Two

Halfway through the main course – salmon en croûte – Grace starts to become more and more aware of the irritating, intrusive and far too frequent loud sound of the woman to Boyd's right, a thirty-something blonde apparently called Michelle, giggling. It is a giggle, too. Not a laugh or a chuckle, but a high-pitched, annoying schoolgirl giggle. Her unsmiling husband Larry, seated opposite her, is probably twenty years older than she is, if not a bit more. Thickset, broad-featured and not exactly the most attractive man Grace has ever set eyes on, he is, apparently Something In The City. Which, the cynical side of her thinks, probably accounts for the blonde, pretty, and much younger wife.

It doesn't seem to be either Larry or Elaine making Michelle giggle so much.

Trying to listen to what Simon's telling her about an interesting case study, it's not easy to simultaneously eavesdrop on what's happening to her right, but Grace does her best. She can't catch everything that's being said, but she hears enough to deduce that it's Boyd's determined and not very subtle charm offensive that's causing most – maybe all – of the giggling. He's recounting some long, self-deprecating tale about an arrest he made early in his career. She doesn't catch all the details, but an entirely naked man and a bewildered group of elderly American tourists seem to feature prominently. Seated at the end of the table between husband and wife, Elaine is laughing, too, but Larry seems less amused. Considerably so, in fact.

"In fact, clinical trials have shown…" Simon continues, but Grace's attention is now so divided that although she nods and tries to remain looking interested, she barely takes in anything of what he's saying.

What on earth, she wonders, does Boyd think he's doing? Flirting so openly with Michelle, right in front of her husband? Because he is flirting, no doubt about it. And – damn him – it seems he's very good at it, too. Proper flirting, not the kind of arch, languid banter they've shared on and off since they first met, several years before the inception of the CCU. Certainly, Michelle seems to be loving every single moment of it, if that infuriating giggle is anything to judge by.

"And," Simon says, "the exception doesn't always prove the rule, does it?"

"No," Grace agrees, with only a vague grasp of what he's talking about. It seems to be the right answer, however, because he forges on with a flurry of quick hand movements.

It doesn't matter. Nothing to do with her who Boyd does or doesn't flirt with. Who he is – or isn't – attracted to.

"You might want to rescue him," Simon says in a conspiratorial tone, making her snap her focus back onto him. He gives her a forgiving, slightly knowing smile that tells her that her former inattention has been noted. "Your 'friend-of-a-friend'. Before he gets too far out of his depth."

"I don't think," she says, trying not to sound bitter, "that he needs it."

Simon leans closer to her and lowers his voice even further. "Our dear sweet Michelle has a well-known thing for older men, and Larry… Well, let's just say that rumour has it that Larry does a little more than simply tolerate her peccadillos."

Not sure if she's misinterpreting his archly-delivered words, Grace raises her eyebrows. "Oh?"

"I have no interest in participating in sports myself," Simon says, which sounds like a non sequitur, but turns out not to be when he adds, "but I do like to watch."

"Oh," she repeats, with a very different inflection. She didn't misunderstand what he was implying, then. She's not sure how she's supposed to react. "Oh, I see. Well, each to their own, I suppose."

"Indeed," Simon agrees. "Live and let live, eh?"

"Simon," Lochlan says, from the other side of Ian, forestalling further comment, "Ian says you're off to Canada in a couple of weeks…?"

Diligently concentrating on her meal for a few moments, Grace considers the situation. Can't decide if she's wildly amused, or not. Boyd, of course, is perfectly capable of looking after himself, and she has no doubt he could – and would – unceremoniously extract himself from any situation that turned out not to be to his particular taste. He's in no way vulnerable, and there's no moral reason why she should interfere to save him from himself. Besides, maybe he already knows what he seems to be getting himself into. Maybe the idea actually appeals to him.

She knows it wouldn't. His psychology simply doesn't work that way, and she should know, having been able to study him more-or-less on a daily basis for several long years. He's a man of complex and contradictory character, and despite his apparent bullish self-confidence, when he's not playing the role of fearless leader or hard-bitten detective there's a much shyer, far less audacious side to his nature that she's always found rather engaging.

She probably does have some sort of duty to rescue him. Or at least warn him.

Decision made, she waits for a suitable lull, and as a smiling Elaine says something to Michelle, Grace leans towards Boyd to murmur a quiet, "He likes to watch."

The effect is instantaneous. His head snaps round and he stares straight at her, expression momentarily frozen somewhere between shock and disbelief. To his credit, his reply comes with less volume than she expects. "What?"

"Larry," she clarifies. "That's what does it for him, apparently. Didn't it occur to you to wonder why he hadn't asked you outside for flirting so outrageously with his wife?"

"I wasn't…" he starts, then seems to decide that denial is pointless. "Well, fuck."

"Sorry," Grace says sweetly. But she isn't. Not at all.

"What are you two muttering about?" Fiona asks from the other side of the table. "Do tell."

"Salmon," is Boyd's prompt reply. "Salmo salar. I'm thinking of taking up fishing."

"You?" Stannard chortles. "Fifty quid says you'd be bored to death in ten minutes flat."

"Martin used to go salmon fishing in Scotland," Fiona says with a pained grimace. "He was great friends with Sir Edward Stewart-Markham's doctor, and – "

"So, Grace," Helen says, distracting her. "How are David and Nicola getting on at university?"

It's an obvious question, and a fair one, but not one that the very closest of her friends would ask. It's not Helen's fault – Grace knows there's no malicious intent behind the inquiry – but the words cause an immediate pang. A mixture of sadness, regret, and resignation. She resists the temptation to shrug, settles for, "Very well, I think. I don't see much of them nowadays. David's in Leeds, and Nicola decided on Plymouth. They usually opt to stay with their father during the holidays. Which is perfectly understandable, of course."

Helen mumbles an embarrassed and largely indecipherable reply, and is rescued by her husband who says, "Step-kids, eh? You try your best with them, but when all's said and done blood's – " The way he stops so abruptly makes Grace suspect that someone, presumably Helen, has given him a sharp kick under the table.

"Top up?" Simon says, wine bottle in hand. Mouthing a silent thank you for the timely intervention, Grace nods. He gives her a slight, sympathetic smile and obediently refills her glass. Determined polite chatter resumes, and for a moment it feels as if everyone is talking at once in a vain attempt to banish the awkward moment.

Boyd's voice close to her ear makes her jump as he inquires, "All right?"

He smells different. It's a ridiculous time to notice. She's sat next to him so many times in meetings and interviews that she's very used to the distinctive scent of him, a familiar, almost comforting mix of soap and male grooming products, a scent that changes subtly throughout the course of the day until only a hint of it remains. Tonight, he smells of something heavier, spicier. Very masculine in character, and a long, long way from unpleasant. It makes her feel heady. Or perhaps that's just the wine. Grace nods, manages a quiet, "Yes."

"Tactless prick," is his succinct verdict. She glances at him, looking for any trace of irony, and finds none.

Elaine and Lochlan start to clear plates again, to another grateful round of approval.

"I wish I saw more of them," Grace says to Boyd, adding for clarification, "my step-children. We got on so well when they were little. I don't know what happened. When things changed."

"When you divorced that useless waste of space you used to be married to?" he suggests, ignoring the glare she shoots him to continue, "They're both adults now, Grace. They'll either come around eventually, or they won't."

"Are you trying to make me feel better?"

"Yes."

Without thinking about it, she pats his arm. "It's not working. But thank you."

The response is a gruff, "Any time."

Fiona is watching them closely, Grace realises, her gaze shrewd and thoughtful as if she thinks she can see something that no-one else seated at the table can. It's unnerving, at best. Deciding to ignore the feeling that they are being minutely studied and assessed, she looks towards Helen and Graham, but both are deep in conversation with Simon and his partner, Ian. Despite herself, she glances at Fiona again, and finds herself pinioned by a thoughtful look that's accompanied by an interrogative, "Step-children?"

"Two," Grace confirms, not sure what else she can do but answer. "My ex-husband's first wife died when the oldest was only four."

"Oh, how tragic."

Surprised by the level of sincerity evident in the other woman's tone, Grace nods. "It was. When I first met Owen he was really struggling to cope."

Something of an understatement, she reflects, remembering how bad the really bad days had been for him. She'd immediately wanted to help, of course, and he'd been pathetically grateful for it. At the time she'd honestly believed that she was helping, and when one thing had slowly led to another, she'd had her own reasons for not facing the truth about just how weak – and how needy – he really was. Marrying him had seemed a practical sort of thing to do. Stability, security, a ready-made family…

"My ex-husband," Fiona announces, "was a drunk and a gambler. A womaniser, too. When he ran off to America with his secretary, he left me with two kids and a pile of debts. I had to sell just about everything – including the house – to avoid bankruptcy."

"That's…" Grace replies, not knowing quite what to say.

"Unfortunate?" Fiona offers with a bitter smile. "I thought so, too. Turns out, I should've listened to my mother and married the boy next door when I had the chance."

"Shouldn't we all?" Grace says, thinking of Dougie Turner, the boy-next-door she grew up with, and shared an awkward and clandestine kiss with on her fifteenth birthday. Dirty-blond hair and a cheeky grin. Moved to Manchester in his early twenties, and was never heard from again. Not by her, anyway. She wonders where he is now, what he's doing.

"Martin came back eventually, tail between his legs," Fiona carries on, but Grace's attention shifts to Boyd as he leans towards her again.

She can barely hear him as he informs her, "I was the boy next door."

"You?"

"Mmhm. We grew up together in Forest Hill."

"Brace yourself, lads," Stannard says, addressing the group in general, "I have a feeling we're in for the traditional 'all men are complete bastards' speech."

Lochlan, bearing what appears to be a large and extremely decadent gateau, immediately offers a good-humoured but no-nonsense, "After dinner, if at all, Fi."

Fiona smiles a tight, thin-lipped smile in response and says nothing. Frosty does not begin to describe the look she gives Stannard, but either he's oblivious, or he simply doesn't care.

Electing to try the panna cotta that Elaine brings out from the kitchen, Grace casts an envious eye over the oozing thick slice of chocolate gateau delivered to Boyd. She wonders if he would stab her with his pastry fork if she took the liberty of trying to sample it. Quite possibly, she decides, knowing how territorial he can be about food. More than one loud squad room squabble has erupted over his firmly entrenched belief that seniority of rank gives him the unassailable right to the last croissant, doughnut, or other coveted coffee-break morsel.

"Very nice, Elaine," Fiona says, delicately sampling the panna cotta. "Almost as good as home made."

"I'm glad you approve," their hostess retorts with admirable restraint. She adds a pointed, "Of course, if I'd had more time… but what with the clinic, and only just getting back from Saint Lucia…"

Grace hears Boyd's quiet snort at the elegant put-down and doesn't dare look at him for fear of chuckling herself. Stannard, however, guffaws openly and says, "Now, now, ladies, put your claws away."

"So," Helen says, changing the subject loudly and brightly, "has anyone tried that new Caribbean restaurant in Kilburn…?"

Unexpectedly, it's Boyd who volunteers, "I have. I took a… friend… to dinner there a couple of weeks ago."

Fiona perks up again, her sulkiness falling away. "Oh?"

"Food's okay, if on the pricey side," he pronounces, which Grace knows is absolutely not the information the other woman is looking for, "but the parking…"

"The delicious blonde who was with you at the Marlowe and Gregson bash?" Stannard inquires. His hands make vague but easily-interpreted sculpting gestures in the air. "The well-stacked one with all the spectacular curves?"

"Marianne?" Boyd shakes his head. "God, no. She's Sir Neil Mackinley's niece. Angels fear to tread, and all that."

Stannard laughs. "Once bitten, twice shy, eh?"

"Trust me, I didn't give her the chance to bite. Mackinley's very friendly with the Commissioner."

"Terrible man," Fiona sniffs. "You, Timmy, not him. Though even for a politician I've heard he's a particularly nasty piece of work."

The conversation twists and turns, much of it passing Grace by as she makes further determined inroads into the copious contents of Lochlan's wine cellar. In the end it's Simon who murmurs to her, "Cheer up, darling, the ordeal's nearly over."

She gives him a tired smile. "Is it that obvious?"

"Not to the hoi polloi," he reassures her. "She's one of a kind, isn't she, our Fiona? Heart of gold, to be fair, but a bit of an… unfortunate… manner. And don't let appearances fool you, she and Henry simply adore each other."

Grace frowns. "Henry…?"

He nods towards Fiona's companion. "Stannard."

"Oh. I was never told his first name."

"They live together in blissful sin somewhere near Harrow. He's extraordinarily well off," Simon tells her, putting a heavy and humorous stress on the superlative. Grace acknowledges his words with a nod, but her heart isn't in. He gives her a long, thoughtful look, then says, "So, are you going to tell a near-stranger what the real story is with you and your really rather gorgeous 'friend-of-a-friend'?"

Startled out of her increasing lethargy by his directness, Grace inquires, "What do you mean?"

"Fi's crush. Tim." Another long, incisive look is followed by a mild shrug. "Not that it's any of my business."

It's not. Not at all. But the wine has lowered her inhibitions, and for some reason discussing the whole… tricky… situation with someone she barely knows seems considerably easier than opening up to a friend. Which is still the very last thing she'd willingly do, wine or no wine.

"We were set up," she admits with a resigned sigh. "By Elaine."

Simon doesn't look at all surprised. "Well, of course you were, darling. Elaine's congenitally incapable of not meddling when it comes to unattached friends and acquaintances. And?"

"And…" Grace says, trying to decide exactly what to tell him. "Let's just say that although neither of us knew the other was going to be here tonight, we're not exactly strangers."

He nods. "Ah. Which, I assume, dear Elaine didn't know?"

"Still doesn't," she admits. "As far as I'm aware."

"And it feels a little too awkward to attempt explain things now," Simon says, reading her thoughts perfectly.

Grace nods. "That's about the size of it."

He seems to muse on the problem for a few moments before asking, "Old flame?"

"Bo… Tim?" She shakes her head. "No. No, nothing like that."

"Something a little like that," he contradicts with a gentle smile. "My dear, all night you've been surreptitiously ogling him when you thought no-one was looking."

Ogling? The hot tingle of a flush starts high in her cheeks. "He's a colleague."

He hunches his shoulders in a dismissive shrug. "So?"

"So," Grace insists, "it's not… like that."

Simon, however, turns out to be persistent. "Isn't it?"

"You should be a therapist," she tells him, in a vain and not very amusing effort to change the subject. Simple denial doesn't seem to be working, after all. Then, what does it really matter what she says to a virtual stranger?

He smiles, not at all unkind. Looking past her, he murmurs, "I can see the attraction. Ian despises me for it, but I do have a bit of a thing for the tall, dark-eyed, handsome ones."

"It's a terrible weakness to have, isn't it?" Grace says after a moment, with a return half-smile, well-aware of what she's finally admitting to. She's sure she should feel more guilty and embarrassed than she does.

"It's a cross we'll just have to continue to bear," Simon agrees, "though with eyes like those to drown in…"

"Stop it," she reproves, forcing herself not to chuckle. "He'd be mortified if he heard you say that."

He does chuckle. "See, that's the interesting thing about straight men, Grace – most of them are just a little bit fascinated by the dark side."

"Not Boyd," she asserts, giving up on the still too-alien 'Tim'. "He's the most heterosexual of heterosexual men."

"If I had a pound for every time I've heard that…" A quick, wicked grin, one that amuses her for all the wrong reasons. A moment later, he continues, "So? What's the obstacle to enjoying a little divine debauchery?"

"He's in charge of the police unit I work for?" Grace suggests in a low voice, not sure why she's able to open up to her fellow psychologist about things she barely even dares to admit to herself. The copious quantity of alcohol now diluting her bloodstream has to be to blame, she's sure. "Not to mention – "

"Toast!" Stannard declaims loudly, startling everyone around the table into silence. He gets none-too-steadily to his feet. "To our always generous hosts, Lochlan and Elaine!"

-oOo-

cont...