Chapter Text
She stared at herself in the mirror, a half-empty flute of champagne at her elbow, looking (she had to admit) considerably better than acceptable. Her sheath dress in frosty coral silk shantung, with its bateau neck and scooped back, made her feel elegant and sexy and gratifyingly un-mumsy. “Ellie bloody Miller as Jackie O,” she thought.
The long natural curls, loosely pulled back and studded with tiny pearl hairpins by Broadchurch beauty ace Jenny Markham, had been a good choice. Allowing Jenny to assist with makeup, ditto, though Lucy and Beth had had to talk Ellie into it.
“It’s not like this is ever going to happen again,” Beth had said. “Just humour us and do the damn thing.”
After 90 minutes of Jenny’s ministrations, Ellie had waved her off. “Ta, luv; that’s brilliant. See you after, in the marquee?”
She looked like herself, she thought, only better. Younger, fresher, less worn.
Even ace Jenny couldn’t make the eyes look innocent, though. Not like they had the last time, when Ellie had barely needed makeup and had floated through the day in a white cloud of a dress, hand in hand with a man who would someday become a monster.
Ellie took a sip of champagne and leant back in the chair. She stretched her legs and admired her pedicured toenails and wondered how long she could wait before putting on her heels. Daisy was laughing in the room next door with Beth, as Lizzie cried, “Mama, mama, watch me twirl!” Ellie pictured blonde hair flying and a full skirt rustling round Lizzie’s knees. She hoped someone was snapping selfies, capturing the loveliness of Daisy in soft periwinkle, Beth in palest green, Lizzie in rose.
Seven minutes, according to her mother’s bracelet watch. “Miss you, Mum,” she whispered.
Afternoon sun filtered into the panelled room, which had been a Sunday School when the church was well-attended and full of children. There was nothing left to do, yet Ellie was not at all tempted to join her attendants, who had left her alone at her request. “Just need a minute to think,” she’d said.
She squeezed her hands open and closed, open and closed, making Alec Hardy’s grandmother’s garnets flash on her left ring finger.
“Tess really didn’t want this?” she had asked, perched on their customary bench in front of the cliffs, as she moved her hand around to catch the light on the day he offered it to her.
Hardy shrugged. “Tess was all about the diamond. Didn’t fancy art deco. Never meant for her, I think. Meant for you.”
Ellie loved the old-fashioned ring: a white gold filigree band with two deep red square-cut stones flanked by tiny round diamonds. The unusual design felt right for the peculiar journey they’d been on.
It almost hadn’t happened, this pairing. She’d been completely wrung out after Danny’s death, and Joe’s betrayal and trial, and all those months of missing Tom, and the disturbing, disorienting Sandbrook investigation. A real relationship with Hardy—with any man—had been unimaginable. She had only two priorities: getting re-established as a DS at Wessex CID, and building an impregnable little world for herself and her boys. Those things would be enough for a long time, she told herself.
For a long time, she thought they were.
Then, too, Hardy had been all but repellent, at first: cynical and bitter and apparently a little unhinged. She’d eventually realised there was considerably more to him than that, but until he’d left Broadchurch, she hadn’t allowed herself to fully acknowledge his appealing qualities. His persistence and formidable intelligence. His dogged faith in the possibility of justice, even if getting it meant flouting some rules. His tenderness for his daughter and, by extension, children in general, especially poor Pippa Gillespie.
And though he’d regularly infuriated her, he had also been so reliably present: silently handing her coffee, serving as her constant sounding board, supporting her as much as she would allow. She’d often rejected his attempts at comfort, both verbal and physical, yet he was right there, every time her life was going to shit, asking gently, “You all right?”
Sharon Bishop had spun so many fantasies during that trial, but one truth was undeniable: On the worst night of Ellie Miller’s life, Alec Hardy was the person she had needed.
The broody bugger had got under her skin, in the end. But it had been a near thing. If he hadn’t come back to Broadchurch after those two years of radio silence, and if she hadn’t been brave enough—exasperated enough—to force his hand, who knew where they’d be now?
Three minutes. Another sip.
So many days, months, years of upheaval had culminated in Ellie sitting in this chair, watching dust motes drift in the light from the window. Lives blown apart; some awkwardly stitched back together. Lisa and Pippa. Danny. Beth and Mark and Chloe and Tess and Daisy and Tom and Fred. Liz Roper, sleeping near Danny in the churchyard outside. Cate and Ricky, Lee and Claire, the Newberys. Jack Marshall.
Alec Hardy.
Ellie Miller.
Joe.
Without a chain of disasters, there was no Alec-and-Ellie, no string quartet playing Mozart in the adjacent sanctuary. She could never say she was glad it all had happened. If she could rewrite history, make Joe the man she’d believed he was on the day they’d stood at the altar, would she? She was glad the question was hypothetical; she knew the only moral answer was “yes.” She also knew that missing the love of the good, steadfast, complicated man now waiting down the hall would have been an incalculable loss.
Ellie slipped on her black patent slingbacks. Impossible questions couldn’t have satisfactory answers. She’d had this conversation with Alec more than once. Maybe there was such a thing as “meant to be,” and maybe there wasn’t. She wasn’t completely convinced—wouldn’t it mean that the disasters were also “meant to be?”—but Alec believed they were together for a reason, and today, she could almost believe, too. By fluke or fate, accident or miracle, she was here at St Bede’s on a July afternoon, about to make promises she intended to keep.
She rose and downed what was left in the glass. The heavy oak door opened, and Beth said, “Come on, then, you gorgeous woman. Let’s get ya married.”
***
He stood by the window in the vestry meeting room, looking through his own reflection past the tombstones and the town to the sea glinting beyond. He wondered, briefly, how many of the people turning to dust beneath those stones had made vows in this church. People saying “I will,” century after century, in the face of death.
His Scotch was gone but he still gripped the tumbler, forcing himself to breathe slowly. Behind him, Tom was reading Captain Underpants to Fred, with Gavin Baker contributing commentary that provoked gales of giggles. In seven minutes, more or less, Paul Coates would open the door.
The day had felt controlled, considering. Open the weather app: thank God, warm and sunny. Call Ellie. Text Daisy, who’d spent the previous night with Chloe. Force down tea and toast. Check in with Lucy to make sure all was in order; thank her again for volunteering to coordinate (and to keep an eye on her dad) rather than serving as a bridesmaid. Text his sisters, Catriona and Maeve, currently ensconced at The Traders with their spouses and kids. Touch base with Gavin, his sort-of-best mate from Sandbrook, who’d been the natural man to ask when they’d been struggling to find someone to pair with Beth. Shower. Put on the black suit and crisp white shirt—a bit posher than the work versions, but not all that different. Fetch Tom and Fred at the house that would only be their home for a few more weeks. Comb hair and knot ties and pin boutonnieres and share a quiet dram of Glenlivet with Gavin, who could always be trusted to show up with proper single malt.
There was nothing left to do, and in seven minutes, more or less, Alec Hardy was going to marry the woman whom he’d loved, in some fashion, for the better part of four years.
Mere days into their first collaboration, he’d learnt that underneath the people-pleaser lived a fierce and capable professional. As weeks went by, he found her aggravating and intriguing in roughly equal measures. But he was sick; she was happily married; and he was only in this bloody town as penance. Solve Latimer, redeem Sandbrook, claw his way out of the hell he’d been inhabiting, move on. Still, Miller was strong and warm and relentless and damned clever and (he swore) uncanny in her ability to make connections. Working with her was what he imagined playing jazz was like: riffing and improvising and raising dissonances that resolved into harmonies. In all his years of policing, he’d never had a partner like Miller.
Through the aftermath of Joe’s confession, through the ordeal of Joe’s trial and the Sandbrook investigation, he’d suppressed growing feelings for her. Tried to support her in whatever way she’d accept. Kept right on goading her because angry Miller was easier to bear, and a better detective, than sad Miller. She could be counted on to backstop him in times of crisis, but she also made it eminently clear that she didn’t want him to touch her. He couldn’t tell if the ban was Hardy-centric or more general. Who knew what the hell was in her head, or her heart? She wasn’t saying. He wasn’t asking.
Their post-Sandbrook “not hugging you” goodbye had merely affirmed his sense that the situation was untenable. He was pretty sure he loved her, by then—despite all that bollocks he’d spouted to Lee Ashworth, he’d have trusted her with his life—but she didn’t, or couldn’t, love him back. Better to go home and try to rebuild something with Tess, for Daisy’s sake.
He still felt some longing for his ex, though her unfaithfulness had been excruciating. He wasn’t a man who could walk away from a 14-year marriage very easily. She’d been kind after his pacemaker surgery; maybe that had been a signal?
Soon after his return to what he’d presumed was home, however, Tess had hit him with the classic “always love you, not in love with you” speech and confirmed that she was still in a relationship with the same prick she’d thrown him over for.
“We can’t relive the past, Alec,” she’d said. “I understand you want to be involved in Daisy’s life, and you’re welcome to stay with us for a while, but you’ll need to find your own place.” And then, almost as an afterthought: “You should keep in touch with Ellie Miller. I don’t know what’s going on with you two. But it’s not nothing.”
He hadn’t dignified that with a reply.
It had been a long, flat, tedious two years. “Flat” was preferable to falling apart, but it wasn’t a happy place to be: arguing with Tess (on and off the job), negotiating a tricky relationship with Daisy, telling himself what he’d felt for Miller was merely sympathy mixed with respect. He knew she had been reinstated at Wessex CID; he was a decent enough detective to keep track of someone who wasn’t trying particularly hard to hide. But he restrained himself from reaching out. What, really, would it accomplish?
One night, he’d been jolted awake after a particularly vivid dream. There hadn’t been much to it: just Miller, sitting on the beach in that omnipresent orange jacket with the cliffs at her back, eyes red from weeping. Though her mouth wasn’t moving, he clearly heard her saying, “What is the point of you if you’re not here?” He knew she was addressing him, but, in the manner of dreams, he was mute and immobile. It had taken him a couple of days to shake that off. If she actually needed him, he reasoned, she could find him.
When the Broadchurch DI position opened up a few months later, Tess had tipped him off even before CS Clark had called. Getting Daisy out of Sandbrook, away from her incessant battles with her mother and the issues she was having at school, was a priority. Broadchurch was a known quantity. Working with Miller would be productive. They could do some good together. No doubt she would continue to be a pain in the arse. It would be fine.
This stupid assumption had lasted less than a day on his new-old job, after which he was forced to admit to himself, drinking malbec and half-watching a stupid film on the sofa with Daisy, that he still had stupid feelings for stupid Ellie Miller.
She was cordial, but wary. Apparently somewhat cheesed off because he hadn’t called for two years—which was illogical, considering the way they’d parted. All during the Winterman rape case and the months of cases that followed, they trod carefully. She made helpful suggestions when he had problems with Daisy. Commiserated with him regarding the frustrations of parenthood. Talked about the long, difficult illness of her mother, ending in death three months before he’d come back. (That revelation had stung. He had felt something wasn’t right; he had done nothing.)
More than once, she probed his motivations for returning to Broadchurch and his reasons for not contacting her for so long. These were uncomfortable conversations in which he was not completely honest. He deflected them as much as possible.
Fred had started Reception year at primary school, and Hardy sometimes fetched him at the end of the day, or gave Tom a lift home from football, when Ellie was tied up with a case. He bought her endless coffees. Sat with her on the bench by the cliffs, sharing theories and Thai takeaway. Reassured her on days when fears about Joe’s potential return—even though Paul Coates had persuaded him to sign divorce papers—threatened her hard-won equilibrium.
Miller seemed stronger, now, more open, but he remained a shite detective when it came to the human heart. He couldn’t even bring himself to say “yes” the one time she’d asked him down to the pub. She’d set such firm boundaries before; he wouldn’t insult her by testing them now. The last thing he needed was a repeat of the “don’t be nice to me” line she’d delivered on the day he’d left Broadchurch.
The supervisor-subordinate dynamic was also a dicey proposition. Sparring was so much safer. Maybe they could do that indefinitely, even if the emotional balancing act, on top of the stress of his job and worrying about Daisy, was rendering him unduly harsh with her—and virtually everyone else—on a daily basis.
Prompted by his daughter, and frustrated with the status quo, he had even tried making a Tinder profile, only to lose interest after a few abortive dates. It was pointless to try being with someone else when this business with Miller was unresolved.
And then she’d appeared on his patio at half-eleven on a cool October night, waving a photo that no one else had studied enough to see that it demolished the alibi of the lead suspect in a brutal assault case that had ground them down for weeks.
He stared at the blurred image in the golden light shining out from his door. “Miller, you are bloody brilliant! That’s got him sorted. That is outstanding!”
She gave him an inscrutable look. “How good is it, d’you think?”
“You know how good, Miller. That’s our case.”
“Is there a reward, then? Detective Inspector Hardy, sir?”
She looked as tired as he felt. Yet there she was on his doorstep, late at night, with a cheeky smirk on her face, apparently flirting with him. He took a punt.
“You want to come in for a drink or somethin’?”
She shook her head. “Not exactly thirsty.”
“Ah.” The silence went on for an eternity.
She sighed impatiently. “If my choices are drink and something, I would consider your offer of … something. You know, Hardy, for a detective, you can be incredibly thick.”
He led her inside, then. Closed the door, peeled off that damned orange jacket, backed her against the wall. Felt his heart thudding and hoped the pacemaker was doing its job. Thanked God Daisy was spending the half-term school holiday with her mum.
Desperate to hold her, he made himself stop, fearing this was a dodgy notion born of exhaustion and bad cue-reading.
“Miller? You’re … sober, and all?”
“Don’t be such a knob,” she retorted.
She took his face in her hands and kissed him, emphatically and without hesitation. Gobsmacked, Hardy pulled her close. The warm, solid aliveness of her made him realise how inadequate his fantasies had been. “This is real, this is Miller, what the fuck?” he thought, over and over, until the things she was doing with her mouth and her hands made him stop thinking altogether. She was clear water and he’d been parched for so long, and she didn’t go home until sunrise.
An ostensibly normal day on the job followed. Shaken and sleep-deprived, they barely conversed. He had no clue how to navigate this, and he was, frankly, terrified that having sex (albeit transcendent) without discussing feelings had been a rubbish idea. There were no sly texts, no furtive snogging, just a tough interrogation—knackered as they were, they could still play jazz—and a grudging confession. Hardy busied himself with the resulting paperwork, holed up in his office with blinds drawn, and told Miller to go home early. She merely gave him a burning glance, and left.
The next morning, however, she strode in, slapped a case folder on his desk, shut the office door, and demanded, “What the hell are we doing, sir?”
He exhaled audibly and pocketed his glasses. Stared at his hands, folded in his lap. Tried not to recall the sweet heat of her body against his.
“Ellie,” he said, slowly, “please. I need you to be real with me. The other night? I wanted that. I’m not sorry. But I can’t be casual with you. I could understand if that’s what you want, but … I can’t do it.”
She came around the desk and squatted before him, covering his hands with her own. “Alec,” she said, in the gentle voice she usually reserved for people who’d been hurt. “Look at me.”
She was smiling, but her eyes were glassy. “Not casual. I love you, you daft git. Long time coming, but I do. And I think you must love me. Yes?”
The relief was so profound that he choked back an unexpected laugh. “God help us, Miller. I surely do. Love you.”
He stood, and she came into his arms as if she had always belonged there. He tried to make the subsequent kiss explain a lot. It took a while.
After that, there had been months of talking, of increasingly abandoned and joyful shagging, of delicate discussions with the kids, and CS Clark, and Ellie’s dad, and Lucy, and Beth, and Tess. There had been numerous conversations about marriage, pro and con, and explorations of potential living arrangements. There had been some visits with her therapist. And they’d shared a sobering consultation with his GP, who laid out Hardy’s current health status and his positive, but guarded, prognosis. He wanted her to understand what she might be taking on. But ultimately, that autumn morning in his office had made this summer afternoon at St Bede’s inevitable. Maybe it had always been inevitable.
Maybe it was meant to be.
The door opened. Daisy popped in. Alec was touched by how grown up she looked in her blue silk dress. He hated the thought that she’d soon be off to the University of Portsmouth, but he was very proud that she’d decided study professional policing there.
“C’mon, Fred, time to get the rings ready,” she said. Gavin handed her a small white box.
“You’re so beautiful, darlin’,” Alec told her. She crossed the room to kiss his cheek.
“You’re lovely too, Da. So, so happy for you.”
She ushered Fred out, and Paul leant in, robed and ready. Tom and Gavin fiddled with their ties; Gavin checked to make sure Alec’s was still straight.
“Everyone set?” Paul asked. “We’ve got a wedding on, here.”
“Aye,” Alec replied. “Let’s go.”