Warning: Clumsy attempt at Jack-writing ahead. I don't know why he's so much more difficult for me than the others, but he is, so this is a little exercise I set for myself.
Chapter Twelve: Two's Company
1.
"It's just dinner," she said as he stammered a little awkwardly over the static-y connection. "I won't starve. Why should I mind? Tell her hello for me," she added recklessly, and then winced. Right, Pullman, that's pushing it a bit too far.
"Not just dinner," he hedged. "Is it?"
Her hand slashed through the air in a sweeping gesture, as if Gerry could see her and be impressed by her worldly nonchalance. "All right," she agreed dismissively. "But you'd hardly say, 'Can't make it; I'm off for dinner and a shag with the governor,' would you? That'd be crass, Gerry, even for you."
There was a brief pause before he replied, "Great. Thanks for being so understanding."
"Why wouldn't I be?" she responded blithely. "Until tomorrow, then."
Indeed, why shouldn't she be understanding about the fact that Jayne's tearful phone call asking Gerry to meet her for drinks had caused him to bin his Thursday evening plans with Sandra as quickly as if they were one of yesterday's red tops? And if she's replaying the conversation in her head forty-five minutes later, it's only because she was quite looking forward to a meal at her favourite Ethiopian restaurant tonight and she doesn't fancy the idea of turning up and changing her booking for two to injera for one, like some sad, jilted spinster.
Which she isn't.
Sod it, she thinks. Gerry Standing isn't the only man in London – as she well knows, having dated approximately 32% of the adult male population over the past thirty-five years. If what she's missing is regular Thursday-night sex, she knows well enough how to get some of that.
Hmm. It sounds better than soup for one, she considers.
A quick check of her reflection in the bathroom mirror, a fluff of her artfully messy hair, a fresh layer of lip gloss, and Sandra Pullman is off to the races.
2.
When the doorbell rings, he considers not answering in the hope that his uninvited visitor will give up and go away. He's tucked up so comfortably with his fuzzy slippers, precisely measured Highlands scotch, and D.S. Don Beckham's notes on the 1992 disappearance of thirteen-year-old Richard Sharpe.
But, bollocks, that'll never work, because the only person who'd be ringing his doorbell tonight is Brian, and Brian will blunder round into the garden and climb through a window before he gives up and pisses off home to Esther's chastising. To save the rosebushes Mary tended so carefully for so many years, Jack unfolds himself and makes his way to the door, drink in hand.
"Sandra!" he exclaims. It's a measure of his surprise that Jack is exclaiming. When was the last time Sandra turned up unannounced at his door? She used to do it fairly frequently in the early days of UCOS. Then she'd gotten her feet properly under her and needed Jack to be less of a boss and mentor, more of a team member. They'd never discussed it, of course.
Then there was that whole horrible mess with her father. They'd never really discussed that either, and it had taken their relationship a long time and several false starts to climb out of that pit.
This is Sandra, so she doesn't apologize for perhaps having disturbed him. She just smiles and says "Hi," and he invites, "Come through."
"Drink?" he asks, already reaching for the bottle and glass, and she responds, "Yes, please." She hasn't turned up for no reason, but she seems in no hurry to share that reason, and although her expression might be described as mildly petulant, she doesn't seem heartbroken or enraged or even seriously perplexed. They sit in the living room, sipping their drinks in companionable silence; Jack is thinking that it's nice to have her here to keep him company, and wondering why he's never invited her for dinner in all these years.
Because you don't invite anyone, a voice responds helpfully. That was Mary's remit.
Jesus suffering Christ, that makes him sound like a pathetic old tosser. Billy-no-mates, spending all his evenings at home alone.
"Have you eaten?" she asks abruptly. At his negative shake of the head, she continues, "How do you feel about Ethiopian?"
Jack has never eaten Ethiopian food and isn't particularly fussed about beginning now, but going for dinner with Sandra suddenly sounds like exactly the thing he hadn't known he wanted to do on a chilly April Thursday evening.
"I'll get my coat."
3.
She's not entirely sure when her plans for the evening took a sharp left turn. Obviously it happened between her flat and Jack's house. Maybe it was when she stopped at a traffic light and, glancing over at the Mercedes to her right, was forcibly reminded of the last date she'd gone on pre-Gerry. The bloke had driven a Merc – same make and model. Mike. No, Mark. He worked in the City and talked a great deal about the markets and his rugby team and his bitch of an ex-wife, who, by the time the entrees arrived, was already sounding like Sandra's kind of woman, especially when Mark-or-Mike related how she'd thrown him out of their Docklands flat by cramming all his possessions into his Mercedes and parking it in the middle of a roundabout. His divorce papers had been served with a 500-pound parking summons.
What was it with men obsessing over their ex-wives, anyway? Why the endless fascination? To her it seemed that if it already hadn't worked once, you were just beating a dead horse.
Of course, she supposed if that dead horse was a petite blonde and weighed about a hundred pounds soaking wet and was the mother of your child and laughed at your sodding stupid jokes and had trouble telling you no…
Not that she was thinking about Gerry, or Gerry and Jayne having "drinks," or how that would inevitably end.
What does she care, as long as he washes his sheets before next week? She'll be sure to specify that in future.
But, Christ, she doesn't want to go home with some prat who chats her up at a restaurant bar, pretending to be interested in her scintillating conversation while peering down her top and hoping she'll whip out a pair of handcuffs if he's a really bad boy. She's too old, too cynical, and, frankly, too proud for that. She can give as good as she gets, but she doesn't feel like giving, at least not to anyone capable of properly pronouncing his aitches.
It's not that she misses Gerry; it's just that she's really pissed at him for having the bad taste to have it off with his ex-wife on a Thursday night, when there are six other, perfectly good days in a week. But then, what could you expect from a man with that kind of taste in ties?
The cure for what ails her is a good meal, preferably shared with a good friend.
"There's no silverware."
Jack's comment brings her back to herself and she grins. "You don't need it. You just tear a bit of this off," she says, demonstrating with the injera, the spongy, crepe-like bread ubiquitous in Ethiopian and Eritrean cuisine, "and scoop – thus." She rolls the bread around a bite-sized portion of fragrant spiced lentils and pops the result into her mouth. She'd been looking forward to watching Gerry piss and moan about this aspect of the dining experience while trying to convince her he wasn't enjoying it, but Jack is more amiable, and soldiers on until he achieves a reasonable approximation of her technique.
"Do you like the green beans?"
"Yes, they're very good. Now, Sandra –" Jack pauses to take a mouthful of golden tej, the sweet but powerful honey wine. "Are you going to tell me what's going on, or shall I guess?"
She raises an eyebrow and grins self-deprecatingly. "Oh, go on and guess, if it'll give you a bit of a thrill."
"You were supposed to have a date tonight."
She snorts. "Very impressive, Mystic Meg, since I told you as much."
"You said you had plans; I deduced that those plans were a date. Furthermore, this is some bloke you've been seeing for a few months now."
She scoops more spiced cauliflower onto her plate. "Oh, have I?"
"Look at the way you're dressed: you're not trying to impress him."
Sandra looks down at her black jeans, dark blue top, and mustard-coloured cardigan. "Keep the compliments flowing, Casanova. I had no idea you were such a ladies' man."
"Oh, please, Sandra. You know how pretty you are –"
(Pretty, she thinks, and can't help smiling slightly. It's such a sweet, old-fashioned, avuncular word. She can't imagine Gerry ever calling her pretty. Sexy, a fit bird, gorgeous, even – that's his style. Not that she's thinking about Gerry.)
"—And you look lovely, as always, but you're not dressed to stun, are you? You've been seeing him since – I'd say January – and things are going well."
"And you can tell this because –"
"You don't shout any less, but you do smile more." He grins. "Do you think I don't notice?" She did, actually, so she only shrugs, and Jack continues, "Three months for you is about the equivalent of three years for most people, so it must be serious."
She has just taken a healthy drink of tej, but she swallows as quickly as humanly possible and protests, "It's not like that at all. We're just friends."
"Friends who have it off regularly?" he deadpans, and she gasps his name. Now it's his turn to shrug. "So what's happened tonight?"
"Nothing," she responds too quickly.
"You don't want to talk about it."
"Nope," she agrees with forced cheer, concentrating on the food.
"Fair enough." Jack diligently sops up a portion of yellow lentils. "Just tell me this: is he nice?"
"Nice?" she repeats wryly. "When have you ever known me to date a nice bloke?" (She's not dating anyone, but that's beside the point right now."
"Well, he's makin' you happy, so there's hope. Is he nice enough, or is he a tosser?"
Sandra can't help grinning, and sips her wine as she considers. "Both," she finally admits frankly. "He's spent a lifetime perfecting the art of coming off as a tosser, but underneath he's a decent man."
"So the fact that you turned up at my house tonight isn't an indication that some bastard's broken your heart?"
"Heard-hearted Sandra Pullman, ball-breaker extraordinaire?" she retorts. "You've got to have a heart to get it broken, Jack."
"That's a load of cobblers." His voice is suddenly sharp.
She drinks more of her wine, then seeks his pale blue eyes. "No one's breaking my heart," she reassures much more softly. "I'm a big girl."
"Unfortunately, growing up doesn't make your heart any less vulnerable," he rejoins, pushing his empty plate away. "It just makes you older." He is smiling, though, and the way he pats her hand is affectionate. "Let's get out of here and go for dessert. I could fancy an ice cream. You're not too grown up for that, are you?"
4.
After dropping Jack off she heads to her flat, which seems darker and emptier than usual. She kicks off her shoes and tromps around switching on virtually every light in the place, as well as the television.
It's a quarter to nine. Sandra unwillingly engages in some very rapid mental mathematics. Drinks at six; dinner at 7:30; now they're en route to Gerry's flat, since Jayne's house is obviously out. He isn't the wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am type, so they'll sit downstairs, open a bottle of wine. Will he choose a standard mid-range pinot, or open that bottle of Brunello he's been saving for a special occasion?
Not that it concerns Sandra.
She tears into her bedroom, strips down to her underwear – all right, yes, she makes sure to wear nice, matching underwear on Thursdays, and this is her favourite set, green so dark it looks black in this light but would shimmer nicely in Gerry's brighter bedroom – but hey, who cares, right? Women are supposed to wear nice things for themselves, just because, damn it to hell – and yanks on her oldest, rattiest pyjamas. It's not like anyone's going to see her in them.
She removes her makeup – Jesus, those open pores – and digs her fuzzy slippers out from the bottom of her closet, cursing her existence as she does and wondering why she can't live in Florida or Morocco or the West Indies, somewhere where the month of April would not fuzzy slippers require.
Sandra flops down on the sofa, finds a channel playing a very old episode of Heartbeat, and snuggles under a blanket. She usually thinks of her flat as cozy, but it isn't tonight; it's draughty. Gerry's is warmer.
Damn it, Gerry again, popping up like an unsightly jack-in-the-box.
Although he isn't unsightly. No, he's not what you'd call handsome, but his weathered face is… pleasant. Familiar. And his eyes are so vivid and youthful. They're a beautiful blue.
Oh, Jesus, when did she start thinking Gerry sodding Standing had beautiful blue eyes? They were just a plain, simple blue, like hers. And Jack's. And Brian's, come to think of it. That she knows the exact shade of Gerry's is pure chance.
Sandra stretches out full-length on the sofa and stares at the ceiling. There's a blot above her head from a bygone leak, and it looks like an ink blot test.
She's been very careful not to let Gerry come to her flat. Oh, he's been inside before, of course; but on Thursdays their routine is exact: they go to dinner, then back to his flat, and then she leaves in the wee small hours and goes home. It's very comfortable because she's in charge. She decides when to stay, when to go. She's still the gov.
All right, last week she'd fallen asleep and spent the night, but that was an aberration.
It's Thursday night, she tells herself. I've had a lovely meal with Jack and am now perfectly content with my own company and that of a gang of impossible, outdated Yorkshire policemen. All is well at UCOS, and Superintendent S. Pullman will have a rich and fulfilling day at work tomorrow, followed by a relaxing weekend, during which I will utterly forget one infuriating egomaniac named Gerry Standing. Out, out damned Cockney!
She won't think about what he's doing, or to whom, because she doesn't give a tinker's damn.
She won't wonder whether or not he twines Jayne's hair around his fingers precisely the way he does with hers. (He probably does.)
Get a bloody grip, Sandra.
That twisting ache in the pit of her stomach is due to two scoops of strawberry ice cream and a flake.
It's absolutely not jealousy. No way, no how.
Oh, shit.
Sandra is a lot of things, but she's not a particularly good liar, especially not to herself.
This is the deal Gerry and I have, she reminds herself. It's exactly what I want, and as long as I stick to it, everything will be fine. Better than fine. Great. Peachy keen.
Abso-freakin'-lutely fantastic.
Exasperated with herself, Sandra burrows into the sofa, pulls the blanket over her head, and thinks about not thinking at all.