FOUR – The Hardest Word

There's an implacable note in the well-educated female voice that says, "Spencer gives up far too easily. That's why he's living on his own in a grotty flat in Hoxton and Kim's living in luxury in Islington with the baby."

Grace can't help sighing. "Get to the point, Eve."

"You've got to come. For heaven's sake, yes, it might be a bit awkward at first, but you know he'd want you to be there."

"Haven't you listened to a single word I've been saying for the last eighteen months?"

"Of course I have," the impatient, disembodied voice on the other end of the line says. "But I also know you should see him. You do know he's planning to leave London altogether?"

"Spence mentioned it, yes."

"And…?"

"'And'? Eve, I really wish you'd all stop treating us like a pair of star-crossed lovers. We were together, and now we're not. It didn't work out. Is that really so hard for all of you to understand?"

"It wouldn't be if it wasn't so glaringly obvious to everyone that you're still carrying a torch for each other."

"Oh, please," Grace says, rolling her eyes to herself. "I'm happy for him, and I'm proud of him – he's made it all the way through without getting himself into trouble and being recalled to prison, but that doesn't mean I should see him."

"And you say Boyd's the stubborn one," Eve's voice says accusingly. "It's one bloody evening, Grace. A few drinks and a quiet meal to celebrate an old friend's liberation. Surely you can bear to be in the same room with him for a few hours? Could be your last chance, you know, if he goes through with buying a place in the middle of nowhere."

"The middle of nowhere won't suit him," Grace says dryly. "No good restaurants and no-one to shout at."

Eve's answering chuckle is quite clear. "Oh, he's a reformed character nowadays, Grace. Only shouts at people on high days and holidays, apparently."

"Good for him."

"Grace…"

"No, I mean it," she says. "Good for him. Look, Eve, I'll think about it, okay? No promises."

"I'll call you in a couple of days," Eve says promptly. "'Bye, Grace."

Grace shakes her head at the empty hallway as the line goes dead. She's weakening, and she's fairly sure Eve can sense it. Returning to the living room, she makes a half-hearted attempt at returning to proof-reading the latest draft of her newest academic paper, but even that seems to recall things she really isn't sure she should be thinking about. On a whim, she gets back to her feet and returns to the hall. Flipping through her dog-eared address book, she finds Ellen Cooper's office number, and before she can change her mind she starts to dial.

The officious receptionist who answers isn't keen to transfer her, but after a few minutes of alternate bickering and persuasion it's very definitely Ellen's voice that says in her ear, "Grace. How are you? We haven't spoken for months."

"Sorry," she responds guiltily. "I kept meaning to… You know how things are…"

"I certainly do. Is this a social call, or…?"

"Not really," Grace admits. Metaphorically biting the bullet, she ploughs on, "I was wondering if Peter Boyd was still attending therapy sessions with you…?"

"Peter?" Ellen's surprised voice says. "No, not for… what… three or four months now, I suppose."

Despite the news being exactly what she expected to hear, Grace feels her heart sink. A little too quickly, she says, "Okay. Thanks. I'm not surprised, to be honest. He never was one for – "

"Hang on," Ellen interrupts. "I think you're jumping to conclusions. Grace. He didn't just stop coming – I referred him on."

"You referred him on?" Grace repeats, definitely startled by the information.

"Mutual decision – there wasn't much more I could do for him, to be honest. I referred him to Dan Campbell at the Oaks Clinic. Do you know him? Specialises in various types of behavioural therapy. I've sent several clients to him over the years."

Grace is struggling to process the other woman's words. "Wait… you're telling me Boyd's still attending therapy sessions?"

"I can't confirm or deny that, Grace, as you well know. Shall we just say I haven't had any negative feedback from Dan."

"And this was a voluntary arrangement?"

"Of course. Look, Grace, I know there are… unresolved issues… between you and Peter, but you really should be talking to him about this, not me."

Grace is frowning. She says quietly, "You might be right…"

-oOo-

It isn't Boyd she talks to, of course. It's Frankie Wharton, also now domiciled in London after several years abroad. They meet in a small, privately-owned coffee shop near Camden Lock, and after the expected small talk is exhausted, Grace goes on the offensive. Frankie's response is to look slightly guilty and slightly bewildered and to demand, "Yeah, but why are you asking me all this, Grace?"

Grace fixes her with a steady gaze. "Because you're closer to him than anyone else."

Her companion snorts. "Since when?"

Grace says simply, "Frankie."

"Yeah, I suppose we get along," Frankie admits grudgingly after a moment.

"He's always had a soft spot for you."

Frankie looks faintly edgy. "Where are you going with this, Grace? I see him a couple of times a month, maybe – if that. Sometimes we go out for a drink and put the world to rights. That hardly constitutes a special relationship."

Grace changes tack. "Eve wants me to come to this dinner thing."

"We all want you to come to the 'dinner thing'. It might be the last time all the old gang get together. Who's going to be mum if you don't come?"

"I think you're all a little bit too old to need a surrogate mum now, Frankie."

"Rubbish," the younger woman says with a quick grin. "It's just the way things are – you and Boyd, mum and dad."

Grace says, "That's just the problem, though, isn't it? Me and Boyd."

"Only inasmuch as you need your bloody heads banging together. You haven't seen him since you kicked him out, have you?"

"I didn't exactly kick him out, Frankie," Grace says defensively.

Frankie shrugs. "Whatever. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"You know I haven't."

"Well now's your chance," Frankie says. "You want me to be completely honest with you?"

Grace nods slowly. "Go on."

"I think – we all think – it was the wake-up call he needed. Suddenly finding himself all alone in a hostel with only his demons for company. No-one pussyfooting round him, no-one trying to make things easy for him. Sink or swim, and guess what… he got his arse in gear and decided to swim. He always was a lot tougher emotionally than you gave him credit for. He's turned things round for himself, and everyone can see it. Look," Frankie pauses for a moment, then continues, "I really don't know if this is what you want to hear – but if you still care about him, this is the best, and maybe the last chance you're going to get to put things right between you."

Grace lets the words settle, examines them quietly. She says, "It didn't matter what I did, what I tried, he wouldn't talk to me, Frankie. Wouldn't open up to me at all."

Frankie grunts disparagingly. "This is Boyd we're talking about. You remember him? Big guy, scary temper, lots of decibels? Wouldn't actually hurt a fly unless it was committing an arrestable offence? Strong silent type?"

Grace smiles slightly. "I remember him, yes."

"We all love you dearly, Grace, you know that… but you can be a bit… hard work… sometimes. Not everyone wants to go round baring their souls on command. He's not a talker, he's a doer."

"Something I'm very well aware of, but when you're in a relationship with someone like that…"

Frankie asks, "Who were you in love with, Grace? Boyd, or some idealised version of Boyd who only ever existed in your own head…?"

The emotive question is delivered quietly, but decisively, and Grace is still uneasily considering it hours later.

-oOo-

When the evening she's been dreading arrives, Grace tells herself firmly that she's not apprehensive, that her former colleagues are right – it's only a few hours in a quiet restaurant. Still, she catches herself taking a little more time than usual getting ready, finds herself surveying herself far too critically in the mirror as she puts the finishing touches to her make-up. The years are really starting to press home and she's very aware of it. More and more grey to be expertly conjured away by her hairdresser, more and deeper lines to be camouflaged as carefully as possible. Optimistically, she tells herself that they're all a lot older than they once were – even Frankie's heading relentlessly for her late forties, and Boyd himself is now in his mid-sixties – but somehow it doesn't stop Grace feeling old and dowdy when she catches a glimpse of herself in the restaurant's plate glass window.

He always used to say she was her own worst critic. Quietly and indulgently, with a touch of gentle humour in his eyes. Boyd never seemed to see the things she saw. Rapidly banishing such thoughts from her mind, Grace mentally braces herself for the evening ahead. Raising her chin a fraction, she walks into the restaurant as confidently as she can. Her ex-colleagues are difficult to miss, already seated around a large corner table and already deep in conversation. Spencer, Eve, Frankie and even Kat, all of them chatting easily as if the preceding five years have just been a bad dream. Boyd sits among them the way he always has, a great, shaggy lion, undisputed head of the pride, no matter how many years have passed. Grace sees him before he sees her. He's grinning at Frankie, and for a moment they could be not just five, but ten or more years back in time.

Spencer spots her first, and gets quickly to his feet, closely followed by Boyd. Two pairs of deep, expressive male eyes gaze at her as she approaches, but for some reason she doesn't feel as intimidated as she feared she might. Eve stands up next and then the others, and the greetings wash over her, the kind words, the quick embraces and brief kisses… and then suddenly it's just the two of them and everyone else seems to be determinedly focusing on each other, or on the table, or on the pictures on the walls. Boyd leans into her, brushes the lightest of kisses against her cheek and says quietly, "Thank you for coming."

Grace doesn't know what to say. Too many words tumble through her head and in lieu of anything better she settles for a noncommittal noise and a forced, polite smile. There's no real time to feel awkward, not with Spencer gallantly taking her coat, and Eve waving her to the chair next to her. Compliments are given and received, snippets of news exchanged, and all the time Grace feels as if she's acting out a part in a particularly surreal drama. Boyd is talking to Kat, and Grace is surprised to see how open his expression is, how easily he smiles. He looks good, she thinks, just a touch wryly. He's always carried the years well, and that hasn't changed at all. Still a conspicuously handsome man, even with that deep, grooved scar that still automatically draws the eye. With a start, she realises the direction of his gaze has changed. He's looking straight at her, a little amused, a little quizzical and she smiles hesitantly in response.

"Grace," Spencer says, unknowingly interrupting the moment. "Frankie's been telling me about this book you're thinking of writing…"

The conversation flows easily, only briefly interrupted here and there by the comings and goings of the waiter, the arrival of food and further bottles of wine. It's a little like a school reunion, Grace thinks with a small smile to herself. The banter, the catching-up, the gently ironic deference to the head-boy. She's glad she made the difficult decision to push her reluctance aside, glad she actually got into the taxi when it arrived. The time passes much faster than she expects, however, and almost before she knows it they're into a round of toasts and mock-solemn speeches.

Spencer asks, "So what's it like to be a completely free man again, boss?"

Boyd gives him a surprisingly long and contemplative look before replying, "It's a good feeling, Spence. A very good feeling."

Frankie nudges him with her shoulder. "So, what are you going to do now you don't have to be a good boy anymore? Grow old disgracefully?"

He chuckles insouciantly. "I bloody hope so, Frankie."

"Sports car," Frankie suggests, "gambling habit and a thirty-something blonde?"

"Trying to push me into an early grave, are you?"

"Can't take the pace anymore, Boyd?" Grace chips in mildly, surprising herself.

He directs the full force of his most feral grin at her. "Damn right."

-oOo-

Kat leaves first, followed fairly quickly by Eve, and though Grace is tempted to stay just a bit longer with her old comrades, she senses that it's time to go. The evening has passed without incident and the atmosphere is friendly; best, she thinks, to quit while she's ahead as the old saying goes. Spencer helps her back on with her coat, and all the expected things about getting together again soon are said. It doesn't matter that it probably won't happen – it's the enduring bond behind the words that's important. Grace smiles and wishes them well and heads for the door, leaving behind her a burgeoning argument over how to split the remainder of the bill. Traditionally, it will be Boyd, of course, who loses patience with the whole rigmarole and simply throws down a handful of high-denomination notes. It surprises her, then, that he's suddenly at her shoulder, that he's suddenly holding the door open for her. She looks at him, and he simply raises his eyebrows at her. "Shall we…?"

Aware that he's following her out onto the pavement, Grace says, "It's been such a good evening, Boyd. Let's not spoil it, eh?"

"Hey," he says, his wounded expression patently feigned, "I just wanted to give you this, that's all."

Bewildered, she takes the small, slightly crumpled piece of paper he holds out to her. Even under street lighting and without her glasses, she can see that what he's giving her is an address. Not certain how to react, she says, "Um… thanks."

"Tufnell Park," Boyd says, the note of deep disgust in his voice quite clear.

"North of the river?" Grace asks, amused. "Are you sure you can cope?"

"Six-month lease," he explains. "Beats the hell out of living in a hostel, even if it is on the wrong side of the Thames."

"You've already moved in?"

"Mm. The Probation Service like to know you're settled somewhere before they wash their hands of you."

There's an awkward moment of silence. Grace isn't sure what to say, and from the way Boyd is uneasily glancing up and down the street, neither is he. So much water under so many bridges, she thinks. Ignoring the banality, she tries, "You're looking really well, Boyd. Whatever you've been up to seems to be suiting you."

"I could say the same about you," he says simply. His evident sincerity makes her uncomfortable and something in her expression must give away her scepticism because he chuckles quietly. "Same old Grace. Still can't take a compliment."

"Less of the old," she chides. It's easier than admitting that he's right. The sight of an oncoming black cab makes her take an involuntary step towards the kerb, but as she raises her hand it's already too late – the driver either doesn't see her or deliberately ignores her, and she can't help muttering irritably to herself.

"Do you need a lift?" Boyd asks her. "My car's just round the corner…"

"No," she says quickly. "No, it's fine. Let's not tempt fate."

He nods solemnly. "All right. Call me, Grace, okay? I'd like you to."

She's tempted to remind him who it was who insisted on breaking off all contact, but she hasn't the heart for an argument, so she simply nods slightly. "I will."

"I mean it," he tells her. "Call me. We'll have lunch or something – " he breaks off, interrupting himself, sticks his fingers in his mouth and gives an ear-piercing whistle followed by a bark of, "Taxi!"

Infuriatingly, the second passing back cab immediately pulls in and comes to a gentle halt beside them. Trying not to grit her teeth, Grace says tartly, "Thanks."

Boyd smirks. "I do still have my uses, you know…"

Grace knows potentially dangerous territory when she sees it. It's definitely time to leave.

-oOo-

Ellen is less than sympathetic initially, and even when she does agree to meet for lunch, she makes it very clear that she has no intention of discussing Boyd in anything but the broadest of terms. Grace understands, but she says in response, "There's simply no-one else I can talk to about this, Ellen. No-one else with the necessary insight to…"

"Counsel you?" Ellen suggests grimly.

Grimacing, Grace nods reluctantly. "I suppose so, yes."

Ellen sighs and stares out of the window for a moment. It's a bright, sunny weekend day, and a continual stream of people are bustling happily along the street going about their own business. She says, "Go on, then, Grace. Talk to me."

"I saw him. A few nights ago. A group of us got together for a meal."

"And?"

Grace casts her mind back to earlier in the week, thinks about the friendly atmosphere, the easy conversation. She says, "And… it was a good evening. He seems to be very well, very… together."

Ellen nods. "I don't think it would be speaking out of turn to say that he's successfully conquered a few demons. Laid a few ghosts to rest."

"I got that impression."

Ellen shrugs. "So? That's the whole point of therapy."

"Maybe I never expected him to respond so well to it."

"I'm not discussing the details of his case with you, Grace."

"I really don't expect you to," Grace assures her, picking at the food on her plate. "He was just so… open. I don't think I've ever seen him so relaxed. So at ease with himself."

"So…?" Ellen prompts patiently.

"He asked me to call him."

"I see. Are you going to?"

Grace sighs as all the contradictory thoughts and feelings swirl in her mind. "That's just it – I don't know. Seeing him again… it stirred up a lot of things. I think he was right. I don't think we can ever go back to being 'just good friends'. There's too much between us. I don't think I can start seeing him as a friend without wanting far more."

"You should be having this conversation with Peter, not with me."

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Because… we just don't communicate on that sort of level. We never have."

"And therefore you never will?" Ellen says. "I think you'll find that's what's known as a logical fallacy, Grace."

Grace considers her old friend's words and decides, reluctantly, that there may be some truth in them. She stares at her plate thoughtfully and finally says, "I pushed him too hard to open up to me, didn't I?"

The other woman's voice is quiet. "I think you've known that for a while."

It's the truth, of course. It's taken time, but Grace has certainly started to accept her own culpability. Not as an excuse, but as an attempt at explanation, she says, "I was just so worried about him, about what he'd been through. I wanted to understand, to help."

"I know, but you have to accept that he simply wasn't ready to talk to you," Ellen tells her. She pauses and then continues, "You know how traumatised he was, how unable to deal with what had happened to him he was. He lost virtually everything overnight – career, status, self-respect, never mind his liberty – and then he found himself in the most hostile environment imaginable. Grace, we're not talking about playground bullying; he was in continual fear for his life, day-in, day-out for nearly three years. That sort of stress can have a catastrophic effect on anyone's mental health."

"Ellen, I do know all this," Grace says, striving for patience.

"So what are you looking for? Someone to apportion blame? Someone to tell you what you should do now? Talk to him, Grace. Or don't. It's entirely your choice."

"Maybe what I need to know is whether or not he'll listen to me."

"I think that rather depends," Ellen says, sipping her coffee.

"On?"

"You, obviously. You're not his psychologist, Grace."

"Funny, he used to say that," Grace says dryly.

"And it never crossed your mind to wonder if he had a point?"

Grace bridles automatically at the suggestion of accusation in the other woman's voice. "So it was all my fault?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Grace," Ellen says with a sharp shake of her head. "You're a clever woman, and a brilliant psychologist, but you're absolutely hopeless when it comes to quietly stepping back and just letting things be what they are. Do you know what happened to Peter's father?"

"Of course," Grace says with a frown. "He was killed on active service in Aden."

"Leaving Peter, as a teenager, to assume responsibility for his mother and his younger siblings."

"Yes, I am aware of that, thank you."

Ellen ignores the implied rebuke. "Then I'm sure you're also aware of the profound effect taking on so much at such an impressionable age had on him. It didn't just make him very protective, it made him very stoical, very self-reliant – not bad qualities in a police officer, admittedly – but it also made it very difficult for him to discuss anything in himself he perceives as a vulnerability, especially with the people he cares about."

Dryly, Grace says, "I've had more than fifteen years to work that out for myself, Ellen."

"Yet you continually pushed him to talk about all the things he never wanted to tell anyone, least of all you. He was desperate to maintain the image he wanted you to have of him – tough, indomitable, dependable."

"That's ridiculous," Grace protests, but something is twisting unpleasantly inside her. "I wanted to help him."

"By forcing him to expose his weaknesses to you?"

"It wasn't like that," Grace says quietly, but some of the memories that stir restlessly in her mind silently challenge her defiant words.

"Do you really not know what happened to him in prison, Grace?" Ellen demands. "Giving him a damned good kicking pretty much on a daily basis was the very least of it. They hurt him, Grace. They hurt him, degraded him, did everything they could to express their utter contempt for him. And you pushed and pushed him to tell you all about it, every injury, every humiliation, every defeat."

"Ellen…"

"Just think about it, hmm?" Ellen says, her tone suddenly gentle again. "What is he, on the most fundamental level?"

"Are we talking archetypes?"

"If you like."

Grace shrugs. "Then… he's a protector."

"Exactly. He's a protector. That's ultimately how he defines himself. Son, brother; father, husband. Lover. Superior officer… Protector. A protector who found himself in a situation where he couldn't even protect himself. And how does he attempt to reconcile that in his own head?"

"Denial," Grace says heavily, knowing it's the truth.

"Exactly. Oh, he needed help – but not from you, Grace. He couldn't open up to you. Not without completely shattering his self-image."

Unhappily, Grace asks, "So what do I do now?"

Ellen's answer is simple. "You learn to listen to your heart occasionally, not just your head."

-oOo-

It's not in her nature to let her heart rule her head, of course. Grace Foley is a thinker and always has been. She remembers the fond, bewildered indulgence of her parents and her siblings as they often wondered aloud where she got her brains from and why she was so studious, so academic. No-one pushed Grace to succeed, but nor did anyone attempt to hold her back. She made her own way in the word, armed with her ferocious intelligence and her burning curiosity. Now, she is what she is, and she – largely – accepts that. Yet Ellen's advice has considerable merit and Grace knows it. Boyd is not a thinker, not in the way she is. He's intelligent, certainly, and he has a certain flexibility of thought that she actually envies, but he doesn't over-analyse things the way she does.

Heart, not head, Grace thinks, sitting in her parked car not long after saying goodbye to Ellen. Rifling through her bag for her phone, she finally dials the unfamiliar number, not at all sure what she's going to say if the call is answered. It takes several rings, but eventually a deep and insouciant voice says calmly, "Hi."

"It's me," she says, feeling impossibly foolish.

"Yeah," Boyd's voice says with a definite hint of amusement. "I gathered that from the number."

Of course he did. She pushes on. "Look, I'm in Primrose Hill. I was wondering… are you at home? Can I come over?"

"Yeah, I am; and yeah, you can. Not sure what I can manage on the hospitality front, though. D'you know the building that used to be St. George's? The flat's not far from there. If you get lost, send up a distress flare..."

She doesn't get lost, though it takes her a while to master the geography of the area and to find an appropriate parking space. Further down the road from several modern buildings housing a conglomeration of purpose-built apartments, she finds the unremarkable Edwardian villa she's looking for. Long-ago converted into separate flats, it reminds her of the sort of place she used to live at least forty years ago when money was a lot tighter than it is now. Though she lived on the very top floor, and Boyd, she soon discovers as she spies the external steps down, is living below street-level. When he opens the door to her she can't help saying, "Don't tell me – you found yourself pining for the old basement?"

"Daylight is a vastly overrated commodity, Grace."

She eyes him for a moment, taking in the casual clothes, the ruffled silver mane, the neatly trimmed beard. She's beginning to suspect – disgustedly – that he's reached some kind of plateau where age and looks have found equilibrium, that no matter how much older he gets now, his appearance is not going to change very much at all. It's just not fair. "I'm sure we only spent all those years down in the bunker because you wouldn't let the Met rehouse us somewhere decent."

"I liked my bunker," he says, deliberately sulky.

"I know you did. Can I come in, or do I need a password?"

His accommodation is not what she expects, even for a basement flat. One big room, the only windows the ones at the front that are well below the height of the pavement; an open archway into what may possibly be the smallest kitchen she's ever seen and one further door which she automatically assumes leads to the bathroom. The fixtures and fittings all seem to be of good quality, as is the furniture, but he is still essentially living in a single space roughly the size of their old squad room. She shakes her head. "Aren't you a bit old to be living like a student, Boyd?"

"Down-sizing is all the rage. So I'm told."

"By whoever rented this to you, presumably?"

"I'm not exactly roughing it, Grace."

He has a point, she concedes. The electrical good are all top quality, no expense spared, and the big, wide bed at the rear of the room, tucked in where the shadows gather, doesn't look as if it's come from any retail park chain. "Bijou?"

"Exactly. Anyway, it's temporary. Tea or coffee?"

"I know this is a… sensitive… subject," she says when he returns from the kitchen several minutes later. She takes the mug he hands her. "But I really need to talk to you."

"I thought you might," Boyd says as he settles in the chair opposite the sofa where she's perched nervously.

"I'm beginning to realise I'm embarrassingly predictable."

One eyebrow quirks a fraction. "Not always, as I recall."

He's still far too attractive. Grace sighs. "Do you think you could do me a huge favour and try not to flirt with me while I'm trying to tell you… well, while I'm trying to tell you how sorry I am, frankly."

Both eyebrows climb at that. "Break that down for me, will you, Grace? I'm sure there was an apology in there somewhere."

She grits her teeth. "There was."

"Jolly good. What for?"

She's tempted to lash out at him for deliberately baiting her, but his gaze is very steady and very shrewd. He's not bantering with her, nor is he genuinely ignorant of what she means. Grace guesses he's testing her in some quiet, subtle way. She sips her coffee for a moment. Strong and unsweetened, just as she's always preferred it. "For arrogantly thinking I knew best. For pushing you when I knew you didn't want to be pushed. For acting like a psychologist, not a lover. For not learning when to keep my mouth shut. I could go on, but perhaps I'm finally learning that too many words can be as destructive as too few."

"That's a big admission."

Grace does what definitely doesn't come naturally to her – she speaks from the heart not the head. "I hate not having you in my life, Peter. I know you said you couldn't be my friend, and I know I don't have any right to ask, but… it's been over eighteen months now – can't we move on?"

"We have moved on, Grace," he says quietly.

"Bad phrasing on my part. Can't we agree a truce? You've been my best friend for years… and I miss you."

His gaze is level. "You know I'm thinking about moving out of London?"

"Spence told me, yes. I'm not talking about living in each other's pockets, Boyd, I'd just like to know that if I wanted to pick up the phone to call you, it would be all right."

"Grace, you're sitting in my flat. And I was the one who told you to call me, remember?"

She smiles a little uncertainly. "So… we're okay?"

Boyd shrugs. "Yeah, we're okay. Come on, then, tell me about this new book of yours…"

-oOo-

It's better. It's not perfect, but it's better. They speak a few times on the telephone and they make tentative plans to have lunch without actually setting a date, and Grace slowly starts to feel that they are definitely moving into yet another phase of their long association. In many ways he's become very much like the man she first knew so many years ago – less shadowed, a lot more humorous – but this time he's gently flirtatious in a distinctly non-predatory way as if he understands almost better than she does that the past is the past and revisiting it is pointless. His attitude doesn't help her make sense of her own thoughts and emotions, but it makes if far easier to keep the lines of communication open. So much easier, in fact, that when she finds herself in the general vicinity of Tufnell Park on the morning when she's also far, far too early for an appointment in Kentish Town it makes perfect sense to her to make an unscheduled diversion.

Descending the steps to his rented front door, she smiles slightly to herself at the determinedly closed state of the curtains behind the barred basement windows. It's not long past nine and the chances are fairly high that he's awake but still lounging at his ease in that big expensive bed. The thought doesn't disturb her as much as it should, perhaps because she refuses to dwell on it too much. She raps firmly on the door and waits. Certain she hears a scuffling noise from within, she knocks again and is eventually rewarded by the sound of bolts being drawn and locks being turned. Setting a faintly sardonic smile in place, she mentally tests a variety of barbed comments. The door opens a fraction and she finds herself looking into faintly quizzical dark eyes. The acerbic greeting dies on her lips. Those eyes are dark, but they don't belong to Peter Boyd.

"Grace," Ellen says, her tone more than a little startled.

There is, of course, no possible conclusion to be drawn aside from the obvious one. Mainly because her old friend appears to be wearing nothing more than a man's white shirt beneath a large and equally masculine dressing gown. For a single frozen moment they simply stare blankly at each other. It's Ellen who rallies first, saying, "This might not be the best time…"

"I can see that," Grace says and she's faintly surprised by how cool, how composed her voice sounds.

"Oh, God…"

It gets worse. Though she can't see anything in the gloom beyond the minimally open door, Grace hears – distinctly – the familiar male voice that growls irritably, "Fuck's sake… just tell whoever it is to piss off and come back to bed, woman."

It hits her low in the stomach, causes a very real lurch of nausea that she quickly suppresses. She says, "I'd do what the man says, if I were you."

"Grace," Ellen says again, but Grace is already walking back to the stone steps that will take her back to the pavement, her car and sanity.

-oOo-

"I think you're overreacting," Ellen says, and for a moment, just for one brief moment, Grace understands very well indeed the temptation to slap someone. They are standing in her narrow hallway, and the metaphorical temperature is threatening to reach absolute zero.

Managing to remain icily calm, Grace raises her eyebrows. "Do you?"

"Actually, I do."

"Do you think Rory would agree?"

Impatience quite clear, Ellen snaps, "Rory and I haven't been together for over six months. He's in New York."

"Well, that's something, I suppose."

"Please. Spare me the moral outrage, Grace. I haven't done anything wrong."

"Boyd was your client, Ellen."

"Was. Past tense. Why do you think I referred him on to Dan Campbell?"

"Oh, this just gets better and better. Isn't he a bit old for you?"

"Stop it, Grace. I didn't come here for a lecture, I came here because you're my friend and I didn't want things to be… awkward… between us."

Grace stares at her incredulously. "Just how naïve are you, Ellen? How can things not be 'awkward' as you so delicately put it?"

"You really are overreacting. You kicked him out eighteen months ago, remember? Even though he told you what it would mean. Now you're back in contact and you suddenly think you have ownership rights, is that it?"

"Don't be stupid. For God's sake, Ellen, you were his therapist…"

"Past tense again. Look, this isn't some great romance, Grace."

"Is that supposed to make it better?"

"I like him, and he likes me. We get on, we have fun – "

"I bet," Grace says, unable to stop herself.

For the first time, Ellen displays a real flash of anger. "What do you want me to say to you, Grace? That your ex is a handsome, articulate and thoroughly charming man? That I like him because he's exciting and entertaining… and because given half a chance he's a bloody tiger in the bedroom? Is that really what you want to hear?"

The jealousy surging through her is real and sharp, but Grace manages a terse, "Oh, very mature."

"Deal with it," Ellen snaps. "Or don't, it's up to you. I told you once, that's unquestionably a one woman man, and my opinion hasn't changed one iota. It's not me he wants – it's you. It's always been you. Now, do you want to have a sensible conversation about this, or…?"

They talk. Briefly, curtly and pointlessly. When Ellen leaves, Grace retreats to her living room and simply sits for a long, long time, unable to martial her thoughts and emotions into any kind of sensible order. All that she really knows is that somewhere deep inside her there is a sick, hollow emptiness that she thought she'd overcome.

-oOo-

Continued…