Note: Once more unto the breach, dear friends, and for the final time…
I've been overwhelmed at the positive response to this story, and I wish to thank every single one of you for every review you've written, whether it's been just the single one or if you've commented on every update - you all help me to know exactly where I'm going right, so bless all of you. :D Thank you also for bearing with me - I've thoroughly enjoyed writing this fic, but I'm a busy lady, so my updates can be a little on the rare side! All apologies for this. :)
Oh, and I really cannot recall what car Sandra's driving at the minute - it changes every sodding series xD - so for the purposes of this fic, she's currently driving an Audi A4, because it's the sort of thing she drives. Additionally, I have no idea which football team Gerry supports - must have blinked and missed that one - so I've drawn inspiration from Dennis Waterman being a passionate Chelsea supporter.
Just to add in, this was written almost entirely to Madness's two greatest hits, One Step Beyond and House of Fun, both of which I feel are wholeheartedly appropriate for this chapter. xD
Anyway, I shall now stop ranting and sincerely hope that you love reading it as much as I've loved its creation! :D
NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT
Sandra Pullman's eyes immediately snapped to his.
"Say that again."
Clearly, she had hearing problems - any other option was ludicrous. The very idea of Gerry Standing joining a dating website was utterly -
"Hello Annie," Gerry repeated wearily, even replicating the wave.
- feasible. It had to be a coincidence, surely?
"Why are you calling me that?" She demanded, a note of pure panic peppering her voice.
"Because I'm your date," he informed her, before emitting a brief bark of incredulous laughter. "Oh, the very thought!"
"Gerry -"
"Jonathan, I think you'll find," he interrupted, desperately attempting not to crumble in front of her, holding out a lightly trembling hand. "Jonathan Stokes - loves a madras, has a second 'ome in the Tate Modern and looks like that bloke out of The Perfect Storm - who can resist that, eh?"
Sandra stared at his exposed palm, meeting his gaze momentarily with utter astonishment; she didn't have to be a detective, much less a Superintendent, to know what his hand symbolised. It was a gesture of acceptance; it was her ticket to emotional freedom, and his pass to escaping a smack - a silent 'hey, could be worse - I could've been Brian.' It was everything she had ever truly wanted to portray - that he wasn't second best, that him and his stupid accent and receding hairline and emotional baggage and adoration for petty gambling were absolutely fine by her, that she found his chauvinism and misogyny strangely alluring, that he didn't need to shag the closest secretary when she was right there, more than willing to buy a vintage Claret and the latest black lace offering from La Senza if was up for cooking the foie gras and oysters beforehand…
It was absolutely perfect. They'd go next door, consume spring rolls, discuss their current murder case, drink a little too much, end up sharing a taxi because they'd be rendered incapable of driving and have a right laugh about it on Monday morning.
It was a flawless escape clause, the best plausible solution… if only she could take his hand. She steeled herself, her eyes riveted to the soft shivers running through his digits that less sharp eyes and worse friends would have easily missed, and reached forwards.
Yes, go on Pullman, her mind taunted, deriving a twisted delight from her uncertainty, keep hiding, just like you always do…
She hesitated, and as his fingertips brushed her own and electricity shot through her, she instinctively pulled away. Sandra Pullman, for the first time in her life, wasn't going to recede into the shadows and facades of cold-heartedness, inane lust and romantically complex friendships.
… She was going to run away instead. A fake date with Gerry Standing, however pleasant, would never - could never - be enough for her, because Gerry Standing wasn't into veiled compliments, subtle glances and soft pouting - he was into sex with attractive women, and she could never simply shag this man then swan off the next morning.
After all, he wasn't in love with her.
An apologetic smile briefly touched her lips, the sorrow in her eyes palpable as she whispered "I'm sorry", picked up her bag and fled the bar, fastidiously ignoring his soft calls of her true name and upping her pace.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," Gerry bemoaned to himself, his heart breaking, but resolutely determined not to follow her and beg for her company - he had more pride than that, and she didn't deserve his self-pity. He allowed gravity a miniature victory as his head collided rather viciously with the bar, almost sending his pint flying, and he momentarily and dramatically considered driving his car into the Thames estuary, because there was no conceivable way he was ever going to get over either the humiliation or the heartache of this evening.
He was never going to be enough for her - she had just made that perfectly clear. Him, his soul and his ego would just have to deal with it. Quite how he would do so was frankly beyond him, but he'd do it - eventually.
… Probably.
"What are you still doin' 'ere?"
It took every molecule of his rapidly dwindling will to live to raise his head off the polished oak of the bar to meet the eyes of the barmaid who'd almost laughed at his and Sandra's rather intimate positioning earlier, and when he managed it, it was with no great enthusiasm.
"What are you on about?" He drawled wearily at the brassy fortysomething Londoner, incapable of remotely caring.
"That chuffin' woman's just walked out on yer, and you're still bleedin' sitting 'ere!" She chastised coolly, her East End brogue more pronounced in her exasperation. "She must be stark-ravin' nuts - I'd never leave a bloke like you in a public place! Anything could 'appen with a girl like me around…"
It was a true mark of his all-consuming depression that Gerry barely even mustered a smile at the blatant flirtatiousness of a rather handsome woman.
"She ain't interested love," he responded bleakly, the words sticking like treacle to his larynx, and the barmaid tutted with exasperation.
"Rubbish," she scoffed. "I saw 'er lookin' at you, mate - she's mad for it!"
"You're mad," the ex-Sergeant riposted with cool infuriation, and the woman laughed lightly.
"Whatever you wanna believe mate - the customer is always right, as they say," she said mildly, before fixing him with a serious but kind look. "Call it female intuition if yer like, but I know what I saw. I 'aven't managed a pub for twelve years without knowin' 'ow to read people. Besides, what've you got to lose by goin' after 'er - a bit of self-esteem?"
"Pride," Gerry muttered. "Ego, self-respect, stubbornness -"
"Nothing then."
He blinked stupidly, as though his mind had just switched back on, and he twisted in lips in a thoughtful pout. The woman had a fair point - surely relinquishing his steadfastness, even if it did involve potential mortification, was preferable to an eternal 'what if'? The worse case scenario was that he'd have a physical bruise to match the one marring his mood…
He grabbed his pint glass, toasted thin air and necked the remainder of its contents for Dutch courage, before smiling warmly at the barmaid, his decision made.
"Thanks," he exclaimed gratefully. "I owe you one."
"All part of the service," she answered, winking. "Now go on - don't let 'er get away!"
He nodded sagely, setting off at a pace, and as she chuckled, her colleague rose an eyebrow.
"Brenda, who the hell was that?"
Her eyes twinkled as she watched the ex-Sergeant throw open the doors of the bar and race through the car park before she turned to her inquisitive assistant manager.
"A lost soul," she explained simply. "That's the third one tonight - 'ad a bloke earlier 'oo couldn't work up the courage to propose, and another oo'd got some other bird pregnant."
"You should be a bloody counsellor," her junior remarked wryly, grinning. "What advice did you give the other two?"
"I told 'em to put up and shut up," Brenda revealed mildly, her arms folded, her lips pouted in a mock-thoughtful expression. "Neither of 'em was as good-lookin' as 'im."
They both glanced at each before simultaneously cracking up.
NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT-NT
"Silver Audi," Gerry Standing murmured beneath his breath, zipping through the car park like a man possessed, praying to a deity he didn't believe in the existence of that Sandra hadn't already driven off into the proverbial sunset. "Silver Audi - should've gone to Specsavers, you twat, that's a BMW - ah!"
The A4 shone beneath a nearby street lamp like his own personal beacon of hope, but as he moved rapidly towards it, he realised both to his chagrin and mild concern that Sandra wasn't in it.
"Where the bloody 'ell - Sandra!" He called out, utterly bewildered; she hadn't gone into the restaurant - it was inaccessible via the door she'd fled through - and the same applied to the toilets, which were directly left of the bar; she most certainly hadn't escaped into the sanctuary of all womankind. There was a pub around half a mile down the embankment, but surely she wouldn't have traipsed up there on a frozen February evening without a jacket and when she had a perfectly serviceable car right there?
Lost in thought, he started as his phone beeped to signify an incoming message, and relief echoed through his veins as flipped it open and perused it.
Turn around, 'Jonathan'.
The Cockney spun on his heel to see a solitary figure leaning against metal railings, artificially blonde locks swept over her shoulder, eyes surveying the inky mystery of the Thames, and he smiled softly. He reached her moments later, adopting her pose on her right-hand side, the serene sound of a lone riverboat chugging doggedly far beneath them breaking the companionable silence. Eventually and when the boat was but a mere speck in the distance, he felt it prudent to pierce the evening with conversation.
"You'll catch yer bloody death," he remarked fussily, removing his jacket and holding it out gallantly to her; she stared briefly and blankly at it, as though its use was something she had no concept of.
"Who are you, my dad?"
Gerry barely repressed a physical shudder; his feelings for Sandra were anything but paternal. Sighing mildly, he pushed it nearer to her.
"It wasn't a bleedin' request," he stated in a cooler tone, and she arched an eyebrow of challenge, her gaze returning to the river but a genuine smirk playing upon her lips.
"And if I refuse?" She teased. Gerry shrugged, too emotionally exhausted to engage in a battle of wits.
"You freeze to death?" He estimated dryly. "No skin off my nose, is it?"
"Charming," she answered mildly.
"Prince," he agreed sagely. "Can't 'elp noticing 'ow it's still in my hand, 'Annie'…"
"Don't call me that," she snapped, and he smirked indulgently.
"What should I call you then - darling?" He pushed, entertaining himself. "Sweetheart? Guv'nor? Bloody lying cow?"
"Hypocrite," she spat, snapping round to him with iced fury storming through her irises. "Oh, because you really adore a Caravaggio, don't you?
The former DS actually laughed out loud, acidity dampening the edges of his amusement.
"Oh, what about you then? Huge fan of Chelsea, are you?"
"I… take a passing interest," she responded uncertainly, a slight flush dusting her cheeks that had little to do with cosmetics.
He snorted cynically.
"Name me one player, Sandra."
She floundered for a good minute, her pretty features scrunched up in thought, before she snapped her fingers in undisguised triumph.
"John Terry!"
Gerry shrugged, conceding the point but unwilling to relinquish his advantage.
"Name me one more."
Her lips twisted into an aggrieved frown, anger at being bested shining through her very countenance.
"Piss off," she seethed, but before he could murmur a single syllable of success, she was immediately on the defensive. "You know, I'm still hungry - shall we pop down the local curry house?"
"Only if we can 'ave a few pints of Stella Artois with our vindaloos," he retorted frostily.
"Oh, is this before or after we visit the Tate Modern?"
"Well, it's certainly after a tour round Stamford Bridge with whoever the soddin' 'ell you reckon plays for Chelsea -"
"Yes, that's a good point - you'd need a little while to prep the plastic surgeon beforehand, wouldn't you?"
"Oh, and perhaps we could pop down to the local Natwest - preferably the one you work at - and withdraw your life savings whilst we're at it to finance your extensive facial reconstruction!"
Sandra had never heard such venom steeped into his tone, and was rendered briefly speechless.
"You know what, 'Jonathan'?" She snarled eventually, and Gerry damn near screamed out a comeback, so frustrated that he could have almost strangled her.
"No, 'Annie', I don't - but I'm sure you're going to bleedin' inform me!"
"You can just piss off home, because that's where I'm going!"
As furious, crushed and disappointed by the evening's experience as he was, the thought of her departing, preferring the lonely company of her own flat, was enough to make the hardened ex-detective blanch white with horror. It wasn't meant to be like this; his love for her was not a mockery, and he'd be damned if she'd turn it into one, make a sickening example of his inability to profess his feelings by taking the piss out of the very idea of spending a quasi-romantic evening with him -
Before he could rationalise his behaviour, he had grabbed her rapidly disappearing arm, pulled her back and smashed her lips directly onto his, narrowly avoiding headbutting her in the process. For three solid, painful seconds, wherein they both quivered gently with anticipation, they stood stock still, neither daring to draw breath, both of them stunned that he had been so brazen, before his heart punctuated the silence with a whispered defeatism.
Bollocks to it…
He claimed her mouth with the gusto of a man starved, and for the most wonderful few moments of his entire sixty-four and a half years, his boss responded, her tongue caressing his own with a tender dexterity. It was his first clue that she wasn't adverse to the gesture.
The second clue came almost immediately afterwards, when she broke away without punching him anywhere sensitive.
"We can't," she murmured in weak protest, "I don't -"
"Oh no," he challenged, his voice almost shaking, "don't you dare tell me you weren't enjoying that -"
"It's not that," she whispered with surprising softness, "it's just -"
"What, Sandra?"
His words were uncharacteristically tender, and she found herself suddenly incapable of lying to those deep, crystal eyes.
"One night, Gerry… it's just not going to be enough for me."
The weight of the world spontaneously slid from his shoulders, and for the first time in ages, he properly, truly, heartily laughed; which was, apparently, entirely the wrong thing to do.
"Well you can just do one then!" She seethed, and he stopped abruptly, still gasping for air but needing to make her see that he was absolutely not writing off her suggestion.
"No, Christ," he chuckled, "it isn't that, Sandra - I just thought you were about to reject me!"
She rose a sceptical eyebrow briefly.
"If you're taking the piss -"
Her tone threatened death by hanging, and he smiled warmly.
"That profile, Sandra," he explained softly, his eyes firmly fixed on the London Eye several miles downstream, "does it ring any bells?"
The Superintendent thought for a moment; a love for the classically artistic, the penchant for Indian food, the appreciation for a handsome chap, the deep-seated need to feel wanted, desired, loved -
"You were looking for me."
"Well, it was either you or your twin sister - I'd 'ave lived with either," he joked lightly, winking, and she chuckled. "I've only just realised it; I joined for a shag, but subconsciously, I was after you. Still… Stella Artois, Chelsea and dolling yerself up to look like a fifties icon - I wasn't the only one, was I? That's my fictional wishlist, right there…"
She smirked, a faint flush painting her cheekbones pink.
"And we're two determined bastards," she answered, not bothering to deny his analogy - he wasn't in her crack trio for nothing. "I sounded easy, you sounded difficult - match made in heaven."
"Star-crossed lovers," he agreed mildly, "or some similarly Shakespearean bollocks."
He caught her eye, and they both burst out laughing; the very idea of Gerry Standing at a performance of Romeo & Juliet was enough to have the pair of them creasing up with hilarity.
"Look, Sandra," he said eventually, staring intently at her, his gaze warm, "I know I'm not some poncey art-dealin' twat with an Alfa Romeo and a studio the size of Whitehall, and you know as well as I do that I'd rather impale meself on a spike outside the Tower of London than take you for a chicken tikka masala -" she snorted with mirth at the very notion "- but I'm certain that I'd treat you better than Captain Fictional… so what d'ya reckon?"
He left the statement open, and she deliberately left him hanging, although there wasn't a shred of rationalization needed to make the right decision.
"You want to know what I reckon?" She teased, and his face fell.
"Possibly," the Cockney responded uncertainly, and the bolshy Superintendent unabashedly beamed.
"I think I fancy a Chinese, Mister Stokes."
Gerry's heart soared, and he grinned in utter delight. So it wasn't an 'I love you, marry me right now' - but it was a start, right?
A good start, his mind informed him brightly. A VERY good start.
"You know what, Miss Malloy?" He answered cheerfully. "So do I."
"Fabulous," she riposted, and as they smiled warmly at each other and they headed, arm-in-arm, for the front door of The Garden of the Orient, Gerry Standing came to a conclusion that somehow, he was sure he had known for years.
Love was not a steamy shag in the back seat of a vintage motor induced by far too much lager and lust - not that there was anything wrong with that, but it was far from the be all and end all. No, au contraire (and bugger the Francophonic nature of the comment), love was asking him how he felt about Dim Sum whilst he flashed a grin and a thumbs-up at a curious and triumphant bar manageress as they strolled through the side door. Love was whispering that his date looked absolutely stunning even without the jacket she had never got round to accepting off him as they were shown to a table, and love was enduring the comments that their colleagues would doubtlessly barb them teasingly with once their superlative detective skills worked out the blindingly obvious. Love was the acknowledgement of the sweetest form of victory after seven long years of competition and a hell of a lot of patience. Love was sitting opposite him and ordering them both a glass of room-temperature rice wine with a great big, slightly insane smile.
Love was Sandra Pullman, and that was absolutely fine with both Jonathan Stokes and Gerry Standing.