DISCLAIMER: I own nothing.

Happy Valentine's Day 2020! xx

Contrary

by Joodiff

My late grandfather, bad-tempered misogynist that he was, used to say that women were a curse that only foolish men were born to endure. That firmly-held belief did not, however, stop him marrying my grandmother, and judging from the fact that I grew up with five assorted paternal uncles and aunts, neither did it stop him from thoroughly enjoying her company for at least the first decade or so of their long and notoriously tempestuous marriage. He was dead long before I first persuaded a woman to walk down the aisle, but I don't doubt that if he'd still been around to see it, he would have had something suitably dark and pithy to say about the matter. Wouldn't have stopped me, but maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't have later gone on to do it a second time.

I think about that on days like this one. Days when the sun rises on vague, comfortable thoughts of the future that are touched with an idle suspicion that there might be something in the old adage about 'third time lucky', and sets on furious scowls, angry words, and the certain knowledge that any man who starts seriously thinking about matrimony for the third time needs his bloody head examined.

At least I know where to find a good psychologist should I need one.

Halfway up the damned stairs, and still ascending, in fact.

"Why are you so angry?" I ask, attempting to muster and hold onto every ounce of patience I can as I follow her. I'm aware that it's a ridiculous question. It's obvious even to me that she's angry because I was trusting enough and unwise enough to take her at her word – and that, incidentally, is a perfect demonstration of one of the fundamental differences between men and women. I've never understood why women don't just say what they damn well mean. It would save everyone a great deal of trouble if they did. No wasting inordinate amounts of time trying to work out if what they say is what they mean, or if what they really mean is the complete bloody opposite of what they say.

"I'm not angry," she bites out, stamping upwards with an extraordinary amount of volume and force for a woman who weighs next to nothing.

Translation: I'm not angry, I'm bloody furious, and if you come anywhere near me, I'm going to cut your fucking balls off.

I hate Valentine's Day. I genuinely hate it. Always have. Not just because in the weeks running up to it you can't move for garish advertisements in various lurid shades of pink that insist that even if you're not a lovesick teenager the only way to really show someone you love them is to open your wallet just as wide as you possibly can. I hate it for its rampant commercialism, yes, but mostly I hate it because it inevitably leads to moments like this.

"We can still go out to dinner," I say, though the notion fills me with cold horror. Even if I could find somewhere with a table available at this late stage, the thought of being surrounded by dozens of other miserable couples also suffering through an obligatory romantic evening makes me want to swear off women altogether and barricade myself away in a bleak, isolated monastery until my troublesome libido dies a sad and lonely death.

Grace rounds on me as she reaches the landing. "And what would be the bloody point in that?"

I stop dead, four steps down. Positioned where she is, she could probably give me a decent kick in the head if she tried, but at least my family jewels are well out of range. I try not to shrug as I look up at her. "Well, you know…"

"No, Boyd," she says, her tone just shy of absolute zero, "I don't know. Why don't you enlighten me?"

Nothing I say at this point is going to help. Nothing at all.

Snatches of The Tempest start to run through my head and I take a deep, considered breath. I'm going to stay calm if it fucking kills me. Which it very well might do. "All right," I concede, "maybe that wasn't the best thing I could have said."

"No, really?" Baleful now.

She starts to turn away, and an odd, instinctive need to stop her makes me blurt out, "Oh, c'mon, Grace… don't you think you may be overreacting just a little?"

I really should have learnt by now that it's always a very, very bad idea to accuse a woman of overreacting. Then, as has been pointed out to me on more than one occasion, I do not tend to learn from my mistakes. The silent, glacial look she gives me before she flounces away towards her bedroom speaks volumes.

Someone is very definitely in the doghouse tonight, and since neither of us own a canine companion…

When the bedroom door slams closed behind her, I briefly consider giving up, going home, and just leaving her to it. Very briefly. I really can't envision any way in which doing so would end well.

That's the damn problem with shagging people you work with. Everything's fine until it's not, and when it's not, all hell breaks loose not just at home, but at work, too. Besides, even if I was prepared to endure the endless withering looks and the long, frosty silences, there is at the very back of my mind the slight, nagging suspicion that she's not being quite as unreasonable as I've been trying to convince myself. Though, she most definitely did say that today was 'just another day', and she also vehemently agreed with me that it was a pointless, ridiculously commercial –

Oh, who the hell am I trying to kid? I should have known that "I don't really do Valentine's Day" actually meant "You'd better make damn sure you buy me something romantic and incredibly expensive". What sort of naïve idiot happily believes a woman who says she doesn't want flowers and cards and chocolates, and the whole damned circus on the fourteenth of February?

This naïve bloody idiot here, apparently.

I don't even know how we got here. Here. One minute everything was perfectly normal, and we were going about our usual business, rubbing along perfectly well as friends and colleagues the way we always have, and the next we seemed to be endlessly skulking around seizing any and every opportunity for an illicit tryst. How on earth did we go from bickering over whose turn it was to use the damned photocopier first to shuttling backwards and forwards across London at all hours because we live on opposite sides of the fucking river, and tomorrow's clean clothes always seem to be hanging up in the wrong bloody bedroom?

As I edge my way to the top of the stairs, not wanting to make a single noise for fear of provoking further hostilities, I find myself seriously questioning my sanity. Again.

What, in the name of all that's holy, am I doing?

Grace-fucking-Foley. Of all the women in the world, I have to fall for the –

No, I swiftly correct myself. Not 'fall for'. I haven't fallen for her. Most definitely not.

Well, of course I bloody have.

Could have – should have – seen it coming a mile off. It's not as if I don't have a long and gruesome history of choosing the most difficult, inappropriate, infuriating women to set my cap at, is it?

"Why do you always have to be so contrary, Peter?" – I can hear my mother wearily saying it. Very clearly. Looking back, I have a hunch that I was always a problematic child; stupidly obstinate and firmly set on following my own course from the moment I was born.

Contrary. 'Perversely inclined to disagree or to do the opposite of what is expected or desired'.

Hm.

I sidle up to the closed door and force myself not to follow my instincts and barge straight through it and into the room beyond. Grace being Grace, the chances of getting something weighty immediately hurled at me are reasonably slim, but it still seems like a bad idea to wantonly fling open Pandora's Box. I listen hard for a moment, but can detect no sound from within. No sobbing, no muttering, no irritable pacing up and down. I don't take the absolute silence as encouraging, though. I know her far too well for that. Physical retaliation is far too a blunt instrument for a woman of her education and discernment.

Things being the way they are, I draw the line at knocking. It might technically be her bedroom, but she's not the only one who's been sleeping in there for the last however long it's been now. Instead, I clear my throat and say to the door, "If it's that big a deal to you – "

It seems she's been lying in wait, as befits an angry tigress. The door flies open, and I take a quick, involuntary step backwards. I defy any man not to have done the same no matter how brave he thinks he is. Fierce blue eyes glare at me. "Don't patronise me, Boyd. This is not about one ridiculously over-hyped day in the calendar, this is about your total inability to make up your bloody mind about what it is you want from me. What you really want."

I think I was happier when I assumed it was just the palpable lack of flowers, chocolates and other romantic paraphernalia that was pissing her off. I raise my hands in what I hope is a placatory manner. Predictable or not, I fall back on the traditional, "I'm sorry."

"Are you?" she demands, the glare not relenting one little bit. "Are you really? Well, what exactly are you sorry for? Do tell me, I'm all ears."

Fuck. What exactly am I supposed to be sorry for? If it's not simply the whole ignoring Valentine's Day thing, then –

"See?" Grace says, barely giving me a moment. "You have no bloody idea, do you?"

Maybe now is the time to test whether honesty really is the best policy? Suitably cautious, I offer, "I'm guessing just saying 'for being an insensitive prick' isn't going to get me off the hook this time, is it?"

"It might," she says, eyes narrowed, "if you knew what you were talking about and you actually meant it."

I wouldn't say she's calming down – not at all – but at least she seems to be prepared to discuss the matter. I decide that's progress. Still, I'm smart enough to remain on my guard as I say, "We did agree that there was no point in making a fuss about today…"

"We did," she agrees, but the arctic frost isn't lifting one iota.

"But I was supposed to do it anyway?" I inquire, assuming as before that it's a pretty good guess. Why is it that I'm the only one in this… relationship… who ever gets accused of being deliberately contrary?

Grace sighs, every bit as wearily as my mother ever did. "Oh, of course not, but…"

Ah ha. I just knew there was a 'but'. There almost always is where women are concerned. "But…?"

"Oh, it doesn't matter."

Translation: It matters a lot, and if you don't realise that, you're in deep, deep shit, Mister.

I fold my arms, then remember that according to all that body language bollocks she's so fond of it's supposedly a defensive pose. I think about unfolding them again, but decide it would only focus her attention on my mistake. "It obviously does, Grace."

"To me?" she challenges, her temper visibly rising again. I can hear the unspoken 'just' at the beginning that makes the words a stark accusation.

It's always the quiet ones. People like me, we're hot-headed. Explosive. Always just a couple of steps away from blowing a bloody fuse. Nobody's ever surprised when we go off the deep end. People like Grace, though… Well, you'd better really watch out when they lose control. I wonder sometimes whether it's because they keep so much tightly contained for so long. I'd ask my pet psychologist about it, only I'm pretty damn sure I wouldn't like the long, detailed lecture on anger and poor impulse control that it would provoke.

I try the placatory hand thing again. Can't do any harm. "I didn't say that. Don't put words into my mouth, Grace."

The glare that never really went away is intensifying again. "I don't give a fuck about Valentine's Day, Boyd. What I actually give a fuck about is whether or not I'm wasting my time trying to make this thing work."

I really shouldn't be as entranced by her forceful double use of that notorious word as I am. Same principle – no-one's ever surprised when I start swearing my head off, but when someone Grace does it…

Priorities, Peter. She said something important then, so don't get side-tracked by the uncharacteristic cussing like a sailor. Even if it is… intriguing.

Making this thing work.

This thing.

Ah.

"You mean… us?" I say.

"Yes, 'us'," she snaps back, "if there even is such a thing."

Ouch.

I'm fairly certain that's my cue to say something profound. Or at least disgustingly sentimental. Can't quite bring myself to do it. I've always been stubbornly opposed to being backed into a corner. By anyone. I suddenly seem to have too many hands, so I stuff them deep into my trouser pockets, determined not to repeat the arm-folding error. "Fairly sure there is, Grace. Can't think of another reason why I'd be hanging around outside your bedroom door at this time of night desperately trying to dig myself out of the shit."

It seems to go down better than expected because instead of instantly ripping into me, she snorts and says, "All right, I'll give you that one."

It's a bit like balancing along a tightrope suspended over a lake some gleeful idiot has filled with half-starved alligators. One wrong step, and that's that. Good night, Vienna. Stupidly dangerous, but oddly exhilarating, too. I lean my shoulder up against the wall, reassured by its solidity. "I'm forming a bit of a hypothesis here."

She puts her hands on her hips. It's a defiant stance, no doubt about it. "Go on."

I know I need to tread carefully, so I take my time, making sure I say exactly what I intend. "With the exception of a minor disagreement about the Randal case, everything was okay between us all day, correct?"

The stance does not change. "Correct."

"And it stayed perfectly okay until we got home," I continue, watching her closely as I methodically pick my way through what's happened and why. "It was only when I asked you if you wanted me to cook dinner that everything went to hell in a handbasket."

Still no softening. "And what do you deduce from that, Detective Superintendent?"

I have a strong suspicion that my rank is not being used in a complimentary fashion. Sarcasm, thy name is Grace. Undeterred, I press on with a risky but educated, "That all day you'd been quietly assuming that at some point a surprise romantic dinner was going to magically appear on the horizon."

The change in her expression is miniscule, but I spot it. You don't work so closely with someone for so very long without gaining the ability to read them extraordinarily well. Even if they are as inscrutable as she so often is. She sounds almost resigned as she responds, "And you know what we say about 'assume', don't you?"

It could be an olive leaf, if not yet a whole damned branch. I allow a slight, sombre smile. "It makes an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'."

"Quite." She stares straight at me for a moment. "I don't like being made to feel foolish, Boyd."

"You and me both," I assure her. In all honesty, I think we're both looking a bit foolish right now. Though I'm prepared to assume the lion's share of it. Obtuse and thoughtless I may very well be, but I'm not afraid to take responsibility for my mistakes. I look at her, and I wonder why I didn't just ignore her protestations and my own antipathy and book a bloody table at a decent restaurant. Laziness? Selfishness? I'm not sure. Meaning it wholeheartedly this time, I say, "Look, I'm sorry, okay?"

She sounds distant as she replies, "You said that."

"No," I insist, consumed by the urge to make everything right, "this time I mean it. Whether or not I took you at your word isn't the bloody point, is it? I could have done something – anything – as a… gesture."

"See," she says, and now she sounds far more tired than angry, "that's really why I'm so annoyed with myself. I hate these kind of silly relationship games, Boyd. I hate them. All the second-guessing and trying to work out whether the right thing to do is really the wrong thing. It's all so… pointless."

"Like Valentine's Day," I suggest, grimly amused and trying my best to hide it. Fuck's sake, aren't we both old enough and wise enough to know better? Tearing each other to pieces over ridiculous assumptions based on… what?

"Is it?" Grace asks, and it doesn't sound at all like a challenge. "Or is that just what we tell ourselves to be fashionably cynical? What's so wrong with having a day to celebrate love?"

"Isn't the point of love that you celebrate it every day?" I ask, then really wish I hadn't when I see the look of pleased surprise on her face. Damnbloodyfuck. What happened to the ironclad pretence of a heart of stone? Probably, she did. I scowl at her. "Don't you dare ever quote me on that, Grace."

She takes a step towards me, and this time I hold my ground. The storm has passed, and the sun's beginning to break through the clouds. Or some such poetic crap.

"You're a difficult man, Peter Boyd," she says, as if it's some kind of revelation. "An awkward, obstinate, contrary man – "

Fucking contrary.

" – but sometimes, just sometimes…"

This is better, I think as she reaches for me. Kissing instead of cursing. Makes me remember why taking her by the hand and leading her up the damn stairs to my bedroom seemed like such a good idea on that tumultuous night when dark thoughts of murder suddenly turned to unexpected thoughts of… something very different. Ripping bloody chunks out of each other to… Well. Yeah.

She draws back far too quickly for my liking, but though my heart is now racing and the blood is beginning to pound in my ears, I'm beginning to dare to think that we've got all night, so what does it matter if we take our time?

"And you," I say, surprised by just how husky my voice sounds, "are an insufferable pain in the arse, Grace Foley. But sometimes…"

She raises her eyebrows at me, and Jesus Christ, the look in her eyes…

Self-control, Peter. Self-control.

"I have decided," she says, a cool, haughty note clear in her voice as she places a hand squarely on my chest to keep me at bay, "that I will allow you to make it up to me. Tonight's debacle."

Oh, dear God. Have mercy on my soul, Lord, for I am just a poor, weak-willed sinner.

It's difficult to force myself to sound at all composed as I reply, "Oh, have you now?"

Her chin lifts a fraction. Defiant again, but in a very different way. "I have. Do you have a problem with that?"

I shake my head, rendered involuntarily mute by the tempting visions now swirling in my head. Many of them featuring the big, comfortable bed that I can clearly see past her right shoulder. I swear the damn woman gets better and better at playing me.

My late grandfather also used to say that a truly wise man knows when to stand and fight, and when to surrender with the clear intention of living to fight another day.

I am, apparently, a contrary man, not a wise one, but just recently I've been making a bit of a study of learning exactly when – and how – to surrender. So, after a moment's due consideration, I reach out to take her free hand and I do just that.

- the end -