Ladies Who Lunch
1.
"I'm speechless with horror."
She snorts. "You've never been speechless in your life."
"You're a barbarian."
"You're a pillock. Hand me the naan; it's behind the milk."
It's just after 10:00 Sunday morning, and Detective Superintendent Sandra Pullman is preparing her breakfast, which involves reheating a large serving of rice swimming in violently red chicken curry.
"Reheated rice produces bacteria."
"It hasn't killed me in the last thirty-five years, Gerry. Forgive me if I'm not crippled by self-doubt."
"You're going to drink coffee with it?" he squawks, wide-eyed.
She levels a quelling look at him. "It's breakfast, isn't it? Do you want tea?" And then, answering herself, "You can make it if you do."
"Why won't you just let me cook you a real breakfast?" he asks, pouring himself a coffee.
"Because I'm having this."
Gerry decides not to argue too strenuously, especially given that the woman standing in front of him scooping potentially toxic rice into a bowl is freshly showered, with wet hair and bare feet, clad only in a fluffy red robe. These things tend to distract him.
"How's the head?"
She grins sunnily. "Fine. No tablets."
He can't resist cupping her face in his hands and kissing that smart mouth, just because he can. As she leans into him and twines her arms around his neck, he reflects that he's having the best weekend he's had in a very, very long time, even including the hours of hospital waiting agony.
"I'm so nice that I'll let you make yourself whatever you want," she says, "while I dry my hair. Just don't touch my curry."
"Don't." He catches her around the waist, his other hand twisting in the damp strands that are already beginning to curl. "Leave it like this."
"It looks ridiculous."
"It's beautiful just the way it is."
She emits a distinctly unrefined snort of laughter. "Oh, you charmer. I bet lines like that really worked when you were about twenty-two."
"I did get a fair bit of mileage out of 'em," he admits, still toying with her hair. "Come on, leave it," he coaxes. "I'll make you lunch."
"You'd make me lunch anyway." She hesitates, though, considering. "The pork thing with the plum sauce?"
"The pork thing," he assures her, and she shrugs.
"I don't have to go out in public anyway," she concedes.
Gerry does, though, although he has completely forgotten. Understandable, given that he's having the Best Weekend Ever.
Last night after The Philadelphia Story and two other films, during which they'd eaten an odd but enjoyable meal of spag bol and curry, Gerry had dutifully begun making noises about leaving and letting Sandra get to sleep, and she'd shrugged and casually tossed off the two sweetest words in the English language: "Just stay."
Whither, o rule book? he thinks triumphantly. Now, finally, he's preparing that damned meal for Sandra – the first of many, or his name isn't Gerry Standing. (And it is. He had it legally changed when he turned eighteen.)
The roast is roasting, the greens are stewing, and Sandra has just poured each of them a glass of tempranillo when Gerry hears his mobile vibrating. Whoever the caller is, he or she can't be more important than what he's doing at the moment, he decides.
When it goes for the third time in fifteen minutes, Sandra retrieves the mobile from Gerry's jacket pocket and smacks it down beside him on the counter. "Someone wants to talk to you very badly, it appears."
Her voice has an edge to it, and he automatically looks down at the small phone's display. Jayne calling, it informs him. Great; perfect timing. Why would Jayne be –
"Shit," he swears feelingly, and Sandra raises an eyebrow. "It's Sunday," he explains. "Sunday lunch with the girls. It was supposed to be –" he glances at his watch – "fifteen minutes ago. Shit."
"Then I guess you'd better go," she says after only the slightest hesitation. "You're late."
"I haven't cooked anything," he points out.
"Of course you have." She jerks her chin toward the oven. "Pork loin with plum sauce, roasted potatoes, and sautéed greens. Stop on the way and buy a pudding, et voila."
The logistics of transporting boiling hot food aside, Gerry is less than pleased. "This is for you. For us."
Sandra blinks. "Food's food," she says flatly, "and I have spaghetti bolognese. Call Jayne and tell your family you've got your skates on."
"Come with me," he invites impulsively with a sudden glimmer of hope.
"What, and join the harem?" She laughs, but there is a hardness to the normally rich, throaty sound. "That would be very subtle, Gerry. No, thank you."
"Then I'll save you some," he replies, trying not to let her dismissal sting.
"You're confronting seven hungry women and two boys." She shakes her head, those luxurious curls dancing. "Forget it."
"You're never going to let me cook for you," he says woefully.
"Strictly speaking, that's not true. You've cooked. The eating bit has proven problematic."
2.
"He's on his way," Jayne says a few minutes later to the group assembled at the grimly named Slaughtered Lamb, the nearest pub to Gerry's flat.
Alison groans theatrically. "Oh, that could mean anything."
"I hope no one's starving," Carole agrees. "Did he say where he was?"
Jayne shakes her head and Amelia cheerfully chirps, "He's been with some creature."
"Be nice, Amy," Paula reproves, but she's grinning. "Little pitchers."
Gerry Junior is oblivious, however, being entertained admirably by his youngest auntie and new uncle.
"He might as well learn early as late about his grandfather," Carole returns easily. "Another round, ladies – and Jake?"
"Count me in," Jayne agrees immediately. Otherwise she's been very quiet. Emily looks surreptitiously at Caitlin's mother. No wonder she seems subdued. If Gerry hasn't been with her, where has he been, and with whom?
"Maybe it's work," Emily volunteers, trying to smooth the situation over, but Paula spoils the effect by giggling.
"Oh, I'm sure," Alison chortles, clinking her pint against Emily's red wine.
"Might be at that," Carole agrees with a grin of her own, lifting her vodka tonic, and now everyone joins in the laughter – everyone except Jayne and Emily.
By the time Gerry rings to say that he is home and lunch is on the table, Emily is exceedingly uncomfortable, and laboring under the suspicion that she's the worst detective at the Met.
3.
She really doesn't want to have this conversation over lukewarm jacket potatoes.
"If you put enough black pepper on it," Emily's luncheon companion remarks breezily, ripping the top off one of the little paper packets, "even this slop is palatable. How's the river disco stabbing inquiry coming along?"
"Oh, fine, I suppose. My sergeant spent most of yesterday being seasick in the Thames."
Sandra grins. "Ah, the fast-paced glitz and glamour of a career at the Met." The older woman glances down at her plate as she uses her knife blade to spread the beans more evenly. "Sorry I had to cancel Tuesday. Brian got into a bit of a scrape at the Cabinet War Rooms." At the DI's raised eyebrows she adds, "You really don't want to know. It could've been construed as relating to our current investigation, I suppose. I knew I should've sent your dad. He wouldn't have given a toss about potential historical inaccuracies in the exhibits." Sandra pauses and takes a swig of her soda. "But what did you want to discuss with me? If it's that pillock Chief Super Metger, just give him a slap. I did."
"No, no, it isn't that," Emily puts in hastily, risking a glance at her mentor as she forks idly at her own pale potato. "Strictly speaking it's not about work."
"Okay," Sandra says cautiously, putting her fork down.
"That is – it's not about my work," Emily clarifies. "It's about yours." Sandra regards her expressionlessly and Emily fights the urge to squirm. "I mean it's about Gerry."
Sandra takes another bite of her potato and chews slowly. "Okay," she repeats.
Correction: Emily doesn't want to be having this conversation at all, anywhere. And she probably shouldn't be. But she's been trying for four days to shake the feeling that this is something she has to do, so here they are.
Now that she has finally managed to corral Sandra, though, what the hell is she going to do with her, especially with the lunch hour crowd ebbing and flowing around the two of them in this dingy little corner of the police cafeteria?
Best to do it quickly, like ripping off a plaster.
"Look, I know it's not my place to say anything, but since I've already opened my big mouth once I thought I should tell you that I was wrong about Dad and Jayne."
Is it Emily's imagination, or does Sandra look relieved? "Oh," she says, resting her wrists on the table's edge, fork and knife poised above her plate. "Oh," she repeats more brightly, "is that all? Like I said, it's really none of my business."
"Isn't it?"
A single eyebrow shoots upward. "As long as it doesn't affect his work, the original Cockney Don Juan can have hot and cold running women in his flat for all I care."
"Maybe you should care," Emily hears herself say, as if her voice belongs to someone else, and she thinks, Shit, shit, shit, shut UP.
The other woman's penetrating gaze immediately goes cool. Cool? Arctic. "Excuse me?" she asks in the don't-push-me tone Emily has never heard directed at herself before, and the D.I. winces.
"Forget it," Emily mutters quickly. "I'm sorry, Superintendent. That was out of order."
Long fingers close around Emily's wrist in a punishing grip. "Don't 'Superintendent' me, Inspector. Now, what the hell are you on about?"
Damn, Sandra can be scary.
Emily swallows hard. "Is your hair naturally curly?"
Sandra stares at Emily as if she's suddenly sprouted a second head, and Emily wants to sink through the floor. "Emily, are you feeling all right?"
"This is yours, right?" Emily reaches into her no-nonsense handbag and produces a small hairbrush, its bristles wrapped in strands of blonde curls. "And these?"
Sandra wordlessly takes the earrings and stares at the now-cold, greasy potato. Shit. First Esther, then Frank Patterson, now Emily – she might as well have made an announcement in the Police Gazette. I, Sandra Pullman, am shagging the notorious Gerry Standing.
"I thought they were Jayne's," Emily continues, beet-red with embarrassment. "They were in Dad's bathroom, so I thought – Maybe I should quit the force and become a rent-a-cop, huh?"
"Emily –"
"At lunch Sunday," she continues hopelessly, "the ex-wives and the other girls were all saying –"
"Saying what?" Sandra demands after a moment of silence, her prominent jaw tight.
Emily focuses on something over Sandra's shoulder. "Ask Gerry," she mutters, sliding hastily to her feet. "I have to get back to work. Excuse me."
"Was that Em'ly?" Gerry asks cheerfully as he takes the seat his daughter has just vacated and places a plate of biscuits between his elbows.
"She was in a hurry," Sandra replies tonelessly, pushing her plate away. "Did you find Marjorie Gardner?"
This wasn't the woman he'd left half-asleep at 7:00 this morning, but Gerry is learning to roll with the punches. "I'm heading to talk to her now. Wanna come?"
"Take Jack, if he's back from Richmond," she says with no trace of warmth.
"Right, gov. What do you fancy for dinner, by the by?"
Thai, it's on the tip of her tongue to say, or Malaysian. That's what she was thinking before she met Emily for lunch. "Solitude," she responds succinctly, gathering her trash. "We've seen quite enough of each other in the last week, don't you think?"
Gerry raises his eyebrows, stung. "Yeah, all right. Don't let me inflict my presence on you, then."
"Keep your voice down," Sandra hisses. "I got a bump on the head and you've used it as an excuse to practically move in with me."
"What, and you suddenly lost the power of saying 'Sod off, Gerry'?" he returns caustically. "Likely story, Sandra."
"Sod off, Gerry."
He watches her return her tray, and then joins her in front of the lift. "What did Emily say to you?"
"Nothing," she replies, jabbing the down button. "Did you tell her? Because she knows. Your whole family knows, apparently."
"That's not nothing, and no. How many times do we need to have this conversation?"
"We don't need to have it at all." Not talking sounds like a damned excellent idea at the moment, especially since she's pretty sure she knows what "the ex-wives and the other girls" had been saying about her and Gerry over lunch on Sunday. She doesn't need to hear it from him, because she could see it all too clearly when the former detective sergeant looked at her the way he'd looked at her Saturday night. The way he's looking at her now, in fact. Oh, Gerry, way to screw everything up, you plank, she thinks angrily, shooting him a glare as the elevator doors swoosh open with a ding.
"You going to at least tell me what I've done now?" he asks bluntly, following her into the otherwise empty car. "It's not like you to pass up the opportunity to give me a bollocking. You seemed happy enough when I was playing tea boy this morning."
"Gerry!" she exclaims, eyes flaring.
He shrugs and folds his arms. "There's nobody to hear."
"Look –" Sandra put a hand on his navy and green tie, physically keeping Gerry at arm's length. If only it were that easy. "We had an agreement. We had rules."
"You had your bleedin' rules," he protests.
"And you knew exactly what you were getting," she retorts, the lines of her supple mouth hard. "This wasn't part of the deal, these last few days."
"And you've been suffering nobly in silence, have you?" His mouth hints at a smile, because he knows she hasn't; he knows her.
Her blue eyes roll toward the metallic ceiling. "Of course not."
"Then what does it matter? Jesus, Sandra, relax a little." He briskly removes her hand, linking their fingers, and steps into her. "I may not be Prince Valiant, but I'm not quite an ogre or a troll either. We could be happy. We could have a good time."
"I was having a good time, Gerry, and then you had to go and ruin it." Angrily she slaps at the emergency stop button, determined to finish this bloody conversation and have done with the whole mess. "That was the point: to be two adults having a bit of fun. Why I thought you could behave like an adult, I suppose, will be one of the great mysteries of the ages."
"Y'know, guv'nor, if one of us is behaving like an adult in this situation, I'm pretty sure it's not you," he tosses back in a low growl that bodes ill.
"Excuse me?" Sandra sounds as affronted as if she were Elizabeth I confronting the Spanish armada, and as annoyed as he is, part of Gerry still wants to laugh.
"I don't look like bleedin' Mystic Meg, do I?" he demands, gesturing expansively in the confined space. Gerry isn't a large man, but he can take up a great deal of room when he wants to, and Sandra stifles the desire to back away. She doesn't have anywhere to go, anyway.
"Not particularly."
"'ot, cold, 'ot, cold," Gerry continues, his aitches apparently hampering his ability to express himself as he desires. "You want to treat me like your lap dog, yeah? Tellin' me to come when you call and go when you say. Don't I at least deserve a pat on the head?"
Sandra has gone very pale. "I'm sorry," she says as evenly as she can, struggling against whatever emotions she refuses to let herself feel right now. "Evidently this whole thing was a really shit idea, and that's down to me."
"Uh-huh." Gerry sighs and rubs at his jaw, striving for calm. "What does that mean, then?"
She sighs heavily, looking down at her ridiculous heels. Her feet hurt, she realizes idly, and the toes are scuffed. "Nothing. We – we just forget it, I suppose. Isn't that what you usually do?"
Gerry flinches as if Sandra has backhanded him, and she is immediately ashamed of herself, but she won't back down. "So we just rewind, is that it?" he says. "You want to act as if the last six months never happened and go on workin' side by side, the gov and good old Gerry?"
"It isn't as if you've never done it before."
His jaw clenches, but he bites back what he wants to say and instead points out, "I didn't say I haven't. I'm askin' if that's what you want."
"That was the deal."
"And that's not what I asked." She can't get away from him in the lift, and she would've been too proud to attempt it anywhere, so she doesn't resist when his fingers insinuate themselves into her hair and tilt her face so that their eyes meet. "Say it."
She swallows. "That's what I want."
She's also too proud to show weakness by flinching, so she stands stock still as his lips brush lightly against hers and he coaxes, "Sandra." She squeezes her eyes shut. "Sandra, don't lie to me. I know what you want. I know you."
She accepts the second kiss he presses to her mouth for a fraction of a second before she jerks away. "No," she says firmly, jabbing the emergency button again. The car lurches into motion.
His hands grip her upper arms through the thin fabric of her short-sleeved black top, firm but careful, as he tries one last time. "Don't do this, Sandra. There's no reason for it."
Sandra swallows hard, her eyes sliding away from his before flickering back. "Christ, Gerry, how can someone your size support an ego that big?" she asks with much less malice than the words would suggest. "Do you think you're irresistible to women?"
"No, not at all, actually." He squeezes hard before releasing her and stepping back just in time for the elevator doors to slide open as if on cue. "What I think is that this is the first time I've ever seen you really scared."
His tone challenges her to argue, but Sandra only stares at Gerry as he steps out into the corridor. He stands there, looking back, until the doors close.
Once she's safely hidden from prying eyes, Sandra leans against the back wall, lets her eyelids fall shut, and releases a long, deep breath. That could've gone better, but at least it's over. She's known all along that this thing between the two of them would have to end eventually. All right, she hadn't known that end would come today, but her conversation with Emily has just opened Sandra's eyes to what she would've had to see soon enough anyway: Gerry thinks he's fallen in love with her. He hasn't been foolish enough to say the words, but she knows, and she has known, and she has refused to acknowledge it.
And Sandra definitely doesn't do falling-in-love. Grace was right about that. Oh, sure, she'd stumbled a few times when she was younger, but never anything as dramatic as falling, and not for a very long time.
Besides, Gerry's love is puppy love, the kind of infatuation he always seems to feel for his female companions. He'll lick his wounds, remember what life was like before five months ago, and things at UCOS will eventually go back to normal, or what passes for normal with them. She can wait him out. She's patient.
Well, she thinks maybe she could be patient, in a situation that warranted it, which is virtually the same thing.
Gerry had been right in part: Sandra is scared… a little. She's afraid Gerry will do something asinine before he's cooled down properly, make some dramatic gesture and screw things up permanently; and if that happens, she'll be more to blame than anyone else.
Because she's the guv'nor. She's in charge, and they're her responsibility, her old dogs. She'll make sure it all works out.
It has to.