Six

The shower helps more than Grace expects. In fact, by the time she's ready to get dressed, the distinctive aroma of frying bacon filtering up the stairs is, thankfully, considerably more mouth-watering than nauseating. Part of her is more than half-convinced that she is still asleep and is having a particularly bizarre and improbable dream – one that features Peter Boyd taking over her kitchen – but if she is, well, then there's no reason not to finish dressing, apply a little light make-up, and go downstairs to investigate. She's almost at the foot of the stairs when the doorbell rings. Conditioned not to ignore the dictatorial summons, she goes to answer it without thinking too much about who the hell might be boorish enough to disturb her on a Sunday morning.

There's something Karmic about opening the front door to find Elaine looking back at her.

"Grace," her old friend says, more bright and breezy than anyone has a right to be so early on the morning after hosting such a bibulous dinner party. "How are you feeling? I was still a bit worried about you, so I thought I'd drop Lochlan off at his squash club and then come and see how you were."

Knowing Elaine, it's probably the absolute truth. For all her propensity for meddling in the love-lives of her unattached friends, she's a kind and compassionate woman with a huge amount of natural empathy. Touched by the concern, Grace is on the verge of smiling in gratitude when she remembers that she's not as alone in the house as she quite naturally expected to be. Suspecting that she may suddenly look a little like the proverbial rabbit-in-the-headlights, she manages a weak, "Oh… I'm fine. Thank you. Yes, just fine now."

Elaine does not look convinced. She frowns, asks, "Are you sure? You still seem rather pale. Maybe – " she breaks off and Grace knows. She just knows. She doesn't need to hear the loud, excited, "Tim."

"Elaine," Boyd's voice returns from further back in the hall, the tone studiously neutral.

Grace inhales slowly. Holds the long breath for a moment. Exhales just as slowly. Staring at a fixed point just past Elaine's ear, she says, "It's really not what it looks like."

The other woman is grinning in unmitigated delight. "No, of course it's not."

"It's not," Grace insists, but she knows the battle is already lost. Nothing, but nothing, will persuade Elaine that there could be any other explanation for Boyd's presence so early in the day than the obvious. Not now, not ever. "Elaine…"

"Nothing to do with me," Elaine says promptly, holding up both hands. "I didn't see a thing. I didn't even drop by today."

If anything, the rapid response only increases Grace's rising indignation. "But – "

"I'm so glad the two of you have finally come to your senses," Elaine interrupts. "You're absolutely made for each other. I'm really happy for you both."

"Elaine," Grace tries again, as Boyd finally arrives at her shoulder to scowl at Elaine. Sparing him a quick, narrow-eyed glare, she says, "You try talking to her, because she's not listening to me."

"What makes you think she'll listen to me?" Boyd demands. "Bloody woman's incorrigible."

"I am," Elaine agrees, apparently not at all offended. "Now, Tim, you know I adore you, but a word of advice – "

"Oh, bugger off, Elaine," he tells her, but without the explosive ire Grace expects. "I'm a big boy, I can do this all on my own without your help."

"Well, do try your best not to screw it up, won't you? Please?"

"Goodbye, Elaine," he says, reaching past Grace to push the front door closed in the other woman's face. There's a mild but audible grumble of complaint, then the sound of quick, retreating footsteps.

For a moment Grace just stares at the closed door in front of her. Taking another deep, calming breath, she doesn't look round as she inquires, "What just happened?"

Boyd's reply is a casual, "That? That, Grace, was me finally losing patience with the entire ridiculous situation, I'm afraid."

Bewildered, she turns to ask, "Eh?"

He's much closer than she expects. Startlingly so. What strikes her most forcefully is just how much taller than her he really is when viewed at such close quarters. She's used to having to glance up at him in conversation, of course, but not to having to incline her head quite so far back to make eye-contact. In response he tilts his head a fraction to one side, a touch thoughtful, a touch quizzical. "You really need me to explain?"

Even to Grace, her voice sounds far too high-pitched as she says, "The bacon – "

" – is getting cold," Boyd says. "I had the presence of mind to turn off the gas before coming to rescue you."

"You didn't rescue me," she objects. "In fact, you made things a hundred times worse. If you'd stayed put, I would have got rid of her, and everything would be – "

"Just the same?" he suggests. "Status quo still perfectly intact?"

"You did it on purpose…?" Grace demands, astonished. "Why would you do that, knowing how much Elaine likes to gossip?"

"Why do you think?" he asks, still so uncharacteristically placid that Grace starts seriously questioning her own sanity.

Owen never cooked breakfast for her. Not once in all the time they were together. Ridiculous as the spurious thought is, it suddenly seems to be vitally important.

"If you're even vaguely thinking about trying to kiss me," she says, surprised by just how calm she sounds, "now is probably the optimal moment to give it a go."

Boyd laughs. Really laughs, as if all the building tension of the last twelve or more hours dissipates in a heartbeat. For him, at least. Grace isn't sure whether to glare or to laugh along with him. It's not a decision she has to consider for long.

As first kisses go, it ranks quite high. Tentative at first, becoming more decisive as they intuitively find their way with each other.

The second is even better, and it lasts much, much longer.

"Good," he says when he draws back.

Still slightly stunned by the rapid turn of events, it takes Grace a moment to realise it's not a question. "Good…?"

"You didn't slap me, or attempt to knee me in the balls," he explains. "Always a good sign."

And that's when she starts to laugh.

-oOo-

The afternoon is sunny with just enough late autumn bite to make Grace draw her coat more tightly around herself and quicken her pace as she heads back to her companion. Sitting alone on one of the wooden benches facing the park's large oval duck pond, he looks so relaxed and so indolent that she finds it difficult to believe that he's the same intense, energetic, highly-motivated man she's worked with for so long. It's still fascinating her, the marked difference between his calm, off-duty, away-from-work character, and the fierce, formidable police officer persona she's much more used to.

His eyes are closed, she realises, settling next to him. He looks rather as if he's idly dozing in the bright sunshine, but she knows he's not. Just a little proprietorial, she sips her just-purchased hot drink and watches him without saying a word.

"Coffee?" he inquires, not opening his eyes.

"Tea." Still studying him, Grace wonders what he's thinking about, whether his thoughts mirror hers at all. Whether he's thinking about the way it felt to lie naked together under tumbled sheets. Whether he's wondering what happens next, where they go from here. Everything's the same, and yet everything's different. Hidden away beneath the warm grey coat and the creased blue shirt under it, she can now accurately picture the exact places on his flank where Reece Dickson's murderously sharp tantō found it's mark. Can close her eyes and visualise the old, diagonal surgical scar on the nearest shoulder, pale against the surrounding skin. She's already traced her lips along the length of it more than once, bestowing gentle kisses where a surgeon's scalpel once cut deep and precise. Battle scars. They've both got them, inside and out.

"It's started," she says, with hard-won stoicism. "There are two messages on my phone from Helen, and one from Simon. God knows where he got my number from."

"Two guesses."

"One's enough," she sniffs. "How long before everyone knows?"

Turning his head, Boyd opens his eyes. They look hazel in the direct sunlight. "Why? Does it bother you?"

Deciding to be honest, Grace nods. "A little. I really don't like the idea of people gossiping about us behind our backs."

"People have been doing that at work for years, Grace."

"That's different," she objects. "That's just baseless rumour and silly office tittle-tattle." Something else occurs to her. "You know about that?"

"You'd be surprised how little escapes my notice," he says, looking towards the pond where a young couple with two small children have stopped to feed the ducks.

"Actually, I wouldn't," she tells him, noticing how his expression turns reflective as he watches the smiling parents and the excited children. "I'm well-aware that you pretend not to listen just to annoy me."

"Not true. Sometimes I'm genuinely not listening."

There's so much she wants to ask him about tomorrow, about the days ahead. About what they're going to do, how they're going to deal with such a momentous change in their already tumultuous relationship. Wants to ask him, but can't. Not without souring the afternoon. He's not in the mood for it, not today. Maybe not ever. Every cautious attempt she's made neatly redirected or simply rebuffed with an easy charm deliberately designed to mask a will of iron.

Instead, she asks, "What was all that talking about last night? After we left Elaine's?"

Boyd doesn't look at her. "Procrastination."

"Really? That's not like you." When there's no response, she adds, "Why?"

He doesn't answer immediately, so she waits, using his own well-honed interview tactics against him. Eventually he says, "You told me I wouldn't understand why you married Maguire."

Remembering the conversation all too clearly, Grace nods. "Yes."

"Because you said I was… attractive." It's clear he finds applying the word to himself distasteful, and this time she doesn't accuse him of false modesty. "What I said is true, though, isn't it? Attractiveness is entirely subjective."

"I've never denied that," she points out. It's quite clear that something important is driving his side of the conversation, so she prods him with, "What are you trying to say, Boyd?"

"Maybe… that you don't have the monopoly on insecurity." He focuses on her again, the sunshine-hazel eyes searching her face. He looks weary, she thinks. Like a man who's been struggling alone for too long with his thoughts. "You really think I don't know what people say about me, Grace? That I'm somehow oblivious to the fact that I'm seen as a quick-tempered misfit with a chip on his shoulder? That half the Met think I'm a dangerous loose cannon who's unfit for command, and the other half think I'm a womanising tyrant who heartlessly drove his own son away?"

"'Tyrant' might be putting it a bit too strongly," she says, and at his dark expression holds up her free hand. "Sorry, sorry. I still don't quite understand what you're really saying, though."

"Cards on the table?"

Not sure what she's agreeing to, Grace gives him a slow, reluctant nod. "Go on."

"You and me… we were attracted to each other from the word go. True?"

The bold statement rattles her. Defensive, she replies, "Well, I can't speak for you…"

"Trust me." Boyd looks at the pond again. The young couple and their children have moved on now, leaving a cluster of squabbling ducks in their wake. "The reasons don't matter, we just were. But neither of us did anything about it. Why?"

"Work," Grace replies without hesitation.

"Bullshit," he retorts. "Work is – was – a convenient excuse, and you know it. Oh, it's not going to be easy, we both know that, but plenty of other people who work together seem to be able to find a way through the minefield. We could've kicked over the traces a long time ago, but we didn't. We carried on playing stupid games with each other. Games we'd still be playing if it wasn't for bloody Elaine."

"And Julia," Grace adds. "All right, yes, you're right. What I really want to know, though, was why we spent last night talking ourselves round and round in bloody circles. Why didn't you just do something?"

"Why didn't you?" he growls back, a familiar hint of impatience showing.

"Because…" she starts, then heaves a sigh. "Oh, I don't know. Because..."

"Just say it, Grace."

He's not going to let the matter drop. Gritting her teeth, she grinds out a difficult and reluctant admission. "Because I never thought that a man like you would ever be interested in a woman like me."

"Bingo," he says. "We got there in the end."

"No, we didn't," she contradicts, infuriated by his response, "because that's only half the story, Boyd."

"And the other half's exactly the bloody the same," he tells her, intense again. "Why would I ever have thought that a woman like you would be interested in a man like me?"

She stares at him in bemusement. "Because – "

"No," Boyd says, shaking his head. "There's no 'because'. Like I said, you don't have the monopoly on insecurity, Grace."

He's not lying to her. Grace can see it in the defiant way he holds her gaze. It seems improbable – even impossible – that he could ever be as afraid of mockery and rejection as she's somehow managed to become over the years. Yet… Yet, there it is, stark in the way Boyd watches her, the deep-seated fear of being rebuffed and ridiculed by someone who matters. A mirror-image of all her confused thoughts and feelings, all her crippling fears and uncertainties.

All the things that could have been if they'd both been braver…

All the things that could be from now on, if they can just somehow learn how to communicate effectively…

Weakly, she says, "Well, hurray for Elaine and her fondness for interfering, then."

"Quite," he agrees, and goes back to staring at the pond in meditative silence.

The sun is disappearing behind grey clouds, and a stiff breeze is picking up, adding to the afternoon's deepening chill. People are beginning to walk a little faster, either to keep warm, or to escape the forecast rain that seems to be coming. A big man with a very small dog on a long lead hurries past them, jacket collar turned up against the cold.

Reflecting on everything that's happened since she arrived in Highgate the previous night, Grace gives her companion a sideways glance and inquires, "Did you and Fiona really…?"

Boyd returns the glance with a brief, endearingly rakish grin. "Yeah. We did. More than once, actually."

Amused, she shakes her head. "Well, I hope she enjoyed Marrakesh."

"Knowing what Fi was like when she was younger, I'm quite sure she bloody did."

"So," she dares to ask, after several long, quiet moments, "what do we do now?"

"Now?" Boyd shrugs, everything about his attitude and posture deliberately nonchalant. "I guess we go and find your car, you drive me home, and we just take it from there."

It's a risk, but she can't help but question, "And tomorrow…?"

"Tomorrow, Grace," he says, standing up and holding out a hand to her, "can go screw itself."

- the end -