table, seated between his wife and Lochlan, Helen Price's distinguished-looking husband Graham catches her eye, and says with a smile, "Grace, lovely to see you. How was Avignon? Did you visit the Palais des Papes?"

"I did," Grace confirms, smiling back, and while Helen continues to talk to Stannard they discuss the great Gothic building for several minutes until Elaine's starter – some sort of vegetarian antipasto that turns out to be very good – is served. The evening, she reflects, is improving minute by minute. Definitely.

Stannard, not-the-husband-of-Fiona, addresses the man next to her, asking, "How's that redoubtable older sister of yours, Boyd? Still terrifying the natives in Basutoland?"

"Lesotho," Boyd corrects. "She's fine, as far as I know. Coming back to London for a couple of weeks at Christmas, I believe."

"Down, boy," Fiona tells her companion. "I've told you before, Pam's got far better taste."

"A fellow can dream," Stannard says, ever-genial. He smiles at Grace, and for a moment she's certain she sees a spark of deliberate devilment in his dark grey eyes. Interesting.

Not as interesting as Fiona's, "We ran into Esther at Lombardo's a couple of weeks ago. She asked after you."

"Did she." It's not a question.

A dramatic loud sigh and a shake of the head are followed by, "You could at least call her, Timmy; it wouldn't kill you."

Doubly interesting. Grace waits for the reply. When it comes, it's deadpan. "Why would I want to do that?"

"You're the most infuriating man," Fiona announces. "She likes you."

"So? My mother likes me, and I don't call her, either."

"Honestly," is the disgusted retort, "I don't know what they all see in you."

Amused, but not daring to show it, Grace concentrates on the antipasto. It seems safer. Not as intriguing, but in her considerable experience, people who don't seem to be paying attention learn a lot more from listening quietly than those who make the mistake of being seen to be curious.

"I hope you don't think I'm rude for asking, Grace," the big man on the other side of her – Simon – says, "but didn't we meet at the Healthline mental health conference in Bournemouth last year…?"

It could explain her vague sense that they've met before, but caught off guard, she struggles to recall something – anything – that might enable her to accurately place him. She doesn't succeed. Sandy hair, glasses, moustache, earnest expression. Choosing her words with care, she replies, "I'm afraid I'm terrible with names and faces…"

"Thompson," he offers with an easy smile. "Doctor Simon Thompson. Lead Clinical Psychologist at the Shawcroft Trust."

Oh. He's that Simon. She's read several of his papers and found them both thought-provoking and inspiring. He's considered something of an enfant terrible in some academic circles, but that's never stopped her from liking anyone. Flustered, she nods too rapidly. "Of course, how silly of me. You gave a very interesting talk on the benefits to very young children of early intervention trauma-focused therapy."

"I did," he agrees with a nod. "Common-sense, really, but surprisingly difficult to sell as a national initiative. This is my significant other, Ian. He's a solicitor, I'm afraid, but try not to hold that against him."

The man on the far side of Simon leans forward to smile a polite greeting. Younger than his partner by several years, he's slim, pale-eyed, and good-looking, with a very fair complexion that makes Grace think he probably has fairly-recent Scandinavian ancestry. She murmurs a return salutation, and wonders why Simon gives her a quizzical look as she picks up her glass.

The answer comes as a gentle prompt, "And the elegant gentleman on your right would be your… husband?"

Caught with a mouthful of wine, Grace nearly chokes. Swallowing quickly to avoid disaster, she manages, "Absolutely not."

"Oh, I'm sorry," Simon apologises, immediately contrite. "I don't usually make assumptions, but…"

He lets the words trail away, leaving her to wonder about the 'but'. To break the lengthening awkward silence, she says, "This is – "

"Tim," Boyd interjects, also leaning forward as Ian did. "Friend of a friend, sort of thing."

The still bemused-looking Simon nods again. "Oh. I see. Well, nice to meet you, Tim."

The difficult, banal exchange is terminated as Elaine and Lochlan rise and start to clear away the empty plates to an effusive chorus of thanks and praise. The gentle hubbub of voices enables Grace to lean towards Boyd and feel confident she won't be overheard as she says, "First time I've ever heard you referred to as a gentleman."

"Elegant, or otherwise?" he replies with a momentary raise of his dark eyebrows.

She considers him for a moment. Casually-dressed, yes, but in an understated, sophisticated way. The subtly-striped blue shirt with its heavy gold cufflinks wasn't purchased in any High Street store, she's certain, and neither were the dark cavalry twill trousers. Simon's right, he does look rather elegant in an insouciant, raffish sort of way. She finds the thought slightly disturbing. Reaching for her glass again, she says, "I don't think I'm qualified to comment on that."

Boyd studies her for a moment, whatever he's thinking hidden behind his impenetrable dark gaze, and then he says, "You look pretty good yourself tonight, actually."

Startled, Grace blinks. Humour is the easiest and safest response. "What, as opposed to how dreadful I usually look?"

He frowns. "No, that's not… I just meant… It's a nice dress, okay?"

She stares at him, perplexed and suspicious. "Oh?"

"Yeah," he mutters, clearly wishing he hadn't said a word. "That sort of… sludgy… colour. It suits you."

"Keep digging, Boyd," she tells him with a smirk.

-oOo-

cont...