SIX – Imperfect People

Stepping out of the humid bathroom braced for an unpleasant exchange of words, Grace finds herself confronting a man conspicuous by his absence. A quick glance confirms that his long dark coat is also missing, leaving her to not unreasonably conclude that Boyd has done exactly what Boyd so often does – lost his temper and acted on whichever reckless impulse struck him first. Despite the bitter chill outside, and the minor head injury that kept him asleep for a large part of the afternoon, she isn't overly worried for his safety – he's eminently capable of looking after himself – she's merely piqued that his disappearance will result in the whole… unfortunate matter… remaining unresolved until he deigns to return. Which, of course, he will, sooner or later. He's not avoiding confrontation, he's making a statement.

Most of her anger and a good deal of her righteous certainty have already ebbed away. Calmer after a long, refreshing shower, she's able to apply a degree of professional detachment to the painful task of analysing her contribution to the evening's unanticipated and not altogether satisfactory turn of events.

Wilful contrariness, that's what her father would have called her inconsistent behaviour, no doubt about it. Then, much as he loved her – and Grace knows he did – her father never really understood her. In hindsight, she can see why he thought she was difficult, stubborn, and, yes, contrary. Moving aimlessly round the room, absent-mindedly tidying things, she can't help dwelling on the past, on all the things that shaped her character for better or worse. On the men who have helped shape her character, too. Or perhaps not her character, but certainly her insecurities. Fickle, unreliable men who, at the very least, have completely failed to live up to her expectations. Men like Colin Bulmer and Harry Taylor.

But, she wonders in a moment of stark clarity, is Peter Boyd really one of those men?

Stopping by the window, she moves one of the curtains just enough to look out at the night. Only a very few light flakes of snow are falling now, and they are doing so in a very lazy, unthreatening sort of way. The snow that's already fallen is still deep, banked high here and there against the half-buried humps of snowbound vehicles, but the odd flakes that fall on the outside window ledge are melting away on impact. The thaw has started, Grace is sure of it. The snow will start to melt, turning inexorably to unattractive brown slush, and they will finally be able to leave. Not tonight, maybe not first thing in the morning, but soon.

He's not a bad man. Far from it. The seething anger that so often sparks his hot temper is generated by frustration, nothing more sinister than that. He is impatient, impetuous, and often irascible, but he is not a bad man. Hasn't she seen for herself on occasions too numerous to think about just how kind he can be? How gentle? How compassionate? Hasn't it been years since she was even slightly surprised by how quickly and easily traumatised victims and devastated family members alike will open up to him?

But this is about her, not him. Isn't it?

Leaving the window, Grace returns to the bathroom, glaring in distaste at the few stray items of damp clothing – male and female – left next to the small wall-mounted heater to dry. She wants to be at home, where she can wash her clothes properly instead of rinsing them through with plain water and hoping for the best. At home, where she can have a leisurely bath, cook proper food, and read proper books. At home… where she can be alone.

Though she is alone, Boyd having still not returned. Abandoning the bathroom again, she vigorously shakes, and then neatly arranges the rumpled duvet on her bed, trying not to think about how it came to be so disordered in the first place. But despite the disciplined way she marshals her thoughts, she fancies she can still feel a ghost of him pressed hotly against her, moving slickly inside her.

Even as a thoroughly independent and emancipated student in the heady 'sixties, one night stands and casual sex didn't really interest her. Not that there weren't a few such… encounters, of course, but –

"For heaven's sake, Grace," she suddenly snarls into the empty silence, "stop all this pointless brooding and just sort yourself out."

It's easier said than done. That she likes him – really likes him – isn't in question, and nor is her strong physical attraction to him, but can she trust him? Really trust him, the way she needs to? Trust him not to simply take what he wants and move on. She's seen many women come and go over the years, but none of them seem to have stayed with him for very long. He's a difficult, damaged man; handsome, articulate, and occasionally deeply charming, too, but the kind of man who invariably attracts the kind of women who think they can rescue and redeem him, and who quickly disappear when they realise the task is beyond them.

Is she really any different from them?

And, even if she is, is he really what she needs, and is she really what he wants?

-oOo-

Boyd returns eventually, stalking into the room in aloof silence, and she watches narrow-eyed as he hangs up his coat. Not looking at her he says, "Don't start, Grace. Just don't, okay?"

Seated on the couch with her feet tucked up, her reply is a quiet and truthful, "I wasn't going to."

Some of the tautness leaves his stance, and he takes a few cautious steps towards her, stopping with his hand on the back of one of the wooden chairs. He looks tired and pensive, but she can't see any obvious sign of anger or belligerence. When he speaks again, his voice is quiet and steady, "We need to talk."

Talking isn't the Boyd way, and Grace is very well aware of the fact. Clearly, he's been doing some serious thinking of his own to have come to such a radical conclusion. Restraining a sigh, and making an effort to reply in the same calm, non-confrontational manner, she asks, "What's the point?"

Boyd answers with two questions of his own. "Don't you think we've been playing games for far too long? Don't you think it's time we tried to work out – together – what it is we actually want from each other?"

"What I think," she replies carefully, ignoring the powerful urge to blindly follow her heart and embrace the startling opportunity he's giving her, "is that we should accept that circumstances are responsible for what happened tonight, and then put it all behind us and move on."

"Why?" It doesn't sound like an irritable challenge. More like a genuine and apparently reasonable question. "Grace, I've known you for a long, long time, and in all that time you've always insisted that it's far better to talk about things than to bottle them up. It's your professional raison d'être, for God's sake, and yet suddenly…" The words trail away, as if he simply doesn't know how to finish the sentence. A pang of sympathy and regret tugs at her as she sees the look of unhappy frustration in his eyes. Guilt twinges inside her, too, and that's even harder to stomach.

"I'm sorry," she says, and she means it. She takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment then exhales slowly. "I haven't been very fair to you, have I?"

To her surprise, Boyd does not bluntly agree. He just gives her a slight and very rueful smile. "I don't think either of us have exactly covered ourselves in glory tonight."

"Sit down," Grace prompts, gesturing at the chair he's still grasping, "I can't think straight with you standing there looking like you're about to caution me for disturbing the peace."

"Guilty conscience?" he asks, but he complies, settling himself opposite her, the physical gap between them significant but not yet intimidating.

She manages a small smile. "I don't think so. Though there was that one time – "

"Don't incriminate yourself, Grace," Boyd interrupts. "I'm quite happy to remain in blissful ignorance, thanks."

It's too easy, she realises, to ignore everything that's wrong and fall back into the familiar pattern of banter that they've become so very good at over the years. Too easy. She looks down for a moment, trying to order her thoughts in preparation for the difficult conversation that's looming ominously ahead of them. When he says nothing further, she makes herself look up again to say, "There's absolutely no point in talking about this unless we're both going to be completely honest with each other."

Boyd's intent gaze doesn't waver. "Agreed."

"What did you mean earlier? When you said you thought… what happened… was inevitable?"

"Exactly that. Come on, Grace, it's hardly an ambiguous statement, is it? You and me… You can't deny that there's always been something there. Some kind of spark."

Time to be honest. Time to try to at least try to trust him the way he seems to have decided to trust her. "I'm not denying it, but there's a world of difference between… fancying… someone and wanting to be… with them."

"You really think I don't know that?"

"I'm just trying to make sure we're not talking at cross purposes, Boyd, that's all."

He stands up without warning, startling her, and starts to pace – not easy in the small space available. "Why do you always find it so damn necessary to over-analyse everything?"

Irked by the question, her reply is a sharp, "Because I'm not like you – I don't charge at things like a bull in a bloody china shop with some vague idea that I'll worry about the damage later."

What he says next is a complete surprise. "How many men have you slept with, Grace?"

It's annoyance, not embarrassment, which makes the heat rise in her cheeks. "That's none of your damned business."

"Five?" Boyd presses, coming to a halt with his hands planted squarely on his hips. "Ten? More?"

"What the hell's it got to do with you?" she demands. "Worried you didn't measure up?"

"Not particularly." He shrugs so nonchalantly that Grace grits her teeth in irritation. "I'm just wondering if you've always gone through this ridiculous rigmarole before letting yourself get close to someone, or whether there was a time when you simply followed your heart."

Stung by the insightful words, she simply snaps back, "We learn by experience."

"We do," Boyd agrees, "but I wouldn't have expected you, of all people, to jump to conclusions about someone else's feelings. Because that's what's really going on here, isn't it?"

Caught on the sharp edge of his acute perception, Grace adopts a defensive strategy. "You've got form, Boyd."

"For what…?"

"Lying. Cheating. One night stands. Do you want me to go on?"

His expression hardens, as does his voice. "That's up to you, Grace, but I'd strongly advise against it. Breath is too precious to waste on repeating rumours and scurrilous gossip."

"You're denying it's true, then?"

"Oh, I'm no saint," he says, each word perfectly enunciated, "but then I've never claimed to be. Do you have any idea what it was like for me when Mary died? How fucking hard it was to cope with the knowledge that all she wanted in her very last days was to see her son again – or at the very least to know for certain whether he was alive or dead – and the guilt I felt because I couldn't make either of those things happen for her?"

"No," Grace says truthfully, "I don't. But, harsh though it sounds, I don't see the relevance."

Boyd doesn't roar in anger, he remains eerily calm. "It all but broke me, Grace. My wife was dead, and my son was still missing, with no idea he'd lost his mother. If I made a few bad choices during that time… well, maybe I can be forgiven for that."

She looks down, not able to hold his gaze in the face of such raw pain. "All right. Point taken. I'm sorry."

"And in answer to your question, would it make any difference if I was denying it? You've already made your mind up, haven't you? I'm a bad lad who can't be trusted, and as far as you're concerned, that's that."

The words are delivered in such a quiet, collected way that for a moment Grace doesn't feel their sting. When she does, though, it hurts. Hurts, and stops all her racing thoughts dead in their tracks for a few devastating seconds. She finds herself swallowing hard, but her throat seems very dry, and no words even begin to form. Still motionless, Boyd is watching her, features set into an impassive mask that makes it impossible to guess what he's thinking.

When she finds her voice, it's to say again, "I'm sorry."

For a moment she thinks he's going to offer her a resigned smile. He doesn't. "So am I, Grace. So am I."

"It's a ridiculous idea anyway," she ventures, not sure if she's trying to make a dark joke of the words, or not. "You and me? It could never work."

Boyd has moved to the window, but he glances over his shoulder at her to ask, "Why are you so very sure of that?"

"Because…" she starts, then pauses to consider her reply with a little more care. "Because we do nothing but rub each other up the wrong way. Half the time we're genuinely annoyed with each other, and the rest of the time we're either squabbling over nothing, or deliberately needling each other just to get a reaction."

"And you, as a psychologist, have never asked yourself why?"

She sighs. "Of course I have."

"And…?" Boyd prompts.

"I thought we agreed that neither of us is trying to deny that there's some kind of spark between us?"

"But you stubbornly refuse to accept that it is – or ever could be – more than that." It's not a question.

Riled again by his sharp, uncompromising insight, Grace snaps, "You're in no position to call me stubborn, Boyd."

This time he does smile, but there's no humour to it. "You're right. But I'm also bloody-minded enough to argue straight through the night. Are you?"

A surge of anger and adrenaline instantly revives her fighting spirit. "Do you really want to find out?"

-oOo-

"Christ," Boyd growls, rounding on her yet again, "why won't you just believe me?"

She takes a step back, needing to increase the physical distance between them. "Say what you like, it was still a bad mistake. All of it. It was just… situational. We're so far removed from our everyday lives here that we might as well be on Mars. This is a completely artificial situation, nothing to do with reality, and it's been influencing our behaviour all along."

"I know my own mind, Grace. We may be stuck in the middle of fucking nowhere, but I know what I want."

"Ten minutes of snogging and angry sex, and suddenly you think – "

"Ten minutes?"

"Oh, don't be so bloody childish." Grace moves jerkily across the room to the window. Too many contradictory feelings, too many words. Irritably twitching the curtains open a few inches, she glares out at the frozen world beyond. It must be close to dawn, she realises. It feels like she's been awake forever. At least it's finally stopped snowing. Everything is very still, nothing and no-one moving, and the silence still has the strange, hushed quality caused by the dense snow covering everything in sight, but nothing is falling from the sky. Not a single, solitary flake. Almost drunk with tiredness, she finds it difficult to remember what day it is. Time has become an abstract sort of thing. Aloud, she inquires, "Is it Saturday or Sunday now?"

"Saturday," Boyd's voice says, closer behind her than she expects. It doesn't altogether surprise her, then, when his hands settle on her shoulders. Shrugging him off requires far too much energy; besides, she lacks the urge. They've argued in circles for hours, confusing and contradicting themselves, and frequently forgetting who's already said what. A gruelling war of attrition, with no clear winner anywhere in sight. It feels good when he starts to knead the weary muscles that are locked tight with tension, and Grace lets him continue without the slightest murmur of protest. He's gentle, competent, and she can't help closing her eyes as she begins to relax just a little.

Comprehension comes not in a blinding flash, but slowly, steadily, expanding through her consciousness without forcing itself on her until it is simply there, blossoming into a serene and fully-formed acceptance that issues no challenges, makes no demands. He is what he is, every bit as fallible, individual and unique as she is, and – possibly without meaning to – he has proved something to her in his tenacious refusal to give ground. Not that he is, indeed, extraordinarily bloody-minded when he wants to be, which she has always known, but that he's absolutely sincere. It's no elaborate ruse, no cruel joke at her expense. He means every single word of every single unexpected declaration.

She's so tired now. So incredibly, stupidly tired. The very last fragile defences don't so much fall, as crumble away to dust. Into the silence, she murmurs, "All right."

"Eh? What?"

If Grace wasn't quite so weary, she'd be tempted to laugh at the confusion evident in his tone. She turns round to face him, barely an inch or two between them. The significant height difference between them is much more pronounced at close quarters, and she's forced to look up to meet his quizzical gaze. "I have no idea how you can be so incredibly slow on the uptake sometimes, Boyd. It genuinely astounds me. I said, 'all right'. I give in. Now, can we please just go to bed – I don't know about you, but I'm completely exhausted."

-oOo-

Continued…