Some of you may be getting impatient for some sort of resolution – But you didn't really think it was going to be that easy, did you?
Chapter Eleven: You Can't Take it With You
1.
The wind isn't particularly cold, but it's vicious as it whips Sandra's hair – it's getting too long; she should have it cut – into her eyes and mouth and tosses a generous amount of unidentified street grit against her skin for good measure. Squinting, she can just make Gerry out as he crosses the street toward her, hunching forward against the wind.
"It's about time," she gasps, the wind stealing her breath. "I've been standing on this god-forsaken corner for ten minutes, trying not to get blown away by this bloody hurricane. Wherever we're going, let's go there."
"Your wish is my command." He links Sandra's arm through his – even with the wind gusting around them, she's close enough to catch the familiar scent of cigarettes and peppermint – and they set off briskly.
"Here," he says after half a block, tugging her to a stop outside a brightly illuminated arthouse cinema. She's been here before, but not for years.
"What are we doing here?" Sandra demands as if he's brought her to skid row.
Gerry gestures overhead, where the marquee spells out Frank Capra Retrospective Wed. – Sun. "This may come as a shock, gov, but we're seeing a film."
"Oh, no." Her eyes land on his as she tries to yank her arm away, but he only grasps her more tightly. "That's not the deal, Gerry."
"What, are you that impatient? I'm flattered." That earns him a glare, but he is unfazed. "This is well within bounds, Sandra. We've got dinner –" He holds up the brown paper bag he grips in his free hand – "which is something you'll quite like, and which we're going to sneak into the cinema and eat while we watch one of your favourite films, all right?"
Sandra looks hesitantly at the entrance. She isn't sure why this deviation from their routine makes her so uneasy. Perhaps it's because it feels too much like a "proper" date.
"Pretend it's a theme restaurant," he cajoles, and tugs on her elbow. "Come on, it starts in fifteen minutes, and I don't want to be stuck in the front row."
"You've never seen a film from the front row in your life." (She's not wrong, and he doesn't plan to start tonight, with her of all people.) She considers. "What's the movie?"
"You Can't Take it With You. I know you've got that one on DVD, but I thought you'd like seeing it on the silver screen an' all."
Sandra bites her lip. It's a sweet, thoughtful gesture. What could it hurt, really? "And what's in the bag?"
"Jamaican patties."
Oh, he knows her too well. "Final question: does this cinema do popcorn?"
"Of course. I know my demographic."
She can't help smiling. "Then what are we waiting for? I don't want to be stuck in the front row."
Ten minutes later, the lights have already dimmed when Gerry joins Sandra in the two seats she's staked out for them at the far end of the back row. He hands over the popcorn and one of the sodas, and when he drapes his arm across her shoulders, not only does she not protest, but she curls into his side – as much as she can with the armrest between them – and rests the top of her head against his cheek, which is slightly scratchy by this time of day.
He grins. "Nice seats, Sandra," he whispers. "You know what happens in the back row of the cinema, don't you?"
"I might have an inkling."
He leans in to kiss her and she turns her head so his lips smack into her ear. "Feed me," she says, all business.
The film's opening credits scroll across the screen as Gerry hands over one of the sweating styrafoam containers. Sandra has been skittish since his birthday nearly two weeks ago. She's reluctant to discuss it, so Gerry still doesn't know exactly what happened before her unexpected reappearance in the midst of his surprise guests, but he's quite sure she didn't magically conjure up a full set of clothes, and no way did she have them secreted about her person when she'd initially arrived. She'd somehow managed to avert disaster, but she'd made it clear that there would be no more exceptions: they were playing strictly by the rules from now on.
The problem was that she'd written the rule book, and Gerry had never been very fond of rules. He knows that with Sandra, though, the trick will be to bend, not to break.
She won't even spend the night, let alone stay for breakfast. She won't let him cook dinner for her. But, by God, she can at least go to the movies with him.
Onscreen a flummoxed Jimmy Stewart is meeting Jean Arthur's very eccentric extended family, and Sandra lightly presses her lips to Gerry's jaw, as if she can read his thoughts. He grins. Sandra was a good girl growing up, and he knows perfectly well that good girls love to be bad. Gerry smoothes his fingers over her silky hair – it's getting long, and he loves the way it feels between his fingers – and guides her mouth to his for a proper kiss. No, he thinks, you never get too old for this. Something about the innocence of it all is as exciting as being a teenage boy on his first date with the prettiest girl in the class.
In fact, everything about Sandra is exciting. How did he go this many years without touching her, without kissing that wide, smiling mouth? Was he blind? Deaf? Insensible?
Gerry isn't anywhere near as arrogant as he leads people to believe, but Sandra is obviously enjoying this as much as he is. Baby steps, he thinks, chuffed with himself.
He really did bring her to see the film, though, or at least part of it, so he gently disengages himself and coaxes until she rests her head against his shoulder again. He'd feel like he was a kid again, only being a kid was never this satisfying.
Sandra feels vaguely guilty, like she's doing something she shouldn't.
It's pretty fantastic.
The two hours pass rapidly, and when the lights come up abruptly as Jimmy and Jean live happily and weirdly ever after, Sandra blinks rapidly as she smoothes her hair, restoring some semblance of order.
"That wasn't so painful, was it?" Gerry teases as they round up their rubbish and slip into their coats.
"I'll probably live." Her tone is dour, but she can't help the brilliant smile that breaks across her face.
"Sandra!" exclaims a familiar voice. "And Gerry! Look who it is, Brian."
Her smile disappears instantly to be replaced by an expression of horror. Gerry saves her from having to speak. "Oh, hello, mate," he says cheerfully to Brian. (It could be worse, he thinks; it could be Jack.) "I thought you hadn't been to the pictures since Lawrence of Arabia or summat."
"Esther's a fan of the classics." Brian looks to Sandra. "This was one of the films she recommended when you were off sick in the fall."
Sandra has sufficiently recovered to participate in the conversation. "It's one of my favourites. When Gerry told me it was playing, I dragged him along. Too bad we couldn't round Jack up too," she finishes glibly, and Gerry shoots her an approving look.
"Come now, Brian, I'm famished." Esther is leading her husband away before he can ask any really awkward questions. "You'll see Gerry and Sandra at work tomorrow," she adds, as if Brian is a little boy who doesn't want to leave his friends in the schoolyard.
The cinema has emptied out by this point, and Sandra flops down heavily in the seat she had just vacated. "Shit," she swears, dropping her head into her hands.
Gerry lays his hand on her back. "It's not that bad," he says. "I'm fairly certain it's not illegal to see a film with a friend."
"It bloody well is that bad. Shit, shit, shit!"
His palm rubs gently between her shoulder blades and she flinches away, lifting her head. "Let's get out of here," she mutters. "We never should've been here in the first place."
Gerry doesn't think it would help his cause to point out that they could just as easily be observed in a restaurant.
Sandra follows Gerry the short distance back to his flat, but she's in a foul mood. He pours her a drink and she paces around like a caged animal, practically wearing a hole into the carpet. Gerry lets her be for a solid twenty minutes, sitting in his armchair and watching her, but eventually he's had enough. He stands up abruptly, creating a sudden roadblock in her path.
"Stop," he says calmly. "Either stand still or sit down, but stop wearing out my bleedin' floor, and tell me what you're thinking."
Sandra glowers at him for a moment, and then the anger leeches out of her expression and she lowers herself to the sofa. She releases a heavy sigh. "We're taking too many chances."
He sits down next to her, not touching. "I don't think Brian suspects anything," he says, which is not exactly a response.
"It's only a matter of time." She runs her fingers through her windblown hair, tired, heavy. She feels his eyes on her but doesn't turn toward him. "Esther knows."
"Because we were at the cinema together? Sandra, relax."
"Don't tell me to sodding relax!" she flashes out, her bright eyes snapping to his. "She knows because she found me half-naked in your bedroom and got my bloody clothes out of my bloody car for me!"
Oh.
Gerry's temper sparks in reaction to hers, but he forces himself to keep calm, knowing a shouting match will only escalate the situation. "She obviously hasn't said anything to Brian," he says, aiming for a tone that's soothing without being patronizing.
Predictably, it doesn't work. "Brian's some sort of fucking savant, and then there's Jack – Jack could rattle off a list of every lie I've ever told in the last thirty years." She stands up again, too agitated to sit, and picks at the chunky silver pendant hanging from her necklace. "Jesus suffering Christ, Gerry, I'm completely buggered!"
Does she even realize she's shouting? It obviously comes so naturally to her. Well, it comes pretty naturally to him too.
"Oh, you're buggered, are you?"
She plants her clenched fists on her hips. "When the entire Met finds out I've been having it off with you, then yes, I am! I'll be a laughing stock."
Gerry has likewise leapt to his feet, but unlike Sandra, he stands very still. A muscle twitches convulsively in his jaw, the only visible sign of emotion. "Cheers, Sandra. Thanks. If that's what you think, maybe you might've thought of it beforehand, yeah? You wouldn't want anything to blacken your precious reputation, especially not contaminating yourself with the likes of me."
Her eyes are dark, her jaw as firmly set as his. "You know the reputation you have, Gerry," she retorts. "Gerry Standing, twisting all the tarts round his little finger."
"Yeah, I do. And you ought to know it well enough yourself after all these years."
Sandra can't argue, so she snaps, "And naturally my highest ambition must be adding another notch to your very well-worn headboard, right?"
Gerry's had enough bloody abuse. He's been waiting for Sandra to realize he isn't nearly good enough for her, but he hadn't realized how much the words would burn coming from her lips. It's like getting a full-body acid bath, and he wants to wound her in retaliation. "You seemed willing enough when you threw yourself at me right after your mother's funeral, and when you turned up at me front door dressed like you were on the bloody game. I guess Detective Superintendent Pullman learned a thing or two when she was based in Soho – But I've got to tell you, sweetheart, you're a little long in the tooth to pull in the top price."
She flinches as if she's been slapped, but has her features under perfect control in less time than it takes her to count to five.
"You're that desperate that you're reduced to lettin' me give you one, are you? Against your better judgment."
Part of Sandra's brain, the part that's still logical and reasonable, understands that Gerry's lashing out like a wounded animal because she's hurt him and he wants to do damage in return; but the rest of her is too angry to care. Angry and, yes, hurt.
"Against my better judgment," she echoes coldly. "It's obvious that I should go now. I guess that's the first smart decision I've made where you're concerned in quite a while."
"Very likely," he agrees frigidly. Then he sits down and clicks on the television, as if she's already left and he couldn't care less. As she stalks to the door and yanks on her black coat, she's aware that he has found the bloody darts tournament and is watching it as raptly as if he doesn't have a care in the world.
"Tosser," she mutters as the door bangs shut behind her. The rush of cool air feels good against her feverishly hot cheeks and steals much of the fire from her anger. She sets out briskly for her car, wanting to stay angry, wanting the hot rush of anger to cover the feelings she wants to keep at bay, the hurt and the shame and the creeping sadness. But the anger slips away, ephemeral, and she's left alone with her thoughts and the howling wind and the tap of her boot heels on the pavement.
You've really cocked it up this time, Pullman. Honest truth: you were so afraid that someone would find out about you and Gerry and destroy the delicate balance of UCOS that you've gone and done it yourself to save them the trouble. How do you think Gerry is going to look at you tomorrow morning?
She doesn't want to think about that, but she really doesn't want to think about how he looked at her when she said she'd be a laughingstock if anyone at work found out she was involved with him.
It would be a disaster for her, professionally, if people knew; but she'd spoken to him as if he were some social disease, not her longtime colleague and friend. And he'd been right: she was willing enough, unfazed by his past until she needed a reason to slag him off for something that wasn't even his fault. He hadn't told Esther, or anyone else, about the two of them. If anyone was to blame, it was Sandra. Not only had it been her idea to turn up at Gerry's dressed like an expensive prostitute, but, more importantly, she had initiated their, ah, extracurricular activities in the first place.
When she gets to her car and reaches for her keys, she's almost relieved to realize they aren't there. They must have fallen out of her pocket in his flat.
She has to go back.
2.
Sandra has been sitting on the stoop for twenty minutes when Gerry opens the building's main door, and she nearly topples backward into the hallway.
"Are you going to sit there all night, or would you like to come in?" He no longer sounds angry, but exactly like she feels, tired and wary.
"I was thinking about it."
"Let me know when you've decided," he says, and shuts the door.
Five minutes later she knocks resolutely at his door, and when he answers, admits, "I dropped my keys."
"I know." He holds them out with his left hand.
She takes the keys hesitantly, then looks up, cautious, to find his eyes. "Can I come in?"
He hesitates too before nodding once and stepping aside so she can pass. "Take your coat?"
She hands it over very quickly and they stand looking at one another for several awkward minutes. He speaks first. Gerry Standing is very proud, very stubborn, but it's easier for him to admit his mistakes than it is for her. He's had considerably more practice. He isn't exactly eloquent, but he gets straight to the point: "I was talking a pile of shit before, you know."
Their eyes are locked, blue on blue, and he's able to see the relief wash over her. "So was I, Gerry. You know how much I –" Sandra isn't quite sure how to end that statement. Like you? Respect you? "Care," she finally says, softly and a little lamely, but it's enough.
"C'mere," he says gruffly, and a long, drawn-out breath escapes her. Relieved, she steps into his arms and rests her cheek against his. Her skin is cold and smells of powder and subtle spice and fresh air.
Sandra isn't good at putting her feelings into words – there is always the deeply unsatisfying sense that the awkward, stiff syllables express something quite different from what she means – but the vocabulary of physical touch comes more naturally. It's a language she hasn't used in too long, but in the last few months she has relearned it, refamiliarized herself with its nuances; and now, as she curls her fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck and breathes against his skin, she hears Gerry say her name, low and caressing, as if answering a question.
He strokes her hair and her spine, and she thinks with the same surprised, appreciative tingle it always causes of how gentle he can be, much more gentle than she is. "I'm glad I dropped my keys," she says.
They sit in the living room, eating cheese and crackers and fruit and drinking a crisp white burgundy. She insists that he leave the telly on what he's been watching, and when she asks who's winning, he admits that he has no idea. She settles herself on the floor, her back against the sofa and her head near Gerry's knee, and as they drink more wine his fingers toy with her hair, twining it through his fingers, massaging her scalp until she tips her head back and sighs, her eyes drifting closed.
"Come up here," he says when she's pleasantly floating in a warm, hazy world between waking and sleeping. She lounges on the sofa with him, her back nestled against his chest, and he draws a very soft green blanket over both of them. It's comforting and cozy and she's so relieved to be here with him rather than alone in her flat when she came so close to ruining everything just a couple of hours ago.
Gerry's gaze is fixed idly on the television, but his attention is focused on her, the softness of her body tucked into his, the gentle, steady rise and fall of her chest and shoulders with each deep breath, the warm weight of her. He feels her relax completely when at last she lets herself drift off to sleep, and he readjusts slightly, not wanting her to get a crick in her neck. Perhaps, he thinks, he has officially entered his dotage, but he's wanted this more than he cares to admit: the opportunity to watch her sleep and listen to her breathe, relaxed and peaceful. This shit evening has turned out to be pretty freakin' fantastic.
He knows she'll want to go home, so he fervently promises himself that he'll just allow himself this luxury for a little while, and then he'll wake her and she can be on her merry way.
He also knows, of course, that he's lying.
It's probably a bad idea to try to analyse his feelings very closely, and besides that, it's very uncool and un-Gerry Standing; so instead he wraps his arms firmly around Sandra, closes his eyes, and falls asleep as peacefully as a child.
3.
Sandra is disoriented when she opens her eyes. The sunlight streaming in relentlessly doesn't help as she blinks rapidly, forcing herself to focus on the familiar furniture and – oh, right – the less familiar feeling of surfacing to consciousness in someone's arms. Her lower back aches, but she's very warm and drowsy and struggles to remind herself why this is a Very Bad Thing, why she's not supposed to be lying on Gerry's sofa, their limbs tangled together, at – she squints – 6:07 in the morning.
Unprofessional. Career. Reputation.
Blah, blah, blah.
There's no one else here, she thinks. No one can see us. At the moment it strikes her as the most logical, self-evident response to her fears.
She stretches gingerly, trying her best not to disturb him, and is rewarded for her troubles with a kiss to the top of her head and a rough voice saying, "Morning, gov."
It should be exactly the wrong thing for Gerry to say, this reminder of their professional relationship, but it makes her laugh. "I have to go home and get ready for work," she murmurs. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"You don't need to go right now. I can tell you exactly how long it'll take you to get to the office." His hand has slipped beneath the hem of her jumper to stroke her abdomen, tickling, and she wonders just how many women have spent the night with Gerry Standing without removing a single article of clothing.
"I have to go," she repeats firmly, but her eyes are closed and she makes no effort to pull away. His fingers creep upward, counting her ribs, and she hears herself giggle; it's not a totally foreign sound. "Stop, that tickles," she scolds as sharply as she can manage, but he's not deterred, if the way he nips at her earlobe can be taken as an indicator.
"I'll stop if you'll take this off,' he offers generously, tugging on the fabric.
Her mobile rings and he swears, but releases her so she can scoop it up from where it lies abandoned on the floor. Sandra glances at the display and sits up straight, both feet on the floor, smoothing her hair as if the caller will be able to see her.
"Good morning, sir… Yes… No, it's no problem. I'll be with you then."
She rings off and twists to look down at Gerry. "Now I really do have to go," she says, shoving a strand of hair out of her eyes. "That was Strickland. We have a new case."