Note: Thank you ever so much for all your kind words, lovelies, and when we're all done, I promise I shall find the time to respond to each of you individually. :D
I've made the decision to split this up for coherency, and I apologise once again for time delays - I SWEAR the last one will be quicker! It's half-written, so it should be up no later than next week.
Due to the flow this fic appears to have automatically taken, we're toning it down for this chapter with a little more romance; the final instalment shall be almost entirely fun, so enjoy it while it lasts!
Once again, thanks muchly, and please keep reviewing! :D
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A final slick of ruby lipstick later and Annie Malloy shot a killer grin at the rear-view mirror of her Audi, oozing sultry confidence and jet-black glitter in equal quantities. Who needed nerves, she rationalised, when you were this gorgeous?
"Looking good, Superintendent," she murmured appreciatively at her reflection. "Mission objective: have food, have fun, have intelligent conversation, have too much to drink, have sex."
She slid out of her car seat, breathing the crisp night air and expelling any lingering thoughts of Gerry Standing as she exhaled a puff of vapour and stared at the restaurant before her with a smile.
Tonight, she was entirely Jonathan's.
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Jonathan Stokes, meanwhile, was far too caught up in his own world to notice anyone striding across the car park, much less Sandra Pullman. Sparking up a Malboro and winding down the manual window of his classic car, he blew out a flawless stream of smoke, the nicotine significantly relaxing him. Glancing at his watch, he realised he was fifteen minutes early, and he sighed lightly - there was on time, and there was overeager, and to Gerry Standing, a quarter of an entire hour was most definitely the latter. By his reckoning, he had a good ten minutes to kill.
… But then again, maybe Annie liked overly punctual people…
He crinkled his nose in self-disgust, horrified - since when did he care what some bird thought of him? If she wasn't into him, it was her loss and all the more Cockney rogue to go round!
… Except it wasn't, because if it had been, he wouldn't be sitting here, thinking about his boss and about to go and have dinner with some beer-swilling, Chelsea-loving blonde he'd never bloody met.
So, positive impressions… christ, he was far too old for this elementary bollocks. He'd gone so far past caring about hand-holding, candlelight and chocolates that he was practically a walking billboard for casual sex.
So, if he didn't give a hoot and he wanted a shag out of the evening (which he really, truly did, even only if it helped him forget about a certain Superintendent for twenty minutes), perhaps it was an appropriate moment to consult the sacred oracle that was the entirely fictional, self-created book of WWSD - or 'What Would Sandra Do?' After all, she went on about fifty dates a week, and he valued her opinion above virtually anyone else's.
Depends how interested she was, his mind responded lightly. If it was you, she'd be half an hour late or pretend she had a headache - if it was Jonathan, she'd probably be here already.
He smiled wryly, a dash of bitterness tainting his defined features.
"If it was me, she'd have slapped me the second I asked," he corrected darkly, inhaling sharply before throwing his cigarette out of the window. He blew out hard, hands gripping the steering wheel, highly uncharacteristic nerves tingling in his gut, but his gaze sharp with determination.
"Right then," he murmured shakily, sounding remarkably like a man rapidly approaching an unavoidable abyss as he glanced at his reflection. "Knock 'em dead, Gerald, and don't compare her to Sandra. You like her because she's her."
Well, it wasn't love, but it was a start, surely?
"A good start," he stated aloud, a brief smile claiming his lips as he locked his car door and headed for the restaurant's entrance.
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It was a betraying flash of blinding fuchsia that attracted Sandra's peripheral vision to the man across the room, but a curious glance was all it took to identify him; suddenly glad she was in the adjoining bar of the restaurant where the atmosphere was somewhat more informal and she was far less likely to get chucked out for causing disruption, she headed for the infuriating bastard, who was just receiving his pint from the barman. She was going to kill him for speaking to her like he had earlier, for daring to question her authority, for storming off like a petulant toddler and skiving a day that she was certain he expected to be paid for, for turning his phone, for making her worry because he'd turned his sodding phone off…
"Gerry!" She spat furiously, and as he spun around, his face flashed with sheepish hesitancy, and he rose a brief hand in greeting.
"Evening Sandra," he responded dully, half-heartedly bracing his collarbone as her fist collided with it; he winced heavily, unspeakably grateful that she hadn't gone for his nose - blood spatter was hardly a good first date look - and waited briefly for her to collect her fury.
"Suppose I deserved that," he muttered fairly, eyes widening as she aimed another blow square at his jaw; deftly ducking out of it, he grabbed her spare arm, pulling her round and away from the inevitable impact with the bar and spinning her with the gusto of a figure skater onto the stool beside him. She stood immediately, enraged at having been bested, and lunged for his stomach. Gerry flattened his palm immediately to absorb and counteract the blow; a swift, instinctive movement later and he had the Superintendent pinned to the bar, her arms jammed by her sides by his firm grip, both of them breathing irregularly and staring at each other with intense determination.
"Are you alright there sir?" An intrigued barmaid enquired of their stance, half-concerned and hellishly amused. Gerry gave her a sarcastic smile, briefly nodding.
"Peachy," he responded exasperatedly. "Thank you for asking."
Grinning wickedly, she left them to it with a lingering glance. Mentally cursing her very existence, he turned, stone-faced, to see that the incapacitated detective was sporting precisely the same knowing smirk.
"Given up yet?"
Sandra continued to smirk delightedly at his sardonic tone, leaning into him to explain the hold's obvious weakness.
"You've forgotten about my knees," she pointed out quietly, her eyes trailing briefly to the seat of his black jeans.
"And you've forgotten your weaponless defence training," the former Sergeant riposted dryly. "I could 'ave you over this bar in five seconds."
"Promises promises," Sandra murmured devilishly, and damn it all to hell because the shiver that had been threatening to unleash itself since their skin had first made contact chose that precise moment to break free, and the balance of power automatically tipped back to her - never a good thing.
Advantage Pullman, his mind remarked sullenly. Bugger. Useless bastard. You never were any good at tennis.
"I want an apology," she demanded haughtily, and he nodded lightly - it was a fair request.
"I'm sorry, Sandra," he responded quietly, the words genuine, and she smiled wickedly.
"No you're not - you're a bloke."
Gerry sighed deeply.
"Yes I am," he riposted irritably. "I was an arsehole 'oo got worked up about nothing - I acted like my grandson, and I'm 'ereby apologising about it. Now accept it and move on, because 'aving you plastered to my chest is 'ardly the way to impress a new bird!"
Twat, his head spat furiously as she stared at him, aghast. He instinctually side-stepped out of their position, and she collapsed onto the nearest barstool, awkwardly straightening her dress and desperate to avoid his gaze.
Just can't leave it alone that she isn't interested, can you? Sixty-four years of age with three kids and you still haven't grown up - pathetic, Gerald…
"My fault," Sandra babbled pointlessly, throwing him a fake smile, her eyes glued to a distant wall. "Didn't realise - should've known you wouldn't be here on your own… me neither, for the record. I'm meeting my new bloke here too… odd that we've chosen the same place, isn't it?"
Christ, I really can't be bothered watching him flirt with another woman, Sandra's mind acknowledged bitterly.
Fantastic - like I really need to be watching her cavort with some other prick, Gerry's mind thought painfully.
"Not really," he disagreed quietly. "We're quite similar, you and I."
Sandra rose an eyebrow, finally meeting his tenuous gaze once more.
"Oh yeah?"
"Yes," he confirmed softly. "We're both crap at commitment, share an appreciation for fine food and are bloody good coppers."
She chuckled briefly, her mood lightening a shade.
"Fair point," she replied mildly. "It'd hold more credence if I'd made the choice though."
The Cockney's lips quirked upwards with mild glee.
"Bloody 'ell," he murmured, "you must be trying to make a good impression if you've let 'im pick. Poor bastard - I 'ope he doesn't think that's gonna last!"
Deciding not to share the knowledge that it had simply been down to the fact that he had suggested it and she'd been too emotionally drained to argue, she instead cast him a look of warning and shook her head.
"Don't know what you're on about," she said dismissively. "I'm all about the give and take, Gerald."
"Well, Sandra - if you're givin', I'm takin'."
The Detective Superintendent thanked several deities that she was unconvinced of the existence of that she hadn't ordered a drink yet, because if she'd been mid-mouthful, she'd have just covered him a fusion of Chianti and saliva. Coppers, however, by their very nature, weren't ones to pass up opportunities.
"I'm giving you the chance to buy me a drink - feel free to take it."
Gerry laughed lightly, attempting to make eye contact with the closest barman and internally grateful that she hadn't pulled him on his comment.
"I'm sure lover boy's goin' to adore this," he remarked, his light tone belying the utter hatred he had for the man on principle, and Sandra shrugged, nonplussed.
"He'll get over it," she replied dismissively. "Besides, I've got five minutes yet - that's more than enough time to neck this."
Jesus Christ, I love you.
The Cockney harshly swallowed at the thought, determined not to let it leave his lips, and virtually choked on his request for a glass of dry white. He smiled briefly at her, and as she returned the gesture, he realised there was an elephant in the room - an enormous grey area that he really didn't want to know about, but felt he had to enquire with regard to or risk being considered an atrocious friend.
"So then," he began as openly as he could bear, "tell me all about Captain Charisma."
Sandra grinned as she received her wine and took a lengthy sip before replying.
"Well, to be fair, I haven't actually met him yet - internet dating, you know - but his name's Jonathan," she commenced, and her colleague froze inside.
Coincidence, his mind said instantly. There must be a thousand Jonathans who using dating websites in London - several thousand -
"He's fifty-five - "
Okay, that's less likely, but still plausible - Jack's really called John, it's an old-fashioned name, like Sandra or Brian -
" - he enjoys Eastern food -"
So do a lot of people… there must be a million fifty-five year old Jonathans who love a vindaloo in the world -
" - he's very into his art history -"
Oh no.
" - and, best of all, he could be George Clooney's doppelganger."
… It's ME. Fuck! I'M her sodding date!
Which, naturally, in turn, meant that she was his - and had he not been so completely consumed by horror, he'd have laughed himself stupid; they said internet dating got one nowhere, yet here he was, sitting beside the woman he adored on his first attempt. He'd never gotten close to this in forty hours a week for seven years.
Worth every penny of the subscription fee, his mind acknowledged gently, before remembering the situation he was in and descending directly back into utter panic.
"Gerry?"
The Superintendent's voice sliced softly through his private hell, and he cursed himself for his stunned silence.
"'E, uhh… sounds enchantin'," he managed to mumble, and Sandra's eyes tried to search out eyes that he was trying desperately to keep from hers.
"Gerry!" She chastised, clearly worried, and he finally dragged his forlorn irises to hers, bitterness almost consuming him. Sandra Pullman had fallen for him - but he wasn't him. He was some artistic, curry-loving prick with a moral compass pointed firmly at north; Jonathan Stokes was loving, kind, intelligent, wise and handsome.
Jonathan Stokes was everything Gerry Standing wasn't, and he was everything Sandra Pullman wanted.
The ex-Sergeant sighed deeply, pinching the bridge of his nose in weariness and depression to ward off the impending headache - it was, sadly, too late to prevent the heartache. Worse still, he would have to tell her - it was either that or have her think she'd been stood up, and he wouldn't have wished the anguish he felt right then on anyone, least of all her. He had ruined her day, and he was about to ruin her night - he owed her that much, if nothing else.
"Sorry," he apologised briefly. "I think I've got a migraine comin' on. Been pulling at me skull since this mornin'."
She wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him upright from where he'd practically fallen onto the bar, and surveying his state, her anxiety overrode her desire to enjoy her evening and forget all about him.
"Come on," she encouraged with uncharacteristic softness, "I'm taking you home."
He laughed, acidity clipping the edges of the sound.
"I'll get over it," he reassured quietly. "I'm good for a few more yet, Guv - but you might want to get off. I'm fairly sure your date isn't turnin' up."
Her unease slightly abated, she released him and re-took her seat, bewildered.
"What makes you say that?"
His attempt at a cheeky grin failed miserably.
"Because 'e's already 'ere," he said simply, raising a hand and waving sarcastically at her. "Hello Annie."