The Professionals Circuit Archive - No Regrets       No Regrets

 

by Brenda K

  
 "Bugger."

I don't say it loudly, because Steff has ears like an eagle. Or an
elephant. Or whatever Doyle used to tell me it was.

It's that music again. Coming to add to the morose mood that's coming over
me in waves.

"You were young once, Bodie." 

My wife has that 'I am not amused look' on her face. She heard me, then.

"Yeah, I was. But I'm not any longer."

She ignores me, having heard this before.

So what's wrong with trying to get some peace late on a Sunday afternoon,
and why are teenagers totally incapable of listening to music without
super-mega-bass and what have you? I bought her earphones, for Christ's
sake. 

Thump. Thump. Giggles. Okay, so she could be hanging around street corners
picking up blokes instead of listening to music with a mate - female -
from school. 

Be thankful for small mercies, Bodie.

Teenage daughter. Pouring rain. Boredom. I feel like taking something out
on somebody, but even that seems like too much trouble. 

"Bodie, stop brooding. And that doesn't mean eyeing up what's in the
fridge, either."

"I'm hungry."

"So what's new?"

I give her the pathetic look. It usually brings her around a bit, but
she's not even watching. Too busy rattling away at the computer keyboard. 

"What you writing?" I say, trying to show interest. I can't hear the
telly, my stomach thinks my throat's cut, and it looks as though rain's
going to stop play in Liverpool anyway. Perfect.

"Nothing you'd like," she says mildly. "You said you don't like what you
kindly called 'that psycho-babble stuff'".

Okay. Enough said. It's just that she has to go and analyse her characters
until you can virtually see any of them as being budding schizophrenics.
They're all repressed or have Dark Secrets or they're agonising about love
and marriage and stuff. The one time I did look at one of her stories, I
really blew it. I went to sleep. Then *she* sulked for days.

The hell of it is, she reminds me of Doyle sometimes, although she most
certainly didn't when I popped the question. Doyle had waggled that
irritating finger of his now and then when we were first going out and
said she was a closet intellectual, but I admit I'd been more interested
in the... well, in other sides of her nature. But he'd liked her, which
had helped.

The mega-bass and this nasal voice drones on and on and I feel like
fetching earplugs and putting my feet up.

But I don't. I sit and brood, wishing things were different - at least
with Doyle.

No regrets, they don't work. 

I promised myself that when I finally quit CI5 and again when the two of
us broke off diplomatic relationships. 

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Bodie. Just *look* at you."

I'd rather not, thanks. I sort of gave that up for Lent. Besides, this is
usually Steff's cue for a running commentary on my paunch (which is of
course a wild exaggeration), the grey hairs on my chest (only a few) and
the fact that physical exercise doesn't get too much of a look-in any
more.

I try the glowering look and defiantly fetch a beer, daring her to
comment. Then I pick up the remote and flick channels, wondering if
anything can drown out the banshee screaming coming from upstairs.

Great. Re-runs of Starsky and Hutch. Steff rolls her eyes.

Okay, so say it. I'm a big soft kid that never grew up. Gone to seed. 

She does - at least the big soft kid bit - but I'm not listening any more,
watching the two guys make a total cock-up of a shoot-out. But Hollywood
forgives where real life doesn't. 

Suddenly, I'm back in the eighties, running around playing the big shot
with a nice shiny gun. It wasn't all like that, I know, but Doyle was with
me.

Shit, I miss him. I often think we were having the time of our lives, but
then I admit that for the last couple of years I've only been thinking
about the good parts anyway.

No regrets? Who am I kidding?

It pisses me off that we never see each other, Doyle and I. But Steff
can't stand Olivia, Doyle's... companion, as he always introduces her. I
thought she was okay, to be honest, but Steff said she was a stuck-up,
self-opinionated cow. 

They don't have kids, and Doyle's still running around playing the hero -
albeit deskbound - back at the Met. Of all the things, I didn't think he'd
go back there, but he did. I expect he's still saving the world from
itself and I suppose Olivia's saving whales or pandas or something. 

We had one, huge, godawful row one night - must be twelve years ago. Doyle
was in a filthy temper - which was nothing new - and I suppose I was being
condescending. Worse, the ladies were there and compared to our snarling,
they went at it like fishwives. 

Worse still, I can't even remember what it was really about. 

What I do remember was that it was a bad time - the company was
struggling, Steff had just got Linda over measles or something, and Doyle
was on a tough case. Olivia, at the time, was sitting in trees and
preserving England's heritage.

Now I think about it, I do remember. It was the trees versus childbearing
that really got things going, and then there was that final, magnificent
cut-and-thrust. Olivia accusing the Bodie family of caring more about deep
pile carpets than innocent saplings, and Steff retorting that Olivia
should try and handle a kid with a temperature and a part-time 'real' job
before being quite so intense about eating sodding bean curd and
hand-dying her skirts.

Ouch. Even thinking about it makes me go and fetch another beer from the
huge, American-style fridge in the spotless kitchen, cleaned twice a week
by our friendly Portuguese cleaning lady. 

Things have changed hereabouts, and I wonder what Doyle *is* doing now. I
do that about ten times a week. 

The grapevine says he's respected. If he's got his temper in check, I
don't doubt it for a minute. He's way too proud to make the first move and
call me - even if he wanted to. And I suppose I just couldn't be bothered
at first. Initially because I was fighting so hard to make a living and
later because I was too scared. Time had suddenly slipped past.

I made plenty of money in the meantime, though, and invested it wisely.
These days my security company doesn't really need me except as a
figurehead. People run it, it makes a fortune, so I do other things. Like
making even more money from the contacts I once had. And being a slob on
Sunday evenings. 

I'm lucky. Just that there's something missing and it won't go away. I
don't even like admitting to myself what it is.

Steff spent a few years 'finding herself', she said, after giving birth to
a daughter, giving up secretarial work and dabbling in fitness clubs - and
seeing me rake in the means to keep her in luxury. Okay, she's fit and
trim and happy, and basically doesn't really need me any more except for a
few basic needs, like cash and sex. I think she's faithful, but I suppose
I wouldn't blame her if she wasn't. 

She's nice, Steff. I suppose she frightens me a bit with the writing, but
I suppose I don't blame her. I didn't give her much time when we were
younger, so I can't really complain now if she's busy and fulfilled and
whatever else makes women tick.

What makes *me* tick? I really don't know. Doyle used to try and figure
that one out, and he got uncomfortably near the truth now and then. A
hedonist. An opportunist. I used to tell him that at least I didn't bear
the guilt of the world on my shoulders. And we'd end up laughing - most of
the time.

Oh, wow. Starsky's been shot, and Hutch is bending over him, obviously
panicking. 

Been there, sunshine. Thought I'd lost Doyle like that as well, and it
wasn't just a question of ending the day's shoot and going back to those
chairs with your name on while they write a bit more of the script.

I sigh, heavily. Look at the empty beer bottle and wish another one would
materialise from the fridge. 

"Bodie?"

I stir myself.

"Yes, love?"

"Reminiscing?"

"Uh-huh."

She swivels round suddenly, and looks at me.

"You've been doing a lot of that lately."

"Uh-huh."

What am I supposed to say? Deny it? She's living her own life. Linda's
sprouted curves and discovered boys, and I'm bored and pissed off. 

"Can we talk?"

Oh, God. I hate that little phrase. Usually, I fold the newspaper
deliberately into a neat oblong, cross my arms, and look at her so
intently she dries up immediately. So I try it.

"Not going to work, Bodie. I mean it."

"Look, love..."

"Bodie, I've done something behind your back."

I don't even look surprised, because I'm not. Funny thing is, she's
grinning.

"Oh, it's not that, then?"

She actually laughs.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Bodie. I always told you I knew when I was onto a
good thing, although I should have known your cholesterol instincts would
get the better of you in the long run."

I stare at her, not particularly happy by the way this is going. What's
she done, booked me into a health farm?

I ask, with a little trepidation.

"Well, it wouldn't hurt you. But no. I just want you to humour me and get
changed. Shaved. We're going out."

"On a Sunday?"

"On a Sunday. You know I met this agent. For my stories..."

"You've got a publisher?" This is *much* better than carrot juice and
exercise.

"Well no, not exactly. But I ran into somebody at the agency - an old
friend who also writes, and she's invited us to dinner. Now I know you
don't like the whole literary crowd..."

"Never met any of 'em, except this peculiar ex-bird of Doyle's once..."

"Well, this one's nice. A bit unusual, but I think you'd like her, and her
boyfriend."

I would? Okay, I would. I'd make the effort. 

Halfway through shaving, I have this horrible suspicion.

"She's not called Ann Holly, is she?"

"No, Bodie."

Good. The idea of seeing *her* again wouldn't do much for me. 

"And she's not into pandas and whales?"

"Not that I heard. She's more into accounting, actually."

Good again. That's another suspicion neatly put away.

Then it rises up again, uglier than ever. Steff is wearing *that* look.

"But it is Olivia, right?"

"Right. But she's changed. Like you have and I have."

"And you're going to tell me Doyle has, as well."

"I have no idea, Bodie. But you miss him like hell, and apparently it's
the same for him. All this no regrets stuff you're always saying is just a
bloody alibi."

I cut myself, and swear loudly. Look at myself in the mirror and don't
like what I see. Instinctively, I pull my stomach in, square my shoulders,
and Steff catches me through the open doorway, grinning like a Cheshire
cat.

"If it's any consolation", she says, "apparently Ray has short hair, wears
glasses and suits and has been known to keep his temper for more than
twenty-four hours at a stretch."

Oh. 

"Does he know it's us? That's going?"

"She was going to tell him, yes." 

I'm caught between excitement and fear. Steff's still grinning.

A bit later, the telephone rings and I know almost before I pick it up
that it's Doyle, to tell me not to bother.

It is Doyle, but he starts fairly neutrally.

"Bodie?"

Well of course it's me. I live here with two females, three cats and a
goldfish, don't I? I'm about to use that as a retort, but think better of
it. 

"It doesn't matter," I say coolly.

"Eh?"

"About tonight."

"You thick-headed prat," he says cheerfully, and the years fall away. "I
just thought you'd like to know how to get here. The ladies exchanged
phone numbers, but I don't think Liv gave Steff the directions."

"Oh."

"Bodie, are you listening, or sulking?"

"Both."

"Figures. Look..."

He hesitates, and then laughs. That rich, throaty, laugh I haven't heard
for so long.

"OK, so I'm a prat as well. Hope you still like bean curd."

"You have to be bloody kidding. I'll call in at MacDonalds on the way."

"Nah. Clogs your arteries."

"They're already clogged," I say, in a rush of honesty. "Hey, Doyle, I was
watching Starsky and Hutch this afternoon..."

"Yeah, so was I. And if we're prats, what are they?"

"Old as well. And probably also a bit thicker round the middle. And did
you see the way they took that warehouse..."

"Yeah... "

"Bodie." Steff's voice cuts in sternly. "And they say women gossip. Get a
move on."

I can hear Doyle chuckling on the other end, and growl at him.

"Hear that?"

"Downtrodden," he sighs. "Me too. But to be honest, no regrets. Well,
maybe one. And if you can just get your act into gear..."

I put the receiver down, feeling myself grinning.

Steff looks like the cat that swallowed the cream, and she gives me a
brief hug.

"Happy now?"

I nod, then a horrible thought hits me.

"Steff... you don't think they *really* eat bean curd, do you?"

She's about to answer me when the stereo starts thumping out again.

I glance over at my wife, grin at my child's door, and grab my jacket.

"I'll take my chances. Anything has to be better than this."

I almost jog down the stairs. Looking forward to hearing that laugh again
in person and deciding I'm a lucky sod. Even if I'm the wrong side of
fifty, my waistline isn't quite what it used to be and I'll never play
Starsky to his Hutch again.

"Bodie?"

"Yeah?"

"Big soft kid. You're both as bad as each other. You're lucky to have me,
you know. No regrets?"

"None," I tell her. And this time I mean it.

-- THE END --

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