Note: I'm picking up the pace with posting because I want to get this all up before I leave for some extended travelling starting next weekend, so apologies for the potential deluge. Also, beware: extreme silliness herein. I'm definitely pushing the envelope of probability here – and perhaps also the envelope of the T rating (although I don't think so, but perhaps my mind is a foul cesspool and I just haven't realised it yet). Please don't tattle on me to the fanfic police. This is all in fun. Hope you enjoy.
Chapter Nine: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Part One
1.
Gerry is actually whistling jauntily as he pours freshly-brewed coffee into a mug and slaps the newspaper down on the kitchen counter. He lights a cigarette, one of the minimum two it takes him to get on his feet every morning, and glances down at the date on the paper. As he does, he kicks the volume of his whistling up a notch. Not only is it Friday, his second-favourite morning of the week (because his memories of Thursday night are freshest), but it's also the day before his birthday.
His sixty-first birthday, to be precise.
Gerry hasn't been this chuffed about getting another year older in maybe forty years; but all indicators so far are that sixty-one is going to be a much better year than sixty. He has his job, his lovely family, including a son-in-law who doesn't seem to be a complete plank, great friends, and a certain very sexy, brilliant blonde who excels at keeping his bed warm. Granted, since this happens exactly once a week, said bed tends to become a tad chilly between days one and seven. Still and all, Gerry's feeling pretty damned content. Absolutely cockahoo, in fact.
He fully expects a proper birthday do after work this evening. He'll drink a little too much and attempt to wheedle Sandra into driving him home – and staying. She hadn't said anything about his birthday last night, but yesterday she'd teased him about being almost ready for that buss pass, so she hasn't forgotten. A gift of a personal nature would be just the thing. Age, where is thy sting?
That's "death," Gerald, not age, he reminds himself, and then thinks, Well, that too.
Even the fact that his lower back is giving him gip as he slides behind the wheel of the Stag can't dampen his good mood, because he knows exactly why his muscles are sore, and it's not because he's been moving furniture.
He hasn't persuaded Sandra to let him cook for her yet, but they had lovely Thai last night, and thick, juicy, rare steaks the week before at his instigation. As he drives toward the office, he thinks about what he'll prepare for her eventually when he's worn her defences down. She loves duck – or tuna. He could do a really fresh seared tuna, and pair it with something unexpected. She loves pasta, too, but he wants to do something special, something just right for a gorgeous, tough, uncompromising, warm, joyful bitch of an Ice Queen. It's a tall order.
The girls and their boys are coming Sunday for their weekly dinner, which will be a celebration in honour of Gerry's birthday, although he draws the line at baking himself a cake.
Since Saturday is his actual birthday, maybe he can get Sandra to break her Thursdays-only rule. He could make her that tuna – with wasabi mashed potatoes, maybe? He's watched her eat sushi; she turns it into a vehicle to douse with the pungent green paste and envelope in shaved ginger. Hmm, ginger…
Possibly he's obsessing just a tad, but she wouldn't want him to be all alone and pathetic on his birthday of all days, would she? He might be driven to desperation. He might have to lose a really large sum at the track.
Gerry, you're a manipulative bastard – and besides, this is Sandra Pullman. Ethics aside, it wouldn't bleedin' work.
Gerry chooses a family-style red-sauce Italian when they have him pick the restaurant for his birthday meal, and they give him his gift before they leave the office. The small box is tastefully wrapped in dark blue paper with a gold ribbon, and inside is a very nice watch, the nicest, indeed, that he has ever owned, to replace the battered one Amelia had brought him from a long-ago trip to Thailand. It's gold, because Gerry does like gold, but is tasteful, with a smooth, contemporary design.
He's genuinely speechless for a moment before he manages to stammer out a thank-you. Jack pumps his hand with one of his rare grins, Brian claps him on the back with surprising force, and Sandra hugs him and, wonder of wonders, kisses his cheek.
At dinner Sandra orders a really nice rosso di Montalcino and then they adjourn to the pub and all buy him pints, and Gerry does have a bit too much, and Sandra does offer to drive him home. She won't come in, but she does bend her iron-clad rule a little, and leans across the gear shift to let Gerry give her a lingering kiss good-night.
All in all, this has been the best birthday he's had in a very long while – and it's not even his birthday yet.
2.
When Gerry's number pops up on Sandra's mobile at 10:30 Saturday morning, she greets him, "Many happy returns."
Her voice is low and rough with sleep, and he asks, "Did I wake you?"
"No." I rustle. "I'm just being lazy." She's still in bed. He allows himself to think about that until she says, "Gerry, was there something?"
Right. It's not as if they ring one another up to chat, is it? And what would they talk about if they did? He imagines it going something like this:
Sandra: Gerry, how was your day?
Gerry: The usual. Made some called, interviewed some witnesses, leered at some women, pissed my governor off good and proper. Yours?
Sandra: Shouted at three PCs before breakfast, refused what might have been an advance from my superior, rode herd on my team, and plotted to murder Gerry.
[Awkward pause.]
"Gerry?" the actual Sandra is saying impatiently. "Are you there?"
"Yeah, yeah. So it's my proper birthday, innit?"
"Innit," she echoes mockingly, which he takes for agreement with his lamentably obvious statement.
"Come round for dinner."
"It's Saturday."
"What, you don't eat on Saturdays?"
There's a very brief pause before she says, "You know the rules. Besides, I have plans."
He doesn't realize how much he was hoping she'd agree, even counting on her presence, until his shoulders sink instantly at her words. She has plans. What kind of plans? With whom? Doesn't she basically spend all her time with Jack and Brian and him?
As per their agreement, she's free to do whatever – or whomever – she pleases six days a week, and so is he, but that doesn't mean he has to be thrilled at the idea.
It'd bleedin' better not be Strickland. Gerry had broken a DAC's jaw once before, he could do it again.
Yeah, Sandra would really appreciate that. Get a grip, Standing.
"Do you really have plans?"
It's hardly the smoothest thing he could've said, and she's obviously irritated when she replies, "No, Gerry, I have fictitious plans with my imaginary friends. – Yes, I have plans. Was there something else?"
He tells her he'll see her Monday, trying to sound cool, and rings off. Maybe he will be reduced to losing a few ponies on the horses, after all.
3.
When Emily Driscoll's mobile goes at half eleven, she's been to the gym – she loathes going to the gym – and is walking back to her flat. Her coat is tucked under her arm and she's enjoying the brush of the March wind as it dries her sweaty skin. "Hullo," she brightly greets her sister.
"Hiya, Ems. You're not on duty today, are you?"
"Nope, I've got a proper weekend for a change."
"Fantastic. I've been thinking, you know, that it's hardly a celebration to let Dad cook his own birthday dinner, is it? Jayne always brings a cake, but still. We could take him out for a meal, but then I got thinking how he wouldn't let us have a proper do for his sixtieth." Indeed. This time last year Gerry had been moaning despairingly about having one foot in the grave; he certainly hadn't wanted a party. "But don't you think he seems a lot more relaxed about this birthday?"
"What, you want to throw a party?"
"Not a party, exactly. I thought I could round up all the girls and go round to Dad's tonight instead of tomorrow night, and we can take the food and drink and everything. I wanted to check with you first, though; it wouldn't be right if you weren't there."
Emily smiles despite herself. Paula is so thoughtful, so considerate of Emily's unusual position in the family and protective of her feelings. "That sounds lovely, yeah."
"And we should have his mates from work, yeah? Jack and Brian and his wife, Esther, and Sandra, of course." Paula remembers details like names of spouses and children, anniversaries, birthdays, favourite colours. She is compassionate and efficient, characteristics that make her a great nurse. "Do you want to ring them, or should I?"
"I have Sandra's number, and I can get the others easily enough, so I'll do it. What time should I tell them?"
"Say half seven? Cheers, Em. Dad will love it. He's like a kid, you know, loves surprises."
4.
Gerry is sitting in his favourite chair watching a ridiculously operatic spaghetti western when Amelia phones at 2:30.
"Happy birthday," she says cheerfully. "What have you got planned, then?"
"I'm communing with the more spiritual side of my nature."
"Watching telly and having a few beers, are you?" she replies instantly, and Gerry looks from the remote control in perched on the chair arm to the Newcastle in his left fist. "You're not at the track, are you, or getting up to something dodgy at your bookie's?"
Christ, is he that predictable? He has already decided against pissing his money away, though, even if he doesn't have anything better to do. He sort of likes being able to boast that he's a reformed character; and besides, he doesn't have a cash flow problem for the first time in yonks.
"I don't have a bookie, princess. He got himself banged up, didn't he? Anyway, don't worry about your old man."
"I'm not worried. I have to go to the library for a bit, but I thought if you're not busy later I could pop round and take you for a birthday drink. Say half seven or so?"
"That'd be lovely, sweetheart, cheers. I'm not going anywhere, so just give me a bell."
Gerry rings off and returns his gaze to the television screen, where a young Clint Eastwood is kicking arse and taking names in perfect time with Ennio Moricone's famous score. Gerry hums along and mentally tells Clint that he's having a perfectly lovely birthday, thank you. What does it matter what Sandra's getting up to, when he has a delightful evening with one of his girls to look forward to?
5.
Mission accomplished, reads Amelia's text to her three sisters. Dad staying in.
Caitlin's answering text is vintage youngest Standing daughter: Can we have a choc cake? Dad likes chocolate best.
This may or may not be true, but it's certainly Caitlin's favourite.
6.
"No," Jayne says impatiently to Alison, "of course I'm not bringing John. It's a party, for Christ's sake."
"No, luv, just for Gerry's," the second Mrs. Standing replies blithely. "Until tonight, then."
7.
"Jack?" Jack instantly recognizes the number, the voice, and the mumbling of his name through a mouthful of Malteasers. "'s Brian. You going round to Gerry's tonight?"
"Yes, his Emily phoned me." Jack momentarily rests his weight on his golf club and squints at the ball, envisioning its trajectory.
Esther squawks in the background. Jack makes out the words "your bloody dog."
"Uh, got to go," Brian says abruptly, and hangs up.
8.
When Emily hasn't been able to raise Sandra by 5:30, she leaves her a voicemail: "Sandra, it's Emily. Paula had the idea of us all going round to Dad's tonight to surprise him. We're meeting at 7:30 in front of the building so we can spring upon him unawares. I've already spoken to Brian and Jack, and they're coming. It would be great if you could make it. Don't bring anything; that's sorted. Cheers. Bye."
9.
As soon as she steps inside her flat, Sandra frees her freshly manicured toes from her shoes, tosses her handbag onto the table, and pats her coat pockets down once more, although she knows full well that her mobile isn't there. Where is it hiding? Her gaze sweeps over the living room. No mobile. Maybe it's in the car, she thinks, glancing at her watch. It's quarter to six, so she doesn't have time to look for it now, not if she wants to get there by seven or 7:15. She shrugs out of her coat and walks briskly down the hall to the bathroom. As she twists the hot water tap open in the shower, she thinks, Well, at least this way Strickland won't be able to reach me about a new case.
Meanwhile, her mobile waits patiently where she dropped it this morning, out of sight beneath her rumpled duvet, its battery slowly going flat.
10.
It has been a fairly pleasant day for March, but the air feels frigid now that the sun has set and the wind has kicked up. Sandra shivers as she slides behind the wheel of the convertible, and pulls her red wool coat more snugly against her body. She is not dressed appropriately for the weather.
She smiles to herself, feeling a flutter of anticipation as she drives through the familiar streets. (Argh, traffic. No matter; she'll still be there by a quarter after.) She's the tiniest bit nervous, and can't quite believe she's doing this. She had friends who'd done it at university, but Sandra hadn't. There were a lot of things she hadn't done at university, but she had earned a double first.
She has to park nearly two blocks away, and she teeters a little on her spiked heels as she locks the car doors. She glances at the duffel bag on the passenger seat. She'll come back and get it later; arriving with it in hand would rather spoil the effect.
Within a few steps she has settled into the exaggerated gait necessitated by the extremely high heels. Everyone needs to break the rules once in a while, she thinks, smiling secretively to herself. This is going to be fun.
11.
When his door buzzer peals, Gerry fully expects it to be Amelia, although she said she'd ring first. He opens the door without checking and finds himself facing Sandra – not quite eye to eye, because she's a few inches taller than he is tonight. He automatically looks down at her shoes. They're black patent leather, with evil heels and straps that wind above her ankles, and are very expensive, if he knows anything about women's footwear (which he does). Her legs are encased in sheer black stockings, but he can't see what else she's wearing because she's bundled up tightly in her bright coat. Her hair is curled slightly, making his fingers itch to twine themselves in it, and he's never seen her makeup like this, the smoky eye shadow and thick dark liner bringing out the vivid blue of her eyes.
"Hi," she says, smiling, those eyes twinkling. Gerry realizes he's been surveying her for a long, silent moment. "Can I come in?"
He practically leaps aside into the flat, and as he closes the door behind her, he gets a good look at Sandra from the back and his heart stutters before resuming a regular rhythm, now considerably faster than it was before his doorbell rang. Those sheer black stockings have thick seams, perfectly straight, that run up the backs of her smooth, muscular legs, just like the ones worn by the models in the 1950s pin-ups young Gerry had pilfered from his older cousins to lust over in the secrecy of his small bedroom.
Oh, Christ suffering on the cross, she's going out with someone dressed like that. His chest tightens with jealousy and envy, while another part of his anatomy tightens with something else entirely.
He has to touch her: shoulders, that should be safe enough. "Can I take your coat?"
She steps away without answering and turns to face him. "I just dropped by to give you your birthday gift," she says in that clear, ringing alto. Her voice does things to him, things he wouldn't discuss in polite company, if he knew any polite company.
Right, he thinks. Okay, Gerald, you can handle this. You're sixty-one bloody years old, and Sandra is not the Blessed Virgin. That is, in fact, one of your favourite things about her. So she's on her way to let some other bloke shag her rotten. Take the gift, enjoy the view, kiss her on the cheek, and ask her to wear those stockings Thursday night. Don't act like a jealous old fool.
"But you already gave me a gift," he says, trying not to stare too obviously and aware that he's failing miserably. At least his tongue isn't hanging out.
Not Strickland, he thinks. Please, please, please not that prat. But not a stranger, either. Oh, Sandra, no dodgy stranger deserves you, especially not when you look like that.
"But this one is just from me," she says with the little smirk that makes his toes curl. She slowly reaches for the belt of her coat and begins to unbuckle it. After she has worked the clasp, her fingers reach up to the top button and tug it smoothly from the button hole, her eyes fastened on his. When she has unbuttoned all the buttons, she stands still, arms at her sides, and he still can't see what she's got on under the coat. "Would you like to unwrap it now, Gerry?"
He nods, trying very hard not to make an ass of himself. Gerry knows his arousal is blatantly obvious, and she's toying with him. He'd be angry if he weren't so turned on.
In a single, fluid motion she slides the coat from her shoulders and it falls to pool at her feet.
Gerry would weep if it weren't a touch too theatrical.
All Sandra has on is a concoction of black satin and lace, the style of vintage corset that covers her almost like a swimsuit but pushes her breasts up and out in defiance of gravity. The stockings stop high on her thighs, where they're decorated with little black bows and held by, God, garter belts.
He stares so avidly that she eventually starts to blush. "Do you know what your present is?" she asks a little breathlessly. "An exception. Happy birthday."
She doesn't get a chance to say anything else because his mouth stops hers, devouring her as if he's starving. One hand tangles in her hair, tugging, mussing the layers, while the other glides down her back to stroke the exposed, baby-soft skin above her stockings. The silky material of the corset sensuously against his button-down shirt, and he wants to feel it against his skin.
The scent of her perfume is strongest behind her delicate ears and between her breasts. It is warm and spicy and perfect for Sandra. Her skin tastes of clean, warm woman and the hint of soap, and he can't get enough, but he wants to go slowly, to savour this. He pulls back enough to look into her face, one of his arms still clasped around her hips, breathing as if he's just run the hundred-yard dash – and won. Her eyes remain closed for several seconds, and when they open, their blue depths are soft and the opposite of icy. She is adorably, gorgeously flushed, her lips parted, her chest rising and falling rapidly as she breathes. He drinks all these details in, and he's sure she'd call it macho pride or chauvinism, but he feels triumphant satisfaction as he thinks, I did that. I put that expression on her face. And she's dressed like this for me, not for anyone else. For tonight, at least, she's mine.
He's hers whenever she wants him, but he figures that's fairly obvious.
Gerry trails a fingertip across the tops of her breasts where her skin meets the lace edging. "Come upstairs," he says, releasing her hips to take her hand.
She does, their hands still joined, moving one step ahead of him and giving him another opportunity to enjoy the view from the back. Those stockings are sexy as hell, but it's what's in them that's phenomenal.
Gerry has just sat on the edge of his neatly made bed and drawn Sandra to stand in front of him when there's an unmistakable sound from below.
The doorbell is ringing.
12.
Esther let Brian out in front of Gerry's flat, where a collection of assorted ex-wives and daughters was already assembled, when she realised she was going to have to drive around until she found a place to park. He'd taken yet another tumble from his bicycle a few days ago, and his knee is playing up. As she walks the two blocks back to join him, her gaze falls upon a familiar blue convertible, but when she reaches the knot of Gerry's friends and family, Sandra isn't among them.
"Are we all here?" Paula asks.
"Where's Sandra?" This from Brian.
Emily shrugs. "I was never able to reach her, so I left a message earlier, and I've just sent a text. Maybe she'll pop by later."
Young Gerry presses the buzzer, and they wait expectantly.
13.
"Maybe whoever it is will go away," Sandra says hopefully.
"Oh, shit!" Gerry gets to his feet. "That'll be Amelia. She wanted to come by and take me for a drink."
Her eyebrows shoot upward. "And you just forgot?"
He grins as he rests his hands on her shoulders. "Oi, I got distracted," he retorts. "I'll make an excuse and reschedule. Just stay here."
"Oh, I thought I'd go to the door!" Sandra hisses after him in a stage-whisper, and he makes no effort to stop grinning as he opens his front door.
And finds his entire family, two of his three closest friends (he knows where the third is), and a bunch of multi-coloured balloons.
"Happy birthday, Grandpa!" Gerry Junior exclaims. "Are you surprised?"
Gerry forces himself to keep smiling as he looks from one familiar face to another. Oh, bollocks.
"Oh, yeah," he says rather faintly. "Grandpa is very surprised."
TO BE CONTINUED