In brief: the boys make a special dinner, Sandra attempts to clean up a few messes simultaneously, and Gerry finally gets mad.
19. Recipe for Disaster
Ingredients:
One ex-Chief Super, worrying
One Cockney copper, brooding
One ex-D.I., obsessing
One Detective Superintendent, pretending
One wife, well-informed
Directions:
Add one birthday celebration, three hours of enforced proximity, and one large helping of issues (unresolved). Bring to a boil, then reduce heat and allow to simmer. Don protective gear, seek shelter, and await explosion.
1.
"Does this say one tablespoon or one teaspoon?"
"I don't know. I never could read her handwriting."
Jack and Brian bend their heads together over the recipe book, both peering at the page covered in Mary Halford's distinctive scrawl, both squinting as if it were cuneiform.
Gerry leans over from his post at Jack's kitchen counter, where he's inserting cloves of garlic into the pierced flesh of the roast with the dramatic flair of an Impressionist painter. "Teaspoon," he says briefly, already turning back to his task. "Tablespoon of cumin would overpower the other flavours and reduce the complexity of the risotto."
Jack smirks. "I do hate it when my risotto is simple. – Brian, hand us that wooden spoon."
The coming Saturday is Esther's birthday. When he'd realised, Jack had taken the unprecedented step of inviting everyone over for dinner Friday night in celebration. He strongly suspects that otherwise the only special birthday meal his friend's wife would enjoy would be the one prepared by her own two hands.
He is now learning, however, that six hands aren't necessarily better than two, especially when a third of them belong to Brian.
And then there's Gerry, Mr. Sunshine himself, live and in person. He's been alternately taciturn and scathingly sarcastic all week. If Jack didn't have the certainty of first-hand observation to prove otherwise, he would've sworn that the ex-detective sergeant was off the fags again. Such a persistently vile mood is not Gerry Standing's usual style.
Brian's thoughts are obviously running along the same course, although, unlike Jack, he lacks any sort of filter between his brain and his tongue. "Things not going so well with Jayne, mate?"
Jack risks a look at his other friend's face and then cringes at the risotto. Gerry has gone very pale, with the exception of two bright washes of colour on his cheeks.
"What the bleedin' hell has Jayne got to do with anything?" Gerry demands, threateningly lifting the garlic press and brandishing it like a weapon. "No one seems to have noticed, but we – are – divorced."
Brian blinks a couple of times. "Sorry," he says mildly.
Jack, who should've learned his lesson, puts in, "One of your girls, then?"
"The girls are great." Gerry slings the garlic press into the sink with an impressive clatter. "Terrific."
Brian and Jack exchange a wary glance. "So it is a woman," reasons the intrepid, foolhardy ex-D.I.
"Am I under caution, or what?" Gerry snarls, and yanks the oven door open to receive the roast.
At least, Jack consoles himself, they've temporarily got rid of Sandra. If Gerry's ill humour is bad, her incontrovertible cheerfulness is worse. Not that Sandra is a pessimist by nature; if she were, God knows she would've topped herself long before now, working with the three of them. But the abrupt, wholesale change in her disposition is… jarring, to say the least.
"New fella?" Brian had suggested cautiously to Jack after they'd spent a solid forty-eight hours on the Good Ship Lollipop with cruise director Sandra "Stars and Rainbows" Pullman.
Jack doubted that, since not too long ago there had been the mysterious old fellow. In truth, he's worried. He has known Sandra for a very long time, and he's never seen her like this. Something about her cheerfulness rings hollow, like a bad penny. She doesn't seem happy so much as she does manic, whirling through the days like an unstoppable one-woman Met.
It hasn't escaped Jack and Brian's notice that the surlier Gerry becomes, the more Sandra piles on the good humour, as if the two of them can't stop egging one another on. Maybe forcing them to spend several extra hours in each other's presence tonight wasn't the most brilliant brainwave Jack has ever had.
But, he reasons, this is a nice, innocent birthday party. How bad can it be?
2.
"Are you sure you don't want something stronger?" asks Sandra, who does, rather desperately, as Esther pours them each another cup of orange peko.
"Oh, no." Esther smiles and nibbles the corner of an almond biscuit. "Just one won't spoil our dinner, will it? – I adore this place."
"I didn't realize you knew it." Esther had immediately suggested this teahouse, the one where Sandra had brought Gerry several months ago, when the younger woman had invited her out for a pre-birthday celebration.
"Sandra!" An Li had greeted her happily. "It's too long since you've been in. Busy with your friend?"
"Busy with work," she'd replied with a small smile. Telling herself not to think of Gerry is like telling herself not to think about an elephant.
Impossible man. Every time he looks at her she feels like she's Cruella DeVil and he's a defenceless Dalmatian.
Which is complete rubbish. Gerry has broken too many hearts in his day to play the victim.
Besides, she hasn't broken his heart. He's just milking it, playing the tragic lover to make her feel guilty. It's working, which makes her feel like crap, which in turn makes her damned angry. "Lovers" wasn't even the appropriate term to describe what they'd been to each other, she reminds herself firmly. They're friends and colleagues who shared similar interests in things like food. And sex. Gerry should know that better than anyone. Christ, how many dozens of women must he have shagged without ever giving a thought to ringing up the next day?
"Earth to Sandra," Esther teases gently. "Is everything all right?"
Sandra flashes a quick smile. "Oh, yes, fine."
It isn't, but, she resolves, staring down into her teacup, it's going to be. Gerry is a 61-year-old man behaving like a petulant 16-year-old, and Sandra has had more than enough. It's time to have it out with him, once and for all, and get back to business as usual.
3.
Mercifully, the meal's only major event was Esther's embarrassed delight when she realised it was a celebration in her honour, complete with a layer cake Brian had made with assistance from Gerry. As he reclines in his chair, Jack is feeling justifiably chuffed with himself over the success of his first solo endeavour as host of a dinner party. He smiles benignly as he deals cards for a friendly after-dinner game of poker.
"I'll do the washing up," Gerry volunteers, and Sandra says, "Deal me out too. I'll help." When she catches Gerry's eye to offer him a slight smile, he stops short of glaring back. She's mildly encouraged. He'd been perfectly civil at dinner – except when Brian and Jack ganged up to inform him that Chelsea had the wedge to buy a championship team and still couldn't manage to win a game. Maybe he was ready to put this idiotic episode behind them too.
There's no use putting it off. As soon as they're alone Sandra decrees, "We need to talk."
He meets her eyes unflinchingly as he fills one side of Jack's sink with dirty dishes. "Can't it wait?"
"No, I don't think so. Do you?"
He sighs and turns to face her, folding his arms in an unconsciously protective gesture. "Right, then." He sounds resigned. "What's there to talk about?"
She bites her tongue as annoyance flares. Keep calm and carry on. "How long do you think you're going to be this miserable to be around, for instance?"
Her words should be a red flag, but she speaks them very softly, almost affectionately. Damn it, he's powerless to resist her when she acts like this. It's much easier when she confines herself to screaming at him.
"You haven't seemed all that bothered," he returns cautiously.
She shrugs, her scoop-necked grey top sliding off one shoulder. "Well, I am. Congratulations."
"You know, despite what you may think, I'm not performing for your benefit," he comments, glancing back to turn on the hot water.
Sandra moves a bit closer so they can hear one another over the fall of the water without being overheard by everyone else. "Come on, aren't you?" she challenges with the barest hint of a smile.
"Maybe a little. Somebody's gotta counteract all that good energy you're putting out," he admits, and her smile grows.
"I hate that things are like this," she says honestly. "And I don't think you're too thrilled either. So let's fix it."
Gerry doesn't quite smile in return, but he reaches out and rubs her arm – safe, neutral territory, just above her elbow. "And how do you propose we do that?"
"What I've said all along: we agree to forget about it," she says simply.
"Forget about it," he echoes, his other hand seeking out her right arm, still rubbing gently over the soft fabric of her top. He knows he shouldn't, but he misses touching her and she looks soft and the slightest bit disheveled by the work day. "We both spontaneously develop amnesia."
"I know it's not that easy," she retorts, mildly annoyed. "But if we try –"
His eyes narrow slightly. "What about Thursdays?"
She blinks.
"How far back does this amnesia extend?" he continues.
"That depends on exactly what Thursdays mean, I suppose," she replies after considering, and she can't keep the hopefulness from creeping into her voice.
"If I'm willing to play by the rules, yeah?" His fingertips skate lightly along her jaw as he leans in to kiss her temple, unable to resist. "No strings attached. No muss, no fuss, innit?"
She's not listening, turning her lips to his, and she tastes like the sweet strawberry-filled cake they've just eaten. As angry as he is, part of Gerry is beguiled by the way she leans into him, physically as open as she is closed off in every other way, even here in Jack's kitchen with Jack and Brian and Esther in the next room.
"You'd abide by the agreement?" she asks when he draws back, one arm still holding her in place.
"Is that what you want?"
She raises her eyebrows at his tone. "Of course it is. Gerry, God only knows how it happened, but I like being with you." Sandra glances down, almost shyly. "We have a good time, don't we? We laugh, we eat, we –"
"Have it away."
She shrugs again. "If you want to put it that way. I'll nominate you for poet laureate, shall I?"
"You've made it abundantly clear that that's all you want it to be."
She steps back, frustrated, dismayed. "Honestly, Gerry, can't you just leave off? You sound like a bloody jilted schoolgirl. What would all your old mates on the Sweeney say, Casanova?"
"Why do you refuse to believe that I love –"
"Don't, don't, don't!" she interrupts commandingly, holding out her palm as if it could physically stop the words. Gerry thinks she looks like a child in a tantrum, plugging her ears and shouting, "I can't hear you!" "That is complete bollocks," she insists. "How many times have you been 'in love'?" The words drip with sarcasm. "Can you even count that high?"
"Maybe not," he retorts, his features set. "But that's better than being like you, in my book."
"What's that supposed to mean?" she demands, protectively folding her arms just as he'd done a few minutes earlier.
"Look at yourself, Sandra. Have you ever let yourself love anything besides the sorry, shitting job?"
She winces but doesn't bother interrupting.
"You know what? The job doesn't love you back. It's well past time you faced some home truths. In ten years' time you won't have the work to distract you from your miserable life. It'll just be you, all alone, with a whole lot of empty hours in front of you."
She blinks rapidly and heaves a short, deep breath. "Well," she says abruptly, telling herself that she doesn't feel as if she's just been flayed alive, that those aren't tears clouding her vision, and that Gerry hasn't just articulated her greatest fear, the one she never takes out of its dark corner, "thank you for that. But since you're just a washed-up old copper yourself, forgive me if I can't take you all that seriously."
"Yeah, I know you don't take me seriously," he returns flatly. "But you might have to start."
Sandra draws herself up very straight before Gerry can elaborate. "More importantly, I'm your governor. So I suggest you go home, figure out how to work with me like a grown-up, and don't come back to UCOS until you do."
"I've got a better idea: I won't come back at all."
She rolls her eyes. "Oh, Jesus, Gerry, be reasonable. You're going to chuck your job, which you love, because you've got your pride wounded. You know you'll regret it."
"You be reasonable," he replies through clenched teeth. "I'll be well shut of it."
"Of me," Sandra specifies angrily. "You're acting like a child."
"And you're acting like a frigid bitch, so I guess we're both just doing what comes naturally," he answers, savagely insouciant. "But yeah, you know what? If the lads get a new guv'nor, have one of 'em give me a bell. You'll have my letter of resignation by Monday."
He slams out of the kitchen and she stands stock-still, numb, as she hears him saying, "Thanks for the invite, Jack. Happy birthday and many happy returns, Esther. I'm off home."
The entire house is silent in the wake of Gerry's abrupt departure. Sandra squeezes her eyes shut. Shit, shit, shit. This was exactly the sort of horribly messy scenario the rules were meant to prevent. But what sort of utter moron expected anyone who was Old Bill – let alone Gerry Standing – to play by the rules?
And maybe more importantly, how much did Jack, Brian, and Esther hear of that charming scene?
She plants herself in front of the sink and furiously wrenches the hot water back on. There's washing-up that needs doing.
She's standing there, arms braced on the sides of the sink, furiously blinking back what would've been tears if they were in anyone else's eyes, sightlessly staring at the water racing down the drain, when Jack tiptoes cautiously into his own kitchen as if it might be riddled with landmines. He stood for a few seconds, just watching her, before striding over and shutting off the water.
"Oh, Sandra," he murmurs, patting her shoulder. "I suppose this proves a point, doesn't it?"
She has straightened instantly and is squirting a generous amount of Fairy onto the sponge. "What's that, Jack?"
He continues rubbing her back in an uncharacteristically fatherly fashion as he answers. "I should've just left the entertaining to Mary. It's not my bag."
A/N: Thanks so much to everyone who has stayed with me throughout this long journey. Only two more chapters left to go!