Four

"I mean," Fiona's voice in the hall below filters up to Grace as she reaches the half-landing where the staircase makes a ninety-degree turn, "I'm sure she's a very nice woman, but what on earth does she think she's doing chasing after men at her age?"

It's more than instinct that freezes Grace to the spot. It's curiosity, apprehension, and a sharp, unpleasant stab of self-doubt. It's ridiculous to automatically think that she's the subject of the querulous inquiry, of course, but –

"I don't think," Stannard's calm voice responds, "that chatting over dinner quite constitutes – "

"You know what I mean," Fiona interrupts, volume rising. "She's been fawning over him all evening. Poor Tim; he must find it so embarrassing."

"You're being a drama queen, Fi." Stannard again. "As per bloody usual. And even if you were right, he's a grown man, for heaven's sake, and more than capable of looking after himself. Besides, I rather like her. She's intelligent. Sparky. Not like some of those vapid, big-titted blondes we've seen come and go."

"Henry!"

"What?" Stannard demands. "Look, just because he popped your cherry for you back in the 'sixties – "

"Oh, grow up, Henry. I was seventeen. Jealousy is all very well in its place, but that was almost forty years ago."

"Exactly my point, my dear. What Tim does, and who he does it with, is nothing to do with us."

"With me, you mean."

"Personally," Grace hears him declare, "I look on it as a good thing if someone with a bit of something about them is showing an interest. God knows, he could do with a woman with a bit of backbone and common-sense in his life. Having a tame therapist on tap wouldn't do him any harm, either, if you ask me."

"She's got to be at least five years older than he is," Fiona complains, her tone strident.

"So?" Stannard again. "She obviously likes him, Fi, so leave the poor bloody woman alone."

"But – "

"You'd rather he was off shagging some beautiful but brainless creature young enough to be his daughter?"

"No, of course not, but – "

"Well, then. Leave them to it." A momentary pause. "I'm going upstairs for a pee. Get back in the kitchen and give Elaine a hand with the damn coffee, or we'll be stuck here for at least another hour, and if I have to listen to just one more of Larry's interminable golfing stories…"

Still frozen halfway down the stairs, Grace forces a deep breath into her lungs. The hard edge of sobriety is rapidly catching up with her, and the illuminating conversation below has caused a tight knot of nausea to form in her stomach. Embarrassed doesn't come close to how she's feeling. Humiliated is closer to the mark, and even that doesn't really come close to describing it.

Hearing Stannard's heavy footfall on the stairs below, she takes another steadying breath, forces a measure of brittle composure and starts her descent again. What else can she do? They come face to face in just a few seconds, and it takes a huge effort of will to look him in the eye and nod as he says an abrupt, "Oh. Hello, there."

Tempted as a large part of her is to simply flee the house with no explanation, Grace makes herself return to the big downstairs room where most of the assembled company are still gathered. Lochlan and Elaine deserve respect and politeness, after all, and running away has never been her first choice in adversity. A quick – very quick – goodbye, she decides, and she will depart. She won't even call a cab until she's safely outside. After all, someone has to be the first to leave, and she can't see a single reason why it shouldn't be her. All she wants to do now is go home and go to bed. Most likely, she will lie awake fretting for hours, but at least she will be on her own, and away from judgemental eyes.

Boyd is still corralled in the far corner by Simon, and as she glances in his direction she sees him throw back his head and laugh uproariously. An unselfconscious, full-blooded laugh that would usually cheer her no end. Not this time. Dark tendrils of paranoia claw at the edges of her thoughts, attempting to convince her that she's the object of his obvious amusement. It's a horrible feeling, one that she tries – and fails – to banish. Maybe it's not paranoia, and he is laughing at her. Maybe they all are. Poor Grace, so old and unattractive that not even the irrepressible Elaine can find someone willing to –

"Grace?" Helen's voice, quiet and close. "Are you all right? You look like you've seen a ghost, you've gone so pale."

There's nothing but concern in the other woman's eyes, but Grace is past caring. She grinds out a tight, "I'm fine. Just suddenly very tired."

"A touch too much vino, eh?" Graham inquires, joining his wife. "Actually, she's right, Grace – you don't look so good, you know."

"Lochlan!" Helen calls before Grace can stop her. "Lochlan, Grace isn't feeling well…"

"I'm fine," she growls again, but it's too late. Well-meaning figures are starting to close in on her, a worried-looking Lochlan amongst them. Worse, beyond Graham's shoulder she sees Boyd look towards her, say something to Simon and then start into motion himself. She doesn't want to talk to any of them, but least of all to him.

"Grace," Lochlan says, taking her by the elbow, "come and sit down. Ian, tell Elaine to bring some water."

"There's nothing wrong with me," she insists, but short of fighting him there's nothing she can do to prevent herself being forcibly seated in the big, comfortable armchair by the ultra-modern fireplace. "Please, I'm absolutely fine…"

"Give her some bloody room, for God's sake," a very familiar and very irritable male voice says. Its owner shoulders his way to the fore and looks down at her, expression bemused and concerned. "Grace? You okay?"

"Should we call a doctor?" Michelle asks from somewhere behind Simon. "Or an ambulance? What does one do in a situation like this?"

"Back off," Boyd growls at the encroaching crowd of guests. "Give her a moment, can't you?"

Michelle's voice again: "I was just – "

"Best do as the man says," Lochlan advises, starting to shepherd people away. "Police First Aid training and all that…"

Before he can ask again, Grace directs a scowl at Boyd and repeats, "I'm fine. I just… felt a bit faint for a moment."

"It is a bit warm in here," he says, glancing round the room.

A flurry of movement heralds the arrival of Elaine bearing a large glass of water. She looks every bit as worried as her husband, but her manner is much calmer as she says, "Here. Sip this."

"Thank you," Grace mutters, accepting the glass. All she wanted to do was leave quietly, and now she seems to be the centre of attention. The cool water's good, though, and it seems to help clear her head, if nothing else.

Elaine is talking to Boyd. Focusing on them, Grace hears, "…her home?"

"Yeah, of course," is the prompt reply. "I'll call a cab."

Indignant, Grace starts, "I don't need – "

"We think you do," Elaine tells her. "It's late, anyway. Tim, go and find her coat and things, will you?"

Still attempting resistance, Grace complains, "Elaine – "

Perching herself on the arm of the chair as Boyd moves away, her friend interrupts, "There's no point in arguing. Tim's been itching to leave for at least the last half hour. I can always tell when he's had enough socialising. He starts – "

" – being rude to people?" Grace suggests.

"Well, I was going to say brusque, but…" A conspiratorial smile, followed by a pleased, "Well, you've got a bit of colour back in your cheeks, at least."

Fighting embarrassment, she says, "Honestly, Elaine, there was nothing wrong with me."

"If you say so. Best get off home anyway. Before things turn nasty when Larry refuses to leave without having 'just one more for the road'."

Looking down at her glass of water, Grace says, "About Tim…"

"Yes?"

It's confession time. "There's something I've been trying to tell you all evening."

"That he's your boss at the CCU?" Elaine says. "Yes, I know. Julia Newman told me."

Startled, Grace can only manage, "Oh."

"Julia told me last week. Over coffee."

"What?" she asks.

"To be fair, Grace, I'd invited everybody by then."

"But… but why…?"

"Because," Elaine says with a gentle smile, "on balance we decided that the pair of you needed a subtle nudge."

Outrage joins the raft of emotions Grace is feeling. "'Subtle'? You call this evening subtle?"

"My intention was always to try and pair you two up. When I told Julia about it, she couldn't stop laughing. I was quite offended until she explained."

"Does Lochlan know?"

Elaine shakes her head. "Of course not. Do I look like the sort of woman who tells her husband everything? He wouldn't have stood for it, anyway. Male solidarity, and all that."

The tight, sick knot in her stomach is back. "So… you've been enjoying watching me squirm all evening?"

"Oh, Grace," Elaine says with a sigh, "it wasn't like that. Not at all. I meant what I said – Tim's a lovely guy. He really is. I honestly think he'd be good for you – and you for him. How was I supposed to know that you were already… acquainted?"

Grace stares at her old friend, wondering how to even begin to explain. "'Acquainted'? Have you any idea of how stressful and intense our working environment can be, Elaine? How… close… you become to people when you're all under that sort of pressure all the time?"

"Not as close as you'd like to be?" Elaine suggests with an uneasy half-smile.

"Just what the hell did Julia tell you?" Grace demands.

"That you work together, and she's always got the impression that you're very… fond… of him." An impatient shake of the head. "Look, I knew he was in charge of some sort of specialist unit, Grace, but I swear I never put two-and-two together. I had absolutely no idea until Julia told me, and then the more we talked, the more it seemed like a good idea."

"It was a terrible idea," Grace contradicts. "And as for pretending all evening that you had no clue…"

Elaine finally looks a little abashed. "Admittedly, that was a little… mendacious. But it was for the best possible reasons, Grace. It's worked out okay, though, hasn't it? I mean, he's taking you home…"

"Because you press-ganged him into it!"

"No, because he's concerned about you. Don't forget, I know him, too. When did Tim ever do anything that Tim didn't want to do?"

"His name's Peter," Grace snaps at her.

Looking surprised, Elaine says, "Really?"

"Really. Peter Boyd. Timothy's his middle name."

"Well, well. I never knew that."

"Evidently." Glaring, Grace shakes her head. "Which only goes to show that you don't know him half as well as you think you do. Honestly, Elaine, of all the men you've ever tried to set me up with…"

"He really is very handsome though, isn't he?"

Exasperated, she snaps back, "That's not the bloody point!"

Elaine looks unapologetic, but as she's about to speak, Boyd reappears, coats draped over one arm. "Cab will be here in ten minutes. Come on, Cinderella, say your goodbyes and let's get you home."

-oOo-

It's a chilly night, but having said her farewells, Grace elects to wait for the taxi outside on the pavement. She expects Boyd to grumble and complain, but for some reason he doesn't. He simply follows her out into the cold, hunches deeper into his long grey coat – not one she's seen him wear before – stuffs his hands deep into its pockets and slouches against one of the large, no-nonsense stone gateposts. It doesn't escape her notice that he continues to watch her in contemplative silence long after she's stopped trying to convince him that she doesn't require an escort to get home safely.

Eventually the need to talk becomes too much for her and she asks, "So… what did Simon have to say?"

Boyd shifts position slightly, enough for the street lighting to turn his strong features into a striking, angular study of light and shade. "I have an uncomfortable feeling that I amuse him."

"Oh?"

He doesn't explain, just says, "Persistent, isn't he?"

"Very," Grace agrees, striving to contain curiosity and apprehension. Honesty makes her add, "I rather like him, though."

"Mm."

The noncommittal reply piques her interest even further. Raising her eyebrows a fraction, she says, "Meaning?"

"Huh?" He shakes his head. "Oh, nothing."

"Boyd."

He regards her for a moment, then shrugs. "I was just wondering where Ian fits in."

Grace rolls her eyes at him. "Where on earth do you think? He's gay, Boyd."

"No, really?" he retorts, heavily sarcastic. "I must have missed that bit of the introduction. What I meant was, they're an unlikely couple."

"Oh." Chastened, she adds, "I thought – "

"That I was being reactionary? Oh, please."

"Sorry." She studies him for a moment, wondering if there's any way she can persuade him to open up further about his conversation with Simon. Probably not, she decides. Not only is he stubborn, he's taciturn, too, in a very male way. At least thinking about what may or may not have been said stops her from thinking about… Trying to shake off a hot, creeping flush of embarrassment, she changes the subject. "I didn't know Mary was Italian."

"Hm?" He glances at her, then goes back to watching the end of the road. "Oh. Yeah, her parents moved here from Turin when she was just a kid. Who told you that?"

"Elaine."

"No surprise there." A pause and another glance. "You've known her for a while, I take it? Elaine?"

"Over thirty years," Grace confirms with a nod. "We worked for the same mental health team for a while back in the late 'seventies, before I started forensic work."

"Long before she met Lochlan, then."

"Oh yes. Her first husband – Paul – was a serial adulterer. A nasty piece of work, too."

"Birds of a feather," Boyd comments.

"What?" she asks with a frown.

"You, Elaine, Fiona. All divorced from thoroughly unpleasant men who didn't bloody deserve you."

"Owen wasn't unpleasant," Grace argues half-heartedly. "Just… weak."

He snorts, his contempt quite obvious. "I remember."

She forgets, sometimes, that there was a time before the CCU when he was a tough, no-nonsense DCI running high profile investigations that she was sometimes asked to consult on. That he was already somewhere on the periphery of her life when her marriage really started to founder. She nods in silent acknowledgement, thoughts half caught in the past.

"Cab," Boyd says.

It's her turn to frown. "What?"

He nods towards the north end of the road. "Cab."

A dark saloon car with sign-written front door panels is approaching, slowing as the driver spots them. Giving herself a firm mental shake, Grace says, "Why don't you go ahead, and I'll call another. You'll get home much quicker if he doesn't have to drop me off first."

"Nice try, Grace," Boyd says, stepping forwards as the car pulls in to the kerb, "but I told Elaine I'd see you home, and that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm a man of my word, in case you'd forgotten." Opening the rear door, he adds, "Hop in."

Muttering to herself, she does as she's told. There are times – plenty of them – when she's perfectly happy to argue with him until the bitter end, but tonight is not one of those times. She's simply too tired, too emotionally drained for it. He walks round to the other side of the vehicle, gets in beside her and tells the driver her address, all without sparing her a single glance.

As the car starts back into movement, she says, "Fiona likes you, doesn't she?"

"I'm guessing," Boyd says, settling himself, "that that's a loaded question."

"If you like."

"Well?"

"Well, what?" she asks, evading the need to answer for as long as possible.

He sighs. "Go on, Grace, spit it out. Whatever it is you're dying to ask."

She hunches a shoulder in a slight shrug. "I'm just a little… surprised… that she's with Henry…"

"…and not with me?" Boyd guesses. "That rather implies that the decision was entirely hers."

Grace is very adept at reading between the lines. She says, "I see. She tried, then."

In the shadows the familiar enigmatic look in his dark eyes is even more difficult to interpret. "It would be ungentlemanly of me to comment."

Thinking again of the private conversation in the hall that she unwittingly overheard, Grace fights down a cold shudder to say, "But you do have history."

Boyd gives her a long, thoughtful look. "Someone's been telling tales out of school."

"I may have overheard something someone said," she tells him, the response as casual as she can make it sound.

"Henry?" he guesses with uncanny accuracy. "Ah, well, heaven knows why, but it's a bit of a sore point with him. We were just kids, Grace. Teenagers mucking about behind the bike sheds."

Trying not to conjure visions that she'll regret, she says, "I really hope you mean that figuratively, Boyd."

He snorts in amusement. "Someone really has been talking, haven't they?"

Curiosity drives her to ask, "What happened?"

"The usual thing that happens when you're that age," is his languid reply. "We split up over something ridiculous, and then she went off with an older lad who promised to take her to Marrakesh."

She can't picture it. "Oh dear. And did he?"

"I believe so. Beats Southend on the back of a borrowed BSA, I guess."

"She regrets it now, though."

"She thinks she does. Rose-tinted spectacles, Grace. The lure of the imaginary 'what might have been'. Truth is, I was never her type. Too unsophisticated, and far too rough round the edges." Another long, penetrating look is followed by, "Did she say something to you?"

He can be far too perceptive sometimes. She falls back on, "Such as?"

A slight shrug. "I don't know. Something… unkind?"

"No," Grace says, hoping to end the conversation. "Nothing like that."

"Because if she did," Boyd continues, "the best thing to do is forget all about it. She doesn't mean any harm, but she can be a bit… antagonistic… sometimes."

Sardonic, she nods. "I got that impression."

"She did say something, didn't she?" Boyd presses. "Christ, trust Fi to put her bloody foot in it. What did she say?"

"To me? Nothing. Nothing at all."

"But…? Come on, Grace, out with it."

"It's nothing," she insists. "Look, Boyd, I really don't want to talk about it."

"Whatever she said, whatever you heard her say, take it with a pinch of salt, eh? Fi loves a good drama, and if there isn't one, she'll try to create one. It's just the way she is. Henry keeps her in check most of the time, but…" Another shrug. "Really, don't let it bother you, whatever it was."

It does bother her, though, the thought of people talking behind her back, sharing ill-conceived opinions about her. And about him. About them. Staring straight ahead, Grace doesn't offer any reply. She knows he's looking at her, doesn't risk a glance in his direction.

A minute or more passes in silence before he clears his throat and says, "Things have been difficult for everyone, I know, since Mel…" He breaks off, resumes a moment later with, "Since things changed. Losing Mel and Frankie, getting used to Felix and now Stella… I do realise how tough it's been."

It seems an odd change of direction for the conversation, so she murmurs a vague assent and carries on staring at the passing scenery. Houses, lights, late-night traffic. The odd hurrying pedestrian.

Boyd continues, "What I'm trying to say, Grace, is that my door's always open. I'm not as good at making that clear as I should be, but if you ever need – want – to talk, I'm there to listen. About anything." A pause and then a quick codicil, "Almost anything. I mean, I'm no good at – "

"Quit while you're ahead," she advises, taking pity on him. Pastoral duties are not his forte, and everyone knows that he doesn't enjoy having to undertake them. "But thanks."

"I mean it," he says, and when she finally risks a quick glance, she realises he's staring straight ahead, too. "Because… Well, we're friends, aren't we?"

"We are," Grace agrees cautiously. "Where's this coming from, all of a sudden?"

"I don't know. Tonight, maybe. Being together, but not being at work, I mean."

"It's called socialising, Boyd," she tells him, straight-faced. "An alien concept, I know, but do your best with it."

"I socialise," he retorts, sparing her a quick glare. At her return look, he adds, "I do."

"Just not with people from work?" Grace challenges, but without much energy or conviction.

"Well, it's difficult, isn't it? When you're the one in charge. There's all sorts of boundaries and potential pitfalls. I've been caught like that before."

"With Jess Worrall, you mean?" she asks, not sure why it's important to hear him admit as much. It's one of those juicy pieces of gossip that refuses to die, no matter how many years pass. The separated but still-married DI Peter Boyd and his attractive female DS.

His response is a gruff, "Wasn't my finest hour, admittedly. Should've been a bit more interested in following protocol and a bit less interested in trying to convince myself it would all be okay."

Knowing she's heading into dangerous territory, Grace inquires, "And Frankie?"

This time his reply is instant. "Nothing happened between me and Frankie, you know that."

She nods, well-aware that it's the truth. Something – perhaps a lingering trace of sympathy for the woman concerned – makes her say, "Which is exactly the reason she left, of course."

Scowling, he goes back to staring out of the window. "I'm not discussing it, Grace, so don't even try."

She'll never hear his side of it, Grace knows. Maybe that doesn't matter, given how well she knows him, and what Frankie did and didn't say behind closed doors in the final weeks leading up to her eventual resignation. Doesn't matter now, anyway, if it ever did. Eying him, she asks, "So what are you trying to discuss?"

"You. Me." A heavy, frustrated sigh. He looks back at her. "The fact that maybe I don't understand you as well as I thought I did."

A clammy sense of dread seems to clutch at her, adding to her already considerable unease. Keeping her tone as flat as possible, she says, "Simon."

"Simon," Boyd agrees. "He seems to think that you and I need to talk."

"We talk all the time," she points out, not liking the direction the conversation is taking.

"Properly. Not about work stuff."

The sight of the junction ahead is a welcome one. Fumbling for her handbag, she says, "We're here."

"Grace," he says, as the driver executes the turn. His tone is reproachful.

"Here," she says, producing a folded banknote from her purse, "this should cover my share of the journey."

"Oh, for… Put your money away."

"I insist," she says, thrusting the note towards him.

"And I decline," he says, refusing to take it. "I was paying for a ride home tonight whether I gave someone else a lift or not."

"Boyd."

"Grace."

The cab comes to a smooth halt just outside her neighbour's house. Looking round at them, the driver says nothing. It's quite clear he's seen similar squabbling many, many times before. Simply to end his impassive scrutiny, she stuffs the banknote bag into her bag and mutters, "Fine. But I'll buy lunch on Monday." To the driver, she adds, "He's going on to Greenwich. Probert Road."

"No, he's not," Boyd announces as she opens the car door, she looks round to find him fishing his wallet out of his coat pocket. "How much?"

"Twenty quid, mate," the driver says. His complete lack of interest in the scene being played out is palpable.

"Boyd," Grace starts to object, but it's too late – he's already handing over the money.

-oOo-

cont...