Chapter Ten: Guess Who's Coming to Dinner? Part Two
1.
Hovering just inside the bedroom door, her hand on the knob, Sandra easily hears Gerry's rather loud, panicked "Come in, everybody," and closes the door instantly and soundlessly. The lock makes only the faintest click as she engages it.
She presses her hot cheek against the cool door, her heart thudding rapidly, and considers her situation. It is, first of all, supremely ridiculous. Second, it's extremely dangerous. She is more than half naked, and the entire Standing clan is downstairs in the lounge. She's also trapped, because although she might be able to sneak downstairs, she has no clothes to put on, and who knows where Gerry might have stashed her coat? – Christ, he can't have left it right there in the floor, can he?
Part of her wants to laugh, but that's the part of her that isn't worried about potentially imminent personal humiliation and professional ruin. While Gerry technically isn't a police officer, so they're not breaking any hard and fast rules, she's still shagging someone who's under her direct command. The enlightened, twenty-first-century Met frowns upon that.
Sandra frowns upon that, in theory.
Keep calm, she orders herself sternly, and all will be well. You trust Gerry – and besides, the door is locked, and the odds that anyone is going to storm his bedroom like it's the Bastille are pretty low. You might as well make yourself comfortable for the duration.
She crosses to the bed, freezing for a moment when a floorboard pops loudly, and stretches out on the duvet. True, she'd planned to spend the evening in Gerry's bed, but she hadn't really anticipated doing so alone.
2.
Downstairs the new arrivals are settling in, putting out the food and pouring drinks. Esther hands Brian a glass of orange juice and settles in next to him. Upstairs a floorboard creaks, and she glances toward the ceiling. Jack and Brian are talking shop, and Esther isn't really listening, but is instead watching everyone mill around, moving from the kitchen to the lounge to the dining area.
"Esther, love," Brian interrupts the leisurely flow of her thoughts, "that folder I brought to show Jack and Gerry and Sandra, if she comes, I've left it in the car. Will you go and fetch it for me?"
"You should be more careful on that bike," Esther scolds, "especially at your age. Besides which, this is a social event, not work. Can't you try to think about something else for a while?"
Her husband casts her a baleful look. "If you'll just get it for me, I'll have done, and I won't talk about work the rest of the evening, I promise."
Esther knows the verbal promise is worth the paper it's written on, but she'd rather get the file than listen to Brian whinge and wheedle, so she gets up with a sigh, pauses to arm herself against the cold, and strides out into the night.
As she returns with the file a few minutes later – it's bulging, so it should keep Brian busy for quite a while – she again passes the blue convertible, and this time she frowns. That has to be Sandra's car; it has the tell-tale tiny parking sticker on the windscreen. So where is the car's owner? She could be visiting someone else in the neighbourhood, but that seems an unlikely coincidence. She isn't at Gerry's, so where is she?
Esther is both curious and mildly concerned, so after she delivers the prized folder to her husband, she circulates through the ground floor of the flat, verifying what she already knows to be true: no Sandra.
Surely she's over-reacting due to four decades of being married to a policeman, but Esther is uneasy. She can't shake the feeling that something is amiss. The streets in the area are quiet and residential; what if someone attacked Sandra between her car and Gerry's flat? She could be hurt or abducted or… worse.
You're being ridiculous, Esther chastises herself, pausing at the foot of the stairs to get her mental bearings. The bathroom is at the top of the stairs. On one side, the door to a guest bedroom is open wide, and their coats are piled on the bed. On the other side of the landing is a closed door that must belong to Gerry's bedroom.
Esther recalls the handful of times she's been to Gerry's for meals. That door has always been open. At home Gerry is fastidiously neat, not the type to leave a room in no fit state and hide it by closing a door.
Esther actually gasps.
She's been living with Brian too long; that's what it is. His enormous intuitive leaps have started to seem normal to her, and now her brain is imitating his, which is a frightening prospect in itself.
But she can't help thinking: Sandra's car is nearby, but no one can find Sandra; Gerry's bedroom door is closed – and probably locked; Gerry seemed a bit uneasy when we all arrived; and then, finally, there was that look she'd seen on Sandra's face last week, and the way Gerry had been holding her arm.
The lounge is momentarily deserted, and Esther takes advantage of that fact to nip up the stairs as quickly and soundlessly as possible, all the while thinking, Esther Lane, you're about to make a complete fool of yourself. She stops outside Gerry's bedroom door and turns the doorknob as cautiously as if she were afraid of detonating a bomb. It doesn't budge, just as she'd expected.
Hah. Brian isn't the only detective in the Lane family. The lock doesn't have a keyhole, which means the door only locks from the inside, and this being Gerry, that means he's got a female visitor in there. Esther would bet her life savings on it.
It doesn't necessarily follow that the woman is Sandra, Esther cautions herself. If she mooted the possibility about to Jack and Brian, they'd say it was ludicrous.
But what would Gerry say?
The more Esther considers the possibility, the less surprising it seems. Brian wouldn't see it that way because it would rock his little boat. But there has always been some sort of spark between the detective superintendent and the former sergeant. When she'd first met them, Esther had been not a little surprised by the extremely sharp, even vicious cracks Sandra made at Gerry's expense. She teased Jack and Brian, but never spoke to them with such acid. But Esther had soon noticed other things, too, such as the fact that Sandra accompanied her nastiest quips with a smile that seemed to be reserved especially for the Last Man Standing. And of course Gerry was Gerry, so he flirted with Sandra all the time. It was always a joke, but Esther has thought more than once over the years that Gerry would be delighted if his governor ever took him seriously. He drives Sandra to exasperation much more quickly than eccentric Brian or fatherly Jack – but then, Esther thinks, Brian frequently drives her to the brink of madness, so there may be something to that.
More than anything else, it's a protective instinct that finally persuades Esther to rap very softly on the door and call, in a voice so low it's scarcely audible, "Sandra? Are you all right?" There's no response, but she continues, "You are in there, aren't you, dear? It's Esther."
The response, which is long in coming, is more uncertain than she has ever before heard Sandra Pullman be. "Esther?"
Even the whisper sounds frantic. "It's all right," the older woman quickly reassures her. "No one else knows you're up here."
"Did Gerry tell you?" Now she sounds frantic and angry.
"I figured it out. I do know a thing or two about detective work." Esther glances over her shoulder. She knows she isn't quite visible from downstairs, but what if someone pops up to use the upstairs loo? Carrying on a whispered conversation through the door is likely to attract notice. "Can I be of any help?"
"I'm, ah, I'm stuck."
Esther frowns. "Do you mean the door's jammed?"
"No, I mean I can't come out."
"That's no problem. I can help you get downstairs and out the front without anyone seeing – they're all eating now – and we can bring you right back in again." Easy peasy.
"No, I – I'm not… dressed appropriately."
Oh. Ohhh. That does complicate things, muses Esther.
"There's a bag on the front seat of my car with a change of clothes. I parked –"
"I know," Esther interrupts to save time. "I'll be back in a flash if –"
"The keys are in my coat pocket, but I don't know where my coat is. Downstairs somewhere."
"I'll find it," Esther replies confidently, and Sandra gives her the colour, designer, and size, just in case. "I'll be back soon, Sandra. Don't worry."
Esther melts back downstairs. Brian is so deep in explicating whatever theory he's worked up that he won't notice if she's missing for a quarter of an hour or so. There's a wardrobe near the door, and Esther isn't surprised to find Sandra's coat nestled among Gerry's. She slips her right hand into the pocket and encounters the metal of Sandra's key ring.
She's smiling as she glides out of the flat, still unseen, and thinks, I always have fancied the idea of a spot of undercover work.
2.
Twenty minutes later the buzzer goes, and Esther just happens to be standing right inside the door, so she opens it and leads the new arrival into the dining room where Gerry relaxes at the head of the table with a glass of port. "Look who's here," she announces merrily.
"Hi, Sandra," Brian calls through a mouthful of food from halfway down the table. Everyone else has finished eating, but trust Brian still to be working his way through what looks like an entire smoked duck all to himself.
"Oh, Sandra!" The enthusiastic exclamation comes from Carole, who has been vaguely worried that the absence of Gerry's boss meant he was still in the shit over his involvement in the Bracknell debacle.
"Now everyone's here who should be," Paula says warmly.
"Are you hungry, Sandra? We've got heaps of food," Caitlin pipes up.
"Sorry I'm late." Sandra's eyes skim over the table and come to rest on the man of the hour. "Happy birthday, Gerry."
The look on his face since she walked in the door has been indescribable, and when she reaches for the belt of her overcoat, it turns priceless. All the colour drains from his face and he stares. Fortunately no one but Sandra or Esther notices. As if I would, Sandra thinks, disgusted, and watches Gerry's expression of anticipatory horror turn to one of complete shock as she slips the coat off to reveal her favourite jeans and an innocuous if clingy dark green top made of very soft t-shirt fabric. Yes, her hair and makeup are different from the norm, and she still has on the strappy heels, but she simply looks as if she's headed somewhere a bit more posh later on than her mate's gaff for a birthday do.
Conversation resumes. Sandra disappears into the kitchen, and when Gerry comes looking for her after most people have dispersed from the table, she's leaning over the island, dragging a miniature samosa through mango-lime relish.
"Shit, Sandra," he whispers furiously, stopping on the other side of the island and looking directly into her eyes. She will never, never, ever come back again, he thinks. She's just spent slightly more than an hour locked in his bedroom in the dark playing quiet mouse, still mouse. Strictly speaking, this isn't his fault, but he doesn't expect that to stop from eviscerating him.
She isn't glaring at him, though. If anything she's blushing slightly. He has seen her truly embarrassed once before, on a very memorable night, so he recognizes the phenomenon.
"It's not your fault," she whispers back, glancing down as she scoops up another samosa. "It was my brilliant idea to break the rules."
"It was an incredibly brilliant idea," he insists forcefully, and she actually chuckles reluctantly. "Now, how the hell did you – Where did you get -?" He gestures toward her fully clothed form.
"From my car." She munches on a carrot stick. "With help." He shoots her an enquiring look and she shakes her head. "We'll talk about it later. I'm deciding whether or not to panic. Will you get me a drink?"
"Don't panic. It's not your style." He squeezes her elbow, which as much of a touch as he'll allow himself right now, and goes out to the lounge to get her a scotch, neat.
Later Sandra catches Esther's arm as she turns away from the kettle with a fresh cup of tea. "Esther," she murmurs, and breaks off. So Sandra does blush under the right circumstances, Esther notes, and waits. The tea bag needs to steep for four minutes anyway.
"Jack and Brian don't know anything about this," Sandra continues after a pause, "and I'd rather they didn't."
Esther simply gazes at her silently. Sandra thinks she looks disappointed, but she doesn't know what that disappointment means.
"Please, Esther, you won't –" she begins earnestly, and the older woman briskly interrupts.
"No, obviously I won't say anything. But maybe you should."
Sandra's expression remains neutral, but she thinks, And maybe I should pack in this whole police racket and become a professional chef, but that isn't bloody likely either. Sometimes good teams do have secrets.
The clock has crept past ten. The second Gerry Standing is sleeping peacefully in his grandfather's bed; Brian and Esther are wending their way homeward; Amelia and Paula are tidying up; Caitlin and Jacob have disappeared (Gerry has no desire to dwell on this); Jack, Sandra, and Emily are deep in conversation; and Gerry is lifting a glass to his three wives, who face him on the sofa.
"To three lovely, intelligent women," he says grandly, "who have enriched my life and depleted my bank account for so many years. Cheers, ladies."
They all drink before Alison says, "Honestly, Gerry, get some new material, can't you?" She offers a good-natured smile, though. She and Gerry never should have gotten married, a fact which they both take in stride in a sort of "no harm, no foul" unspoken agreement. Amelia isn't the only lasting reason they're fond of one another.
Carole stands up, looking extremely tall and dark between the two petite blondes. "Home time," she decrees. "Al, are you ready?"
As the other two say their good-nights, Carole dashing upstairs to kiss her slumbering grandson, Jayne turns to Gerry, leaning in and softly saying, "Gerry, do you think we could… talk? There are some things I've wanted you to know since Caitlin's wedding, but somehow the chance never comes up."
"Of course." He instinctively pats her knee. "I'm all yours."
Jayne glances across the room at the other remaining guests. "In private," she specifies. "I could stay behind after the others have gone, have another birthday drink…?"
Gerry doesn't react visibly as his brain scrambles to figure out just what Jayne is suggesting. Surely he recognizes the low, caressing vibration of her voice, the tiniest bit of apprehension in her eyes, the barely perceptible tinge of pink on her cheeks and throat.
His eyes dart very quickly to where Sandra sits, laughing at something Jack has said. She has one long leg thrown casually over the other, and beneath the cuff of her jeans Gerry glimpses a flash of sheer black stocking.
"I'm knackered," he says, reluctant to lie to Jayne but fully aware that if he says it's "not a good time," she'll know exactly what that means. When his eyes return to hers, hers are shadowed, and a slight frown puckers her forehead.
"Right," she says, rising. "Maybe another time, then."
Jack, Sandra, and Brian have been taking the piss for the better part of a decade thanks to Gerry's belief that everything in life revolves around sex, but what they don't acknowledge, he thinks now, is that he's right. He is not imagining the veiled invitation in Jayne's words. He really does know a thing or two about women.
"Right," he echoes, standing and giving her a hug. "Another time." Definitely not this time, when Sandra Pullman is sitting in his flat, her casual attire concealing the fact that beneath her ordinary clothing she's the living, breathing incarnation of young Gerald LeStade's most vivid, fevered fantasies. It may have taken half a century, but fantasy is finally meeting reality, and Gerry would have to be an exceptionally stupid man to let that slip from his grasp.
Sandra feels his bright blue eyes on her, turns to meet his appraising look, and flashes a quick grin.
"I'll see if Paula and Gerry want a ride," Jayne says in an altered tone. "Happy birthday." She leans up to press her lips against Gerry's cheek, then vanishes into the kitchen.
Ten minutes later Amelia, Emily, Jack, and Sandra all walk out together, the last of the guests to depart. Gerry follows them to the door and stands in the entryway, waiting. His patience is rewarded ten minutes later by a quick, businesslike rap on the door.
He tugs Sandra across the threshold into his arms, and as he lightly strokes her back between her shoulder blades, she firmly announces, "Exceptions are a bad idea, Gerry."
That, he thinks, kissing her temple, is another battle for another day. He says, "You can't take back a gift you've already given. That's not fair play, gov."
She smirks. "I always try to be fair. Tough, but fair." With that she steps back, pulls the top over her head, and bends down to unbuckle her shoes. The sight of her bending over, hair falling into her eyes, certain prominent features of her anatomy in imminent peril of spilling over the top of the corset, is one that Gerry is sure will be permanently embedded in his memory.
She steps out of the shoes, shimmies free of the jeans, and stands facing him with a slight smile curving her lips and her hands on her hips. "See anything you like?" she teases. She'll have to tell him about Esther and figure out what to do next, but now is not the time. It's his birthday, she's dressed up like some ridiculous 1950s high-class hooker, and he's looking at her with an expression of boyish glee that's strangely endearing, as if she's giving him the best present he's ever received.
She takes his hand. "Let's try this again," she suggests, leading him up the stairs.
When she has him seated on the bed, positioned exactly as they were over three hours ago, her fingers linked loosely behind his neck, he reaches out and runs his hand over the black satin where it covers the gentle swell of her abdomen and says the last thing she expects: "Sandra, is this vintage?"
She shoves him hard enough that he topples over backwards, and she collapses beside him, laughing helplessly. "Yes, Gerry, it is," she replies, rolling her eyes heavenward. "Just like you – you tosser."
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