Chapter Two: Food for Thought
Sandra is waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Not literally, because she isn't wearing shoes. Her slouchy black suede boots are paired neatly a few feet from the slightly faded, intricately woven Turkish carpet where she sits, richly coloured pillows piled between her back and the diamond-patterned wooden screen separating her eating area from the next. She leans backward comfortably as a waiter pours pungent golden Turkish wine into a clay wine vessel, and smiles. "Cheers," she offers.
Nope, the shoe she's concerned about is of the figurative variety.
Work hasn't been thrilling lately, but things are ticking over smoothly enough. Brian is on his medication; Jack seems content; and Strickland is keeping his distance, which is exactly how Detective Superintendent Pullman prefers him. As for Gerry, the only thing he's been guilty of all week is behaving suspiciously well. Sandra herself is feeling exceptionally – well, happy.
Paradoxically, her happiness is the fly in her ointment. It feels like both a betrayal of Grace and a validation of her pronouncement about Sandra's coldness. Thinking of the empty space where her mother should be pains Sandra, but doesn't prevent her from feeling more content with her life than she has in a long while – and yet that disturbs her. She suspects that it must mean she truly doesn't feel things deeply. Is the reality that she is so colossally self-involved that she isn't measurably affected by the death of her own mother? Christ, it makes her sound like a sociopath. "Cold" is a compliment in comparison.
Despite the bleak midwinter weather outside, she doesn't feel cold. She feels warm, cozily ensconced amongst the pillows. It would be perfect if only Gerry would get the bloody lead out so they could eat. She's starving.
Good Lord, Gerry. She laughs at herself as she rolls the wine over her tongue. It's so ludicrous that she has to. She is sitting in her favourite Turkish restaurant on an ordinary Thursday evening, anticipating the moment when she'll be presented with one of her favourite dishes – an event contingent upon the arrival of Gerry Standing. Then, if all goes according to plan (and Sandra is fairly confident) she'll go back to his flat and give him something to spend the next week trying to forget. It's incredible, according to the true Oxford English definition of the term. She would never have believed it of herself. She's still not quite sure she does, really.
And yet, it's undeniable that there is a smile breaking across her face as she watches him duck awkwardly through the doorway, briefly doing battle with the beaded curtain, and that when their eyes meet and he grins back, slightly boyish, she feels a pleasant warmth creep through her limbs.
"If you get down here, are you going to be able to get back up?" she taunts as he slips his shoes off. "Or will you need a crane?"
"If you can manage it, I reckon I can too," he retorts, none too gracefully clambering over the cushions and flopping down beside her. He emits a small sound, something like an "oof."
"Ooh, ouch." That wicked smile remains in place as she pours wine into the second clay cup. "Too mature for you, am I? So is any woman with a mental age above twelve."
He accepts the drink but his smile drops away. "Not funny." He takes a quick sip. "Paedophile unit, remember?"
"Sorry." She braces one hand on the rug and angles her body slightly toward him.
"I'll just point out that neither of us is eligible for a bus pass."
Sandra chuckles. "Right, you're in your prime."
It may be ridiculous, but at the moment Gerry feels like he is; and if he's not, he doesn't care. He closes the distance between them, not sure whether or not he's violating the rules of play by doing this in public – well, semi-public – but she leans in to meet him halfway.
Oh, hello, Sandra thinks as their lips meet. It's you again, is it? I know you. She feels herself shiver slightly and Gerry's mouth curves into a smile even as his fingers trail up her arm to her back and press her closer. He's pleased with himself. Well, let him have his moment. This is the least logical, most inexplicable aspect of the entire situation.
Physical attraction. She doesn't know how it happened, or when, or why; but there it is. Gerry Standing is not her type, in any sense of the term. Frequently she wants to punch him – a mean left hook, nothing so girly as a slap from Sandra Pullman. But she has other, less violent urges where he's concerned too.
She draws back and casually sips the wine. After only a short time, the taste of him is growing familiar – in a nice, comforting way. Cigarettes and peppermint and a slight saltiness.
He brushes her hair away from her jaw (she knows he likes to do that) and reaches for the menu. "This is one of your places," he says, "so what's good?"
Sandra deftly lifts the menu from his hands and snaps it shut. "I've already ordered," she informs him. "You have to in advance for the house speciality, which is the reason to come here."
Gerry looks slightly skeptical. "And that is?"
"Clay pot kebap." She glances down at the table as their waiter reappears with bread and oil. "You'll see," she promises.
She's not exactly shocked that Gerry wants her. Sandra isn't being arrogant: she's female and reasonably intelligent. More specifically, judging from his exes, she's not far off his type physically. He likes blondes. Granted, petite, slender blondes – Sandra could take either of them with one hand tied behind her back. But she is shocked that he actually followed through on nearly eight years of mild flirting and innuendos.
"Oh, lovely, here we go," she says brightly as the busy waiter returns, now bearing two clay pots on a tray. "The meat is seasoned and prepared with tomatoes and onions," Sandra explains in a lower voice to Gerry, "and cooked very slowly in a clay pot – underground traditionally, but here in an oven, alas."
"Better than a tandoor?" he asks, and she grins and nods. In answer Gerry lightly kisses her cheek, and she thinks, There, Mum.
She cares about Gerry, genuinely cares. She doesn't want anyone else to touch one of the few remaining hairs on his head, even if she reserves the right to kill him. She trusts him. Sandra doesn't trust many people, but Gerry has proven himself.
And he's safe.
Yes, her relationship with him could potentially screw up the balance of things at UCOS. But Gerry will stay on his best behavior, because he needs UCOS too. Even more importantly, they've reached a mutual agreement. They enjoy being together but won't let it ruin anything else.
Safe as houses.
They scoop rice and pickled red cabbage from the serving vessels, and Sandra waits and watches as he takes a bite and then another.
"Ah, yeah," he comments appreciatively, his mouth full, and she grins.
"I do know a thing or two about food."
"You know a thing or two about quite a lot, Sandra."
Her clear gaze zeroes in on him. "You include yourself in that category, I assume."
She knows much more than a thing or two about Gerry Standing. She knows about every bad habit, every vice. She knows details of gambling and adultery and plain dodgy decision-making. She feels as if virtually nothing he could do at this point would surprise her. Sandra expects the odd outrageously archaic comment or stupid stunt. She expects him to have a roving eye. They're not married; they're not even dating. They're just… whatever they are.
Sandra sees Gerry's flaws very clearly.
As if reading her mind, he looks mildly embarrassed. "Obviously," he says.
She's by nature and position less forthcoming than he is, but she has no doubt that Gerry sees her flaws quite clearly as well. She's quick-tempered, impatient, prone to shouting first and thinking later. Some of the qualities that make her a good police officer are the same ones that made her the school bitch, just re-channeled. She can be a bully. And she's not good with relationships. She has spent a lifetime building a wall around herself, and has done such a good job of fortifying it that now, at fifty, she doesn't know how to get out, much less let anyone else in.
Working relationships are different. Her life centres on her work, so the people who understand that work are the ones who understand her. The list is a very short one.
Sandra reaches out suddenly and touches Gerry's arm, just because he's there and she can. He smiles, pleased, and she smiles back, squeezing lightly before returning to her meal. It's nice to have someone to touch; she has missed this.
She thinks it should feel strange, surreal, that the person she's touching is Gerry – and yet it doesn't. It's surprisingly easy.
"What's that look?" he asks.
"What do you think it is?" she volleys, unwilling to commit herself.
"Hmm – You look chuffed with yourself."
"And why shouldn't I be? I'm introducing you to the delights of the clay pot kebap," she replies lightly.
"You can take credit for introducing me to several delights recently." He shoots her a rakish grin that has her rolling her eyes.
"Oh, please, Gerry," she retorts. "I think it's a bit late in the day for you to be introduced to anything of that nature."
"I was talking about food," he returns, ostentatiously wounded, and she snorts.
"You were not." Businesslike, she splits the remainder of the wine between their glasses and does likewise with the last of the main dishes. He catches her hand and twines their fingers together. Being able to touch her like this gives him a thrill; even the most casual contact seems secret, clandestine. The possibility that she's going to slap him away this time is ever-present, but she doesn't, not yet. His thumb rubs over her knuckles. Her skin is surprisingly soft.
"Yeah, okay, I wasn't." She lets him draw her hand to his lips and kiss the delicate veins on the sensitive inside of her wrist before straightening her fingers and kissing her palm. "You can't change a leopard's spots, and all that."
"I have no intention of trying," she replies with the same sort of reluctant amusement that he's seen countless times on the job twitching at the corners of her lips. "I'm used to old dogs by now."
"You and your honeyed words of flattery."
"I don't have to flatter you, Gerry." She disentangles her hand and braces her elbow on the tabletop. "You do it yourself." The bright smile she flashes at him is completely without malice.
"See what you've done to me, gov? I'd rather be insulted by you than flattered by any other woman."
She laughs as she chases the last morsel of chicken around her plate. "Oh, I'm sure. Now wax poetic on my classical beauty and related virtues."
His clear, light eyes narrow as he drains the dregs of his wine. "I don't know much about virtues," he retorts, "but you know you're beautiful."
"Cheers, Gerry," she murmurs dryly. "I live for your validation. They do fantastic baklava here. Want to share a piece?"
They drink very strong black tea from small glass cups and eat baklava that's golden and beautifully flaky and dripping with butter and honey. Sandra lounges back against the pile of cushions, as content and languid as a tabby cat, and gazes at Gerry through heavy-lidded eyes. He leans over and kisses her lightly, unable to resist. He is, she thinks, like a child with a new toy, and she chuckles.
"Does it live up to the fantasy, Gerry?" she teases. "Finally getting to shag the boss?"
"It's not that," he protests. She shoots him an extremely skeptical look, and he amends, "All right, not just that."
She laughs merrily and hoists herself to her feet. "Come on," she says, tossing the appropriate number of notes onto the table. "You can follow me back to your flat, if that piece of shit you drive will crank."
As her headlights cut through the darkness, Sandra contemplates Gerry Standing's philosophy of life and love as she has come to understand it over the years. He's an unrelenting optimist as far as women go. The serial philanderer is also a serial monogamist – For Christ's sake, the man has been married three times and engaged another – what was it he'd told her years ago? Three? She wouldn't be surprised to learn that he'd left a few out. And who knows how many more times he's proposed and been rejected? She chuckles in the quiet interior of the convertible, but the sound is affectionate, not malicious. Gerry, however much they tease him, is an incurable, if failed, romantic. He obviously believes in teenage feelings and eternal devotion and capital-T, capital-L True Love; that he hasn't found it, and may not have the capacity to experience or reciprocate it, hasn't disillusioned him. At heart Gerry is looking for The One, not just a good time and a shag.
"The grass is always greener," Sandra muses loftily, as if he were sitting in the passenger seat. Gerry, you tosser, you're searching for perfection, and the next woman coming down the pike is always going to be the right woman.
Sandra knows there's no such thing as perfection. Professionally, she strives to be the best she can be. That's not perfection, but it is, like Gerry's quest for a maiden fair, the knowledge that she can push herself further, get better.
Jack and Brian and Gerry have taught her that getting better is not the same as being endlessly promoted through the ranks, and for that she is grateful. Professionally Sandra is very content.
She finds a place to park reasonably near Gerry's flat and locks the car. He gets there first, unlocks the exterior door, and stands just beyond it, smiling as he waits for her. Sandra automatically smiles back. She's been doing a lot of that recently.
"In you go," he says.
As he takes her coat, she re-evaluates her earlier thought: she's not Gerry's type, actually, because she has no more likelihood of being his Ms. Right than he has of winning twenty thousand quid in the fifth at Walthamstow. They've known one another too well for too long. There's no way he's going to go all Andy Hardy on her and declare his undying love, thank God. She snickers at the thought, and he casts her an enquiring look which she ignores.
"Time's a-wastin', Granddad."
"Oi, ease up, would you?"
Sandra feels completely safe with Gerry. She's never had that assurance before, because never have the stakes been so low.
"Oh, hurt your feelings, have I?" Those blue eyes twinkle wickedly.
"You could make it up to me," he suggests, "if you try very hard."
She snickers again. "I won't have to try at all," she promises.
Later, when she sits up in his bed and swings her bare feet to the floor, preparatory to leaving, he grabs her upper arms, stopping her progress for a few seconds, and presses a kiss to her shoulder blade. "You are different," he says against her skin. "From… the others."
She simply smiles that tiny, inscrutable Mona Lisa smile. "I know, Gerry," she says; "I know."
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