Five

"I'm tired, Boyd, and you're only here on sufferance," Grace tells him as he takes off his coat and settles on the sofa without waiting for an invitation, "so don't get too comfortable. One drink, and then off you go into the night. Scotch or brandy?"

Stretching out his legs, he says, "Best stick with the brandy, I think."

"'Grape or grain, but never the twain'?" she quotes with a smirk. "Fearing the hangover you're going to have tomorrow?"

"No, just guarding against the eventuality," Boyd tells her, glancing round the room. "Have you decorated since I was last here?"

"Probably," she says, extracting the barely-touched bottle of brandy from behind the gin, the sherry, and the whisky. "You're not exactly a regular visitor. In fact, I don't think you've been here since that year I was attacked on my birthday."

"The Sutton brothers," he says, clearly remembering the connected investigation as well as she does. "Christ, has it really been that long?"

Finding an appropriately-sized glass, Grace nods and starts to pour him a drink. "Well, you've come to the door a few times since then, but you haven't been brave enough to actually cross the threshold."

He grunts, still looking round the room, as if making the most of the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity. "I don't know why you don't move, Grace. Find yourself a nice flat somewhere."

"Why would I?"

Frowning, he shrugs. "I don't know. Bad memories, maybe?"

"Well, by that reasoning, why don't you sell your place?" she challenges, turning the question back on him.

Boyd frowns. "That's different. Mary and I agreed that one of us should stay there. Just in case… you know."

Of course. The missing son. The last stubborn threads of the battered hope that one day, one day, he might, just might come home again. She's never been able to imagine just how hard it must be to live year after year without closure, to wake every morning to face yet another harrowing day of the unknown. She wonders if Boyd ever forgets, even for a moment, or whether the pain is there with him every single moment of every single day. Realising that the uncomfortable silence is elongating, she announces, "Brandy."

He stands up to take the glass from her, a tall, broad-shouldered figure who somehow doesn't look as out of place in her cosy living room as he should. He quirks an eyebrow at her. "Not your favourite?"

"No," Grace admits. "I'm more of a gin and tonic kind of girl."

"Me, too." An immediate scowl. "Guy. A gin and tonic kind of guy."

Chuckling, she says, "It's all right, Boyd, I don't think you're in any real danger of ever being mistaken for a woman."

"Oh?"

"No," she informs him. "Too tall."

"Oh." He sounds oddly disappointed as he settles back onto the sofa, as if he expected her to pass comment on something else entirely.

Deciding to eschew the gin in favour of the wine she opened early the evening before, Grace retreats to the relative safety of her favourite armchair. A little saggy, a little threadbare, but incredibly comfortable. If Boyd recognises her position as a defensive one, well, she's too tired to care. Observing him over the rim of her glass, she eventually says, "So…?"

"Eh?"

Striving for patience, she offers, "Simon…? Thinking we should talk…?"

"Oh. That."

"That," she agrees. "Well?"

Boyd looks down, as if lost in a deep contemplation of his drink. Grace waits, determined not to break first. It takes him several more moments, but finally he asks, "Why did you marry Maguire?"

The question is so unexpected that for a second or two her mind seems to go completely blank. Frowning, she stares at him and then says, "What sort of question is that?"

"An honest one," he replies. "I've always wondered why you did it – and don't try to tell me you were madly in love with him, because we both know that's not the case."

Simon, she thinks. Damn him. She tries to counter with, "It's perfectly possible to love someone without being in love with them, Boyd."

"Granted. But that's not an answer to my question, is it?"

For a moment Grace debates the wisdom of telling him the absolute truth. Wonders how he'd react, how much it would change his opinion of her. She shakes her head. "You wouldn't understand."

"Wouldn't I." It doesn't sound like a question, not even a rhetorical one.

"No," she asserts, with growing conviction, "you wouldn't."

"Because I'm a man?" Boyd inquires, with the suggestion of a sneer.

"Because," she bites back in correction, before she can stop herself, "you're an attractive man."

The look he gives her in return is unreadable. "Even if that were true – "

"Oh, please," she sniffs. "False modesty really doesn't suit you, Boyd."

" – I don't see the relevance."

"Exactly my point," Grace tells him, darkly pleased with herself. "Maybe the answer to your question is simply that he asked me to."

"And no-one else ever had?"

Stung, she glares across the room at him. "I didn't say that."

"Well, then. Try again, Grace."

"People like you," she accuses, "simply don't understand how overwhelming it can be to suddenly feel like you're the centre of someone's universe. You don't understand what it feels like to suddenly be… special… to someone."

"That isn't just presumptuous," Boyd says, his calm, weary tone surprising her, "it's also completely illogical. In effect what you're saying is that a huge part of someone's life can be dictated by some totally subjective yardstick."

It's not the kind of response Grace would have ever expected from him. Forced onto the defensive by his perspicacity, she says, "I told you that you wouldn't understand. How on earth could you?"

Boyd doesn't say anything for a moment. When he does, his tone is measured. "It's true that I've slept with a lot of women over the years, Grace – not something I'm necessarily proud of – but I can count on the fingers of one hand the number who actually gave a damn about me. About me, as a person, not just as a brief diversion from whatever else was going on in their lives."

Looking at him, Grace doesn't doubt the veracity of his claim. Not for a moment. Her initial surprise doesn't last long in the face of what she can read in his expression. A touch of something so deeply resigned that it's almost… haunted. Not sure what sort of reply is expected, she tries, "I've met a lot of men who wouldn't see that as a bad thing."

"I believe you," he says, with no discernible trace of humour. "I'm not saying I hate it… quite the contrary, sometimes."

"But…?" she prompts.

He looks upwards, stares at the ceiling as he says slowly, "But… Well, sex is just a commodity, isn't it? Something anyone can get, if they're prepared to go about it the right – or the wrong – way. But what you said… being special to someone… that's a much more difficult thing to… acquire."

Grace seizes on the word. "'Acquire'?"

"Obtain, then. To find. However you want to bloody put it." Boyd shakes his head, looks at her and then says, "That's why you married him, isn't it? Not because you loved him, but because he needed you, and you needed to be needed. You needed to be someone's 'special person'."

His unusual level of perception only adds to her discomfort. He's right, of course. Completely and categorically right. Refusing to look away, she holds his steady gaze and says, "Fair enough. You're right. Happy now?"

"No," he says. A long, tense pause, then, "You think I'm judging you?"

"That's rather the impression I'm getting."

"Well, I'm not," he contradicts, his voice flat. "Sometimes I think I've forgotten what it feels like. To be that important to someone. To be the person that makes someone else light up inside. To be the one they want to share things with, want to turn to when things go wrong. The person they never want to be parted from."

There's so much behind those words, she realises. A shattering level of regret, loneliness, and bitter despair that's usually hidden so deep below the surface that no-one would ever detect it. "That's… quite a speech, Boyd."

"That's what you were to him," he says, staring straight at her.

"Maybe," Grace concedes. "In some ways."

"But not what he was to you."

"Sad, but true," she admits. Tipping her head back, she closes her eyes. She's tired, the room is warm, and the additional alcohol isn't helping her ability to concentrate as well as she knows should. "There have been men I felt like that about. Several of them, in fact. One just didn't feel the same way, one had absolutely no concept of fidelity, and the other turned out to be married. And that's without the also-rans. Not a particularly good record, is it?"

His reply is a dry, "All my life I've repeatedly fallen for the wrong women, Grace, so I don't think I'm in any position to judge."

"Define 'wrong'," she says, not opening her eyes.

"Off-limits, already attached," Grace can almost hear him shrug, "or simply completely unobtainable. The women I want never seem to be the women who want me. With a couple of notable exceptions."

Not being able to see him seems to make it much easier to say things that would normally be impossible. "So, what… you've given up on looking for relationships that mean something?"

"I've never really been the kind of guy who deliberately went out looking for anything."

Simon's words drift into her mind: 'Tim doesn't chase women. They chase him.' Maybe that's always been the case, she thinks. Or almost always. Opening one eyes, Grace squints at him. He's staring off into the mid-distance, resting his glass on his knee, his posture more relaxed than she's ever seen it. Hardly surprising, the amount they've both had to drink over the course of the long evening. Closing the peeking eye again, she says, "Well, maybe that's where you've been going wrong all this time, Boyd."

He doesn't offer agreement or argument, instead asks, "What about you?"

"What about me?" she counters, but without much energy or enthusiasm. Sleep is beginning to look infinitely preferable to going round and round in endless circles with him, neither of them ever quite getting to the point. Whatever the damn point is.

"Have you given up?"

"On relationships in general, or…?"

"Whatever. Is there one last great romance out there for you, do you think?"

"Who knows?" It really is becoming a struggle not to doze. Opening her eyes seems to have become an impossibility.

"What if someone came along?" he insists. "What then?"

"You're starting to sound just like Elaine, you know," she murmurs, as she starts to drift. "Maybe someone already…"

"Grace?" Boyd's voice seems to be coming from a long, long way away. "Grace…?"

-oOo-

It's the dull, grinding pain in the small of her back that gradually wakes her. That, and an increasing awareness of the grey morning light that's making its way into the room around the edges of the long curtains. Grace tries to turn over, realises that she can't, that she's not lying in her wide, comfortable bed, but is still curled up in her favourite armchair. Something soft and heavy and unfamiliar is keeping her warm. Blinking in sleepy confusion, she raises her head a fraction. She's alone in the room… but she immediately spots the pair of highly-polished men's shoes abandoned on the floor by the sofa. It's not just the ache in her back or the nagging pain behind her eyes that makes her groan and drop her head back onto the cushion that's been serving as a pillow.

There's no comfortable, comforting, alcohol-induced amnesia to take the sting out of the situation. She remembers every single moment of the preceding evening. Right up until…

Until she fell asleep, mid-conversation.

Which, no doubt, Boyd will never, ever let her live down.

The heavy, soft thing spread over her is not a blanket or a rug, she realises. It's his thick wool coat. The lining is smooth and silky, warm from her body heat, and it smells faintly of the expensive, unfamiliar cologne she noticed over dinner. She has no recollection of him draping it over her, but there's no other explanation for its presence. The thought triggers an unexpected flash of memory. Owen, sullen and petulant because she was late back from an evening lecture given by an old friend. Owen tight-lipped and refusing to argue, refusing to openly admit that he was furious with her for 'neglecting' him. Owen stalking off to bed without a word, leaving her to sit alone fretting until she finally fell asleep on the sofa.

Owen would never have done something as simple as carefully and quietly cover her with something to prevent her from getting cold as she slept. Not even in the very first days of their marriage. Not because he was unkind, but because he was so oblivious, so utterly self-absorbed, that even that tiny act of ordinary kindness would never have occurred to him.

She raises her head just enough to peer at the clock on the wall. A little after eight-thirty. Far too early on a Sunday morning. On a normal Sunday morning.

This is not a normal Sunday morning. Somewhere in the house there's an unexpected guest to be faced.

Uncurling, Grace winces at the pain in her back and the stiffness in her shoulders. The nagging shadow of a potential hangover doesn't help. Slowly sitting up straight, she notices that the bottle of brandy she left on the shelf is now on the coffee table. As are both glasses, his and hers. He must have taken hers from her when he realised that she was asleep. She wonders why he didn't wake her. More importantly, why he didn't call a cab and leave.

Finding her feet, she struggles upright, glad when the world doesn't immediately start to spin around her. A quick glance in the mirror confirms that she's most definitely not looking her best. The olive-green dress she plucked from her wardrobe to wear to dinner at Lochlan and Elaine's is hopelessly crumpled, and her tights are laddered in at least two places. She thinks her shoes are out in the hall, but she's not entirely sure. Taking another mournful look at her reflection, she sees, just for a second, a glimpse of her much younger self looking back at her. It's enough to make her risk a rueful smile as she remembers some of the exciting escapades of days long gone by.

Moving with some care, Grace heads for the kitchen via the hall. Shoes, coat, and handbag all accounted for, she tracks various quiet sounds of movement to their source. Boyd, tousled and yawning, propped against the kitchen counter apparently waiting for the kettle to boil. Despite trying not to, she manages to notice that several buttons on his untucked shirt have come adrift overnight exposing a wide swathe of broad, bare chest. It's an infuriatingly distracting sight.

"Hi," he says, voice still rough with sleep.

Not able to think of anything much better in the way of greeting, she echoes him with a weak, "Hi."

"Tea?" he asks, gesturing at the two waiting mugs that he's lined up. "Or coffee?"

"Coffee," she decides, moving towards the fridge. "Most definitely coffee."

"Hangover?"

"Heading in that general direction," she admits. "You?"

"With enough caffeine, I'll probably live to fight another day." Boyd folds his arms, gazes at her as she sniffs the milk and decides it's probably still useable. There's a faint teasing note in his voice as he says, "I did consider carrying you upstairs at whatever time it was, but the chances are I would have dropped you. I was a bit unsteady on my feet by then."

He doesn't seem to be feeling anything like as delicate as she is. It's really not fair. "Boyd?"

"What?"

Grace flaps a feeble hand in his general direction. "Indoor voice, please."

"Oh dear. That bad?"

She ignores his mock-solicitude. "I think the nightcap was a bit of a mistake. In hindsight."

A quiet chuckle. "Nothing to do with the staggering amount of wine you managed to knock back before that?"

"Why didn't you go home?" she asks, ignoring the question. It doesn't feel like an unreasonable thing to ask.

"I was going to call a cab, but the brandy got the better of me and I ended up falling asleep on the sofa." He gives her a rueful half-grin that fades as he inquires, "You don't mind, do you?"

"No," she says, deciding that, all things considered, his unforeseen presence is fairly low on her list of current worries. Calling Elaine and apologising for her sudden departure is much higher up the list. As the kettle clicks off and Boyd turns away to busy himself making coffee, Grace subsides onto the nearest of the two kitchen chairs. "She knew, you know."

He spares her a quick glance. "Eh?"

"Elaine," she clarifies, massaging her temples. "She knew all the time. That we were… acquainted. Julia Newman told her last week."

A snort is followed by, "Why am I not surprised?"

"Well, it surprised me," she grumbles. "I felt like such a fool when she admitted it, as if she'd been secretly laughing at us all evening."

"Hm."

Staring at the back of his head, she continues, "Do you know what she said when I challenged her about it?"

Boyd throws a teaspoon into the sink with a loud clatter that makes her wince. "No. Not being a bloody mind-reader."

"That she and Julia thought we could do with a nudge."

"A nudge?"

"Use your imagination, Boyd. What's Elaine's favourite hobby?"

"Shopping?"

"Match-making."

Back to her, he seems to freeze for a moment. "Oh."

As a response, it seems lacking. She wishes she could see his face. He's good at schooling his features into an impassive mask, but his eyes… his eyes are generally much easier to read. When no further comment is forthcoming, she says, "We were well-and-truly set up."

"Seems so," Boyd agrees, turning to bring her a gently steaming mug. "Coffee."

Her stomach churns just at the smell of it. "Thanks."

His steady gaze is thoughtful. What he says when he speaks is a surprise. "Bacon."

"What?"

"Bacon," he repeats. "Guaranteed hangover cure."

"There isn't any," Grace tells him. Shaking her head, she adds, "A psychologist I may well be, but to this day I have absolutely no idea how your mind works, Boyd."

"Drives you crazy, doesn't it?" he says with another half-grin. Before she can reply, he continues, "There's one of those little convenience shops on the end of Lancaster Street, isn't there? I'll walk down there and get some."

The morning seems to be getting more and more surreal with every passing moment. "Eh?"

"Bacon," Boyd says yet again. "Come on, Grace, wakey-wakey."

"I am awake," she growls at him, "I just don't have your sickening amount of energy or enthusiasm for it. Not at this hour on a Sunday."

"Drink your coffee," he instructs, "and then go and have a shower, or whatever. By the time you're feeling half-human again there will be bacon sandwiches."

"Oh, God…" Grace shakes her head again. "Are you always this exasperating first thing in the morning?"

"No," he says, the mischievous, boyish grin finally breaking through at full force, "sometimes I'm much, much worse."

-oOo-

cont...