A bit of a change of pace from the last chapter. Hope you enjoy.

Chapter Seven: High Stakes

1.

"You're not supposed to be smoking here," Sandra says in a tone that stops short of actually suggesting Gerry alter his behaviour, and he responds with a philosophical shrug and a long draw on his Marlboro. The governor is aggressively blonde in the morning sunlight. Gerry approves. He's passing the time by imagining her kitted out in something very tight and appealingly trashy when she addresses him again.

"Go for paternal, would you?"

He nearly chokes on his fag. "Excuse me?"

"When Lorelai Arrington comes out. You have two speeds, Gerry, and the last thing we need is you ogling the girl, so strive for something more paternal in nature, would you?"

"I'm a little old for university students, don't you think?" he replies testily.

"Obviously. But when has what I thought ever stopped you? You've been standing there with your tongue practically hanging out."

Oh, if only you knew. He presses his lips together to hide the smile that threatens. "Better my tongue than my –"

"Oh, shut it."

"There she is," Gerry replies, all business, his light eyes fixed on the petite brunette as she walks slowly down the steps of the building where her Friday morning lecture on the Victorian novel has just let out. Her eyes are trained on the printed paper she holds.

Sandra's mobile goes and she glances at the screen, annoyed. "It's Brian – Go on ahead and stop her."

"This is not a good time," she answers as Gerry strides off.

"No, it's a terrible time. Just ask Melanie Tyler," he replies dismally, and Sandra allows her eyes to close – just for a second, she tells herself.

"Not now, Brian. Melanie Tyler can wait."

"No, she can't. That's why I phoned."

Lorelai waves at someone in a parked car and Gerry slows his pace, watching her as she moves toward the driver's side window.

"Would you care to explain?"

"I succeeded just a bit ago in tracking her down. She's been living in Yorkshire since 1999. Works as a potter. Her husband is a long-distance lorry driver. It's quite a far cry from the life she left behind in the City."

"This is fascinating, Brian, but –"

"She's dying."

Sandra's response is dead silence.

"She has end-stage pancreatic cancer. She's in a hospice outside York."

"Shit."

"According to the medical staff she's got a few days, a week at the outside. Given the circumstances, Sandra –"

"I know." The clouds chasing one another frantically across the bright sky make patterns on Sandra's closed eyelids. "Yes, we need to talk to her, even if it's as brief as having her state on the record that she stands by her testimony."

"I've got me mini-recorder at the ready. Jack and I can –"

"No." The brilliance has her squinting, pained, the instant her eyes reopen. "No, this was my case. I'm going." There is a lengthy pause, and she knows what Brian is thinking but hesitant to say. "Gerry and I, I mean," she clarifies rather testily. "Ms. Arrington can wait. We'll head up now."

"You want me to email you directions?" Brian asks, placated since at least Sandra isn't storming off on her own.

"Thanks, Brian." As she pockets her mobile she is already beckoning to Gerry, who stands with his hands shoved in his pockets as he talks to Lorelai and the driver of the car, a shaggy-haired bloke who looks to be in his mid-twenties. Gerry hesitates, and Sandra signals again, impatiently. By the time he returns to her the car is cranked and she's waiting with her hand cradling the gear shift.

"Where exactly are we going?" he asks on the heels of her succinct explanation.

"York." She fumbles for her sunglasses and successfully manages to shield her eyes one-handed.

Gerry considers for a moment, watching the sunlight bounce crazily off the traffic ahead. "You know what they say," he finally offers in a terrible imitation of Brian's accent. "It's grim up North."

Sandra ignores him, but if her expression is anything to go by, she agrees.

A few hours later they've both become even grimmer. The sun, as if in accordance with their mood, has modestly retired behind a thick screen of threatening grey clouds. Silence hangs heavily between them, but both are reluctant to be the one to break it. As an intermediate step Gerry lights a cigarette, and Sandra casts him an oddly sympathetic, almost envious look and says nothing about the possibility that the car park outside a hospice is not the most appropriate spot for a fag break. It seems now like the ideal spot. She too would like to laugh in the face of death.

"I thought I hated hospitals, but Christ, in comparison to these places –" She breaks off with a shudder.

Gerry looks reflectively at his cigarette. "You think so?" he wonders, unusually philosophical. "I can see how it could be more peaceful for the people here – If they've accepted that it's the end."

"Mmm," says Sandra, disgruntled, and Gerry tries to imagine his friend facing death with resignation. "Come on, let's go. You can roll the window down."

She must really want to get out of here if she's willing to let him smoke in the car. Gerry can't blame her, but – "So what now, gov?"

They haven't spoken to Melanie Tyler, who has enough morphine running through her body to keep her in a twilight state, hovering between life and death. "She's most alert in the mornings," a young, dark-haired nurse had informed them in a hushed voice. "She has lucid intervals then, early in the day. If you woke her now you'd not get any sense out of her."

Gerry and Sandra had just glanced at one another. No way in hell would they disturb a dying woman only to increase her physical and mental suffering.

"I'll stay the night," Sandra says, fastening her seatbelt. "I can drive you to the train station and –"

"No," he interrupts firmly, and she looks askance at him. "If you're stayin', I'm stayin'."

For a few seconds she considers protesting, insisting that he return to London to carry out some menial task, but honestly she's grateful for the company. "I suppose we can squeeze two rooms at the Travel Lodge into the UCOS budget," she agrees.

"Well, I know there's a financial crisis on an' all. If we need to save money, we could always both –"

"If we need to save money that badly, we'll eliminate the tea budget," she retorts, and pulls out onto the A road.

She doesn't pilot them to the Travel Lodge, though, but abruptly follows a sign to a bed and breakfast lodged in a rambling old farmhouse at only a five minutes' drive from the hospice. "Looks a bit posh for our money," Gerry observes, and Sandra shrugs.

"Yeah, but it doesn't hurt to ask, does it? This looks a hell of a lot nicer than some characterless chain hotel, and we'd be as close as possible to Melanie. I'll pop in and ask about the rates."

Her mobile vibrates and she shoots it an irritated glance before answering, "Sandra Pullman." Gerry lightly touches her shoulder and volunteers, "I'll go have a butcher's."

Sandra's conversation with Strickland, though uneventful, does nothing to improve her disposition. She's perfectly capable of handling a high-profile investigation; the last thing she wants is her boss tracking her every movement. Surely Jack and Brian wouldn't have gone so far as to put him up to this, would they?

She chastises herself for the disloyal thought. The higher-ups must be in a tizzy. The D.A.C. has to be receiving at least as much pressure as he's passing on to her.

Gerry raps on the window and displays two large, heavy-looking brass keys, and Sandra's face brightens measurably. "Really?" she asks as she swings the door open.

"Must be low season. They've got one of those poncy Michelin-starred gastropubs, too. Been featured in the Times an' all."

"You sound like Brian," she tosses back as they crunch up the gravel path.

"Well, it's a cinch I won't be askin' if they do a nice pie and chips."

"Does this Michelin-starred pub come with Michelin-starred prices? Because I seriously doubt that the Met –"

"Oh, come on, Sandra," he wheedles. "We can't stay here and not eat in the restaurant; it's why people come from the whole of England. What kind of a peasant are you?"

She bites her lip, sorely tempted.

"Live a little," he urges, and somehow that does it. Gerry can light up outside the hospice; Sandra will scoff at death by hoovering up something sinfully fattening and delicious, and she won't feel guilty about it.

"Sod it," she decides. "I'll have a go at expensing it."

2.

A scraping sound wakes Sandra from the nap she hadn't intended to take and she starts, jerking upright to see Gerry near the foot of the bed, completely motionless, as if he's determined to win a game of freeze tag.

"What the hell?" she grouses.

"Ah, sorry, gov." He drops something on the bureau. She hears the unmistakable jangle of keys landing on a wooden surface, and her bleary eyes narrow.

"You took my car?"

"You were sleeping," he defends himself mildly, "and you looked sort of – peaceful. I didn't want to disturb you."

She does a species of crab walk backward toward the headboard. "Jesus, you watched me sleep?"

"I saw that you were sleeping," he clarifies with exaggerated patience. "I didn't stand here gazing soulfully at you."

His words drip with sarcasm and she doesn't bother repressing a grin. "Peaceful, huh?"

"Yeah, it happens once in a while, on the rare occasions when your mouth is shut for more than fifteen seconds."

She chooses to ignore that, still too groggy for a battle of wits. "Where'd you get to?"

"Into town to get us a few things. It so happens I left me portmanteau at home. – Your lot's in there," he says, tilting his head toward the bathroom.

She is touched by his thoughtfulness for approximately three seconds until another thought occurs and she glares at him. "How the hell did you get in my room?"

"You left the door unlocked, Detective Superintendent," he returns, sailing toward the corridor. "Dinner at half seven. I booked us a table. You might want to consider fixin' yourself up a bit."

The pillow she hurls after him bounces innocuously off the closing door.

Part of Sandra wants to close her eyes again and sleep for about forty-eight hours. That's the part of her having difficulty scouting up the energy to run a brush through her hair, reapply the few cosmetics she has in her handbag, and make small talk through a three-course dinner. There is nothing, nothing she likes about this investigation. That Melanie Tyler has the colossally bad luck to be lying in a hospital bed, dying by inches, after life has already given her such a shit surprise in the form of Ray Arrington, infuriates Sandra. She is disgusted with life and outraged at the God she doesn't believe in.

So she should probably go have a spectacular meal, at least. If this is the hand fate has dealt, she might as well play it to the best of her ability and bet high. Enjoy the game, because the house always wins in the end.

The restaurant is cozy but upscale enough that Sandra is glad she happened to wear respectable trousers and heels today instead of jeans. Gerry looks right at home sitting at a two-person table awaiting the arrival of his dinner companion – as well he should. He must get enough practice. Or at least his alter ego must, the one she has never met (thank God), Gerry the Date. She tries to imagine a date with Gerry, but the thought is too ludicrous. It lends a surreal cast to her short walk across the dining room. To all outward appearances they blend in with the sea of couples enjoying a romantic weekend away for a birthday or an anniversary or just for the hell of it. Dead disturbing, that. And maybe just the tiniest bit appealing, which is even more disturbing. She isn't sure whether to laugh maniacally or run screaming, so she settles for looking appalled and saying, "We are not married," when the polite young hostess informs her that her husband is waiting for her to order the wine.

Gerry catches her eye and offers her an affable grin as she approaches, and she finds herself grinning back. His eyes twinkle and Sandra knows they're sharing the secret of the fake date.

"This is the part where I compliment you on your appearance, isn't it?"

Her eyes narrow. "Do it and I'll order a nice bottle of chardonnay for us to share."

He instead asks, "Have you spoken to Jack or Brian?" and she orders sancerre.

After they've ordered their starters (bacon-wrapped apricots for him, oysters for her) and main courses (scallops and skate respectively), they reach another roadblock: the investigation isn't exactly suitable dinner conversation. They've spent enough time together recently that she already knows all about what the girls are up to – about Emily and Caitlin she may know more than their father does – and she is definitely not in the mood for a catalogue of his more colourful sexual exploits. She glances down at her bread plate and fiddles with her butter knife, momentarily at a loss.

"See that couple by the window? Don't turn round and look."

Sandra sips her wine, casually props her chin on her fist, and takes a good long look over her shoulder at a well-dressed sixtyish woman and her much younger companion.

"Well?"

Sandra blinks. "Mother and son."

"Nah." Gerry sips his own wine and smirks. "Frustrated housewife from – let's see, Leeds – havin' it away with her old school chum's son, who needs a bit of cash to pursue his dream of opening a chain of strip clubs where the girls dress like nuns."

She grins. "And you know this because?"

"She's footin' the bill but she let him order the wine, and look at her shoes. She's not used to heels like that; her feet hurt."

"Yeah," she agrees, reluctantly amused, "that is the most natural explanation."

"Next?" he prompts, and she considers, welcoming the diversion. God bless Gerry for thinking of a way to take the piss out of this forced intimacy. It's still cool enough in the evenings to have a fire, and the light from the huge stone fireplace flickers at Sandra's back, leaving shadowy fingers of darkness in the corners. The wine is excellent. It has been quite a while since she's been anywhere this nice. She used to do this, in another life: go away for the weekend and leave the police behind.

Of course, she's not away for the weekend, and she's certainly brought the Detective Superintendent along, and, oh yes, she's with Gerry, not someone she's involved with – not that way.

But she's having a good time.

"There," she says. "Far table in the corner."

Gerry looks at the young, dark-haired woman and her blond boyfriend, who is still young enough to look slightly awkward in his blazer and tie. They're twenty-four, maybe twenty-five, and he has probably been saving up for ages to afford this place. Gerry recognizes the scenario immediately, and obligingly provides the obvious narrative. "They met at university," he says. "Graduated… about a year ago. He's a solicitor; she's an elementary school teacher. See how nervous he is? He's waitin' for the right moment to pop the question. Blimey, I know what that feels like, poor bugger."

She chuckles. "Maybe you could go over and give him some pointers. Too bad you're wrong."

His grin is warm. "Am I?"

Sandra nods knowingly. "He's nervous because she's blackmailing him," she says definitely. "She's a high-class escort, and she's gotten him into all sorts: drugs, gambling, whatever you fancy. He's into her for, oh, say fifty thousand, and she's threatening to grass him up to his father, who's the M.P. for… Bradford. She's got photos, and she's going to give them to the tabloids unless he comes up with the money."

"Bradford, eh?"

"Bradford," she repeats, and they share a smile. "Imagine what they're saying about us."

"Not much, I suspect," Gerry responds, topping up her wine. "We blend in."

They do, which is exactly what makes Sandra so uncomfortable. She takes a healthy swallow of her wine and forces a smile.

The food is excellent, but the atmosphere is becoming a bit cloying. Sandra has had her eye on the lemon soufflé since she first glanced at the menu, so missing dessert is not an option, but she's had enough of sitting in this dining room feeling like she's playing a part – or rather, feeling like she's not exactly playing a part.

"Do you want to have dessert upstairs?" she murmurs, and then flushes beet red as she realizes their very discreet waiter has overheard her words and completely misconstrued them. "I mean –"

Gerry smiles wryly. "I know what you meant, Sandra."

They end up wedged into the lift with the young couple, who seem completely oblivious to their presence, perhaps because the woman now sports a very shiny, very new diamond ring. The close quarters don't deter the newly-engaged couple from going at it like the world might end before they make it up to the third floor. Sandra and Gerry naturally seek one another's eyes to exchange a mutual look of annoyed amusement, but it goes on too long and becomes something else, itself a source of increased discomfort. Still neither of them looks away, not until the car grinds to a halt on the third floor and the others tumble out into the corridor. Sandra and Gerry step out more sedately, and she releases a pent-up breath. "At least they're down the other end of the hall."

Sandra and Gerry's rooms are across the corridor from one another, and as Gerry inserts his key into the lock, he says, "I found a pack of playing cards. Fancy a game?"

Sandra hesitates. She's not much of a card player. On the other hand, what the hell else is she going to do? Go back to her own room and wait for the walls to close in on her? Think about Arrington and Melanie and just how ugly life can be?

Half an hour later she slaps her cards down on the duvet and declares, "You're cheating!"

"What, because I'm winning?" he scoffs. "Sore loser."

"No one is that bloody lucky," she insists, and suddenly makes a lunge for his hand. "Show me your cards," she demands.

"Oi, I will not!" He leans back as far as he can, stretching the hand that holds his cards above his head, but she rises up on her knees. "Give over," he protests as she scrabbles for his cards, but he chuckles, and when he looks up into Sandra's face she's grinning. She's also warm and soft and her right breast is pressing against his forearm. They seem to become aware of this at the same instant and she springs back.

"Cheater," she repeats, leaning over and picking up her half-eaten lemon soufflé.

"Sore loser," he repeats perfectly calmly. "But I'm a lover, not a fighter."

"There's a difference between looking for love everlasting and looking for a quick shag," she retorts, handing over his double chocolate pudding with caramel and sea salt.

He draws back, stung. "I'm sixty years old, Sandra, not sixteen. You don't think I'd like to find someone to love, who loves me back?"

"How sweet," she replies acidly, and as she hears herself she thinks, I really can be a bitch sometimes. "How do I know what you want? But you're not looking very hard, are you?"

"I bloody am," he insists stubbornly, wondering if there's any possibility for him to retain a measure of dignity. The odds look slim from where he's standing. Well, sitting.

"Oh, bollocks, you are not," she mutters, but feels a little ashamed of herself.

He looks sharply at her, or at least as sharply as one can look with a mouthful of pudding. "Yeah, all right, you can't just say that and leave it 'anging. What's that supposed to mean?"

She hesitates, momentarily debating whether it might not be better to play the comment off lightly, but then she thinks, What the hell? It's not every Friday night she has a fake date with Gerry Standing, and somebody needs to clue him in. "Who was it that said the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different outcome?"

To her surprise he still looks genuinely wounded. "Despite what you may think, I'm not just some antiquated sleaze."

Her eyebrows arch. "I never –"

"I've actually learned a few things from my mistakes, Sandra. I thought you knew that."

She considers, poking at her dessert with her spoon. She's hurt his feelings, and it gives her that sick, crawling feeling of shame she used to get back at school when she was The Mean Girl. "No, Gerry. It's what I told you the other night about the lovely, insipid, doe-eyed Leah –"

"Lee Anne."

"You keep dating the same woman. It never works out, but God forbid you should deviate from your nice, safe pattern."

"Oh, and you're doing so much better?"

She chuckles wryly. "I'm not even sure I remember the last time I went out on a date."

"Repressed memories?" he suggests. "Tonight aside, of course. So how is it you're an expert on me, then?"

"Forty hours a week for eight years," she replies immediately.

"What is it I'm getting wrong, then? Lee Anne is lovely, intelligent, kind –"

"You don't need 'kind,' Gerry, you need someone who knows when you're due a bollocking."

"I get that at work. What else?"

"Oh, I don't know – a shared interest? Similar life experience? An ability to murder the English language and a pack a day habit? A love of purple?"

He opens his mouth to protest, but then closes it. A shared appreciation of curry paste admittedly isn't the greatest foundation for a relationship. But it had possibilities.

"She sounds great, Sandra. Let me know if you bump into her," he grumps. Discussing everything he does wrong in the romance department doesn't tend to improve his mood, especially when all the demerits are being handed out by the guv'nor.

"You could start small," she suggests teasingly. "Look for someone who occasionally laughs at your stupid jokes."

"You occasionally laugh at my stupid jokes."

She looks taken aback, but then grins. "Nah, that's me laughing at you."

"Easy mistake," he responds nonchalantly. "I'm feeling magnanimous, however, because you owe me a pony."

"Nope." She smirks,again unbearably smug, and leisurely stretches her long legs out in front of her. She rests one bare foot atop the other and carefully takes a bite of lemon soufflé, which she savours before adding, "I don't either."

He looks at her for a long time before asking, "How's that?" He's somewhat distracted by how comfortable she looks lounging against the pillows stacked up against the headboard, taking up a good half of what's supposed to be his bed for the night. It figures, he thinks. You finally got Sandra in your bed. The wish-granting genie has a malevolent sense of humour. You should've specified.

"You're reformed," she shoots back loftily. "No gambling."

"You're just a sore loser." He shifts his gaze from the way her black trousers cling to her legs, in search of safer territory. Bright, warm eyes – Oops, no, not safer. Pudding. Yeah, that's harmless. "Now, Sandra, not only are you my guv'nor, but you're my dear friend. You ought to know I wouldn't dream of taking your money… if you weren't such a piss-poor card player." She lobs one of those pillows at him – that's twice in one day – scattering playing cards everywhere, and he dodges. "Oi, watch the pudding!"

She laughs and leans toward him. "This is the Gerry you need to be showing to all those prospective fourth Mrs. Standings," she chides, and he does look into her eyes, which sparkle. "The real you. You can be funny and charming and pleasant to be around, you know."

He perks up. "I'm charming?" Sandra thinks I'm charming?

"You can be charming, Gerry. You have your moments. You can also be a complete tosser." She grins at him, taking the sting out of the words in the way that only she can do. "How much time do you reckon you've wasted trying to impress your dates?"

"No offence, gov, but that's crap advice." Her lips purse in disapproval and he continues. "Women who know the real me won't date me," he points out wryly.

"How many women know the real you besides your ex-wives and your daughters?" she retorts.

Gerry grows quiet and stays that way for a good half a minute before muttering, "I suppose just one."

They look at one another. Sandra is touched and flattered and pleasantly warm and a little uncomfortable, and the soufflé sticks in her throat. "Well, there you go," she says. "Introduce him to some people, and you never know what might happen. You could meet someone exciting and challenging who's just waiting to go a few rounds with Gerry Standing."

It's on the tip of his tongue to ask if she'd consider volunteering, but he hasn't completely lost his mind. "You sound like a bleedin' life coach."

"Can I try that?"

"Bein' a life coach? I wouldn't recommend it, Sandra. I don't think it would suit your particular skill set."

She snorts. "Your pudding, you dolt. How's the chocolate?"

"Yeah, go on, then; it's good."

He watches her reach over with her spoon and take a generous bite. "It is good," she agrees, lapping the last traces from the utensil, and Gerry swallows hard, watching her pink tongue and trying not to think about her proximity. Suddenly this all seems like a very bad idea. "But not as good as mine. I out-ordered you."

"You still owe me twenty-five quid."

She grins as he readjusts his position, joining her as she leans against the ornate antique headboard. "Yeah, well, you can't buy dignity."

"So you wouldn't consider leaving me with a shred, would you?"

Her expression softens in one of those lightning-fast mood changes that are so much a part of her character. "Thanks for insisting on dinner, Gerry. Tonight's been a really nice break from this awful waste of time."

He considers asking her what's bothering her so much about their current investigation, but doesn't want to dampen the playful tone. "Even at the cost of having the wait staff think you've got the bad taste to be romantically involved with me?"

"Even at that high cost."

"Come on, I'd at least be a step up from Hargreaves," he says, and okay, he's fishing.

She doesn't make a joke. "You'd be a whole flight up," she admits a little sadly.

"So would you – from Leah, I mean."

Her lips quirk at his little joke. "Lee Anne," she acknowledges softly, scooping up another carefully selected bite of the heavenly soufflé. "But you hate to climb stairs. Besides, you'd have to go for Indian food, and you'd get sick of me picking the wine and taking the piss out of your ties."

"You do all that anyway," he returns. "I'm pretty sure I could stand it. Plus it occurs to me that there might be other benefits, and I'm good with mouthy birds."

He's briefly afraid he has gone too far, but Sandra rolls her eyes. "Yeah, I secretly find you irresistible."

If only, he thinks. But no; no matter what you say now, you'd have it off with a complete prat like James Hargreaves, but you wouldn't ever look twice at good old Upstanding Standing, would you? "It's mutual," he snaps, and is immediately mortified by the obvious bitterness lacing the words. Oh, shit, he sounds about as mature as a scorned schoolboy.

Her eyes widen and then her gaze drops to the remnants of the soufflé. The sharp retort he expects doesn't come. "You and the rest of the adult male population with an IQ above eighty," she says, not angry but instead unusually self-deprecating. "That's why I'm fifty and single."

"Forty-nine," he corrects gently, and her lips shape themselves into that one-sided smile.

"And I plan to stay that way – Forty-nine, that is." She puts her dessert plate down on the low table beside the bed and swings her feet to the floor. "And who am I kidding? Single too. It's not so bad. I'm too set in my ways to change for anyone, and who wants to come home to a frozen dinner and an obsessive detective? Like I'd want some bloke who wants to redesign the back garden and take me to lunch at his mother's. Men want the Lee Annes of the world. Who gives a toss?"

Gerry looks down at the traces of his own dessert, thinking. She sounds bitter too. Surely it's not anything to do with him, is it? Can he hope it is? "No, not all of us. Some of us date the Lee Annes because they're the ones who say yes."

"Maybe they say yes because they're the ones you ask," she volleys, stepping into her shoes and checking her pocket for her room key, and Gerry just sits very still, afraid to move a muscle until he figures out what's going on. Is Sandra not-so-subtly taking him to task for never having asked her?

She meets his amazed gaze and Gerry instantly returns to earth with a sharp rush that's part surge of relief, part crushing disappointment. Of course that wasn't what she meant. "Are you going to take my advice?" she asks quickly, sounding less smug than he expected, and glancing down again as she smoothes the fabric of her jumper.

"You mean and hunt up one of the Sandras of the world instead of another of the Lee Annes?"

His voice comes out as flat as a Shrove Tuesday pancake, and she winces at his terms. "I suppose, if you have to put it that way," she replies irritably.

He stands up because he doesn't like the power differential involved with her looming above him like this. He knows what he should say: Sure, gov, I'll give it a go the next time one of your lot turns up at my local Tesco. I suppose I should try the frozen foods aisle, yeah? And she'll make some smart, superior comment and go back to her own room and that will be all she wrote.

That's what he should do.

But he didn't imagine that lengthy, loaded look they'd exchanged in the lift, or the heat of her skin when they'd struggled over his playing cards. She is as aware as he is that their little craft is circumnavigating a possibility that must be very obvious to everyone else around them. On an antique map it would be marked "Here Be Dragons."

He let one opportunity pass the other night at Sandra's flat. Miraculously he has been given another. Forget what he should do; he knows what he has to do, even though his blood rushes so loudly in his ears that he can barely hear himself speak – which is just as well, since his throat has gone dry and he's probably croaking like a frog.

Ladies and gentlemen, place your bets!

"No," he says decidedly.

Sandra frowns. Jesus, but she's pretty when she's petulant. This morning he'd diverted himself by imagining her all tarted up in black leather like a covert operative in a glossy Hollywood film, but this is enough. Everyday Sandra Pullman in her trousers, simple teal top and dark cardigan, with her normally perfect hair mussed just slightly from leaning against the pillows, is more than enough. It's everything Gerry wants, and as she stands there looking irritated and puzzled and yes, a bit hurt, he admits it to himself.

All in, Gerry, old son.

"I couldn't do, now I've known the original for this long," he says, and as her frown turns into a bona fide scowl he realizes it has come out sounding like an insult. She takes a step, and out of pure desperation he lunges between her and the door. "No, no, Sandra. I meant – accept no substitutes," he exclaims frantically.

He wishes he could be more eloquent, but if the dawning comprehension in her eyes is anything to go by, he's at least getting his point across. He's stuck himself in it now, so he'll just have to storm on, doing the best he can with what he has. And what he has is the sort of line that could only come from the lips of a Gerry Standing.

"What if I did find somebody like you?" he forges ahead with the valor of despair. "It'd be like saying, I fancy a six-weeks' holiday in Thailand, but as I can't afford it, I'm off for the weekend to Blackpool. You just wouldn't, would you?"

Would you, dear readers? If you're having anything like as much fun reading this as I'm having writing it, I'd be delighted if you wrote a review. Thanks for being so kind thus far.