Date Night
By S. Faith, © 2015
Words: 2,521
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: A night in, watching Blind Date… a recipe for something, anyway.
Disclaimer: Isn't mine, durr.
Notes: Never saw a whole episode of Blind Date, though watched part of one on YouTube. The format's a lot like the US's The Dating Game.
Late 1997
"Working on a Saturday night? Really?"
She looked disappointed, but that was to be expected. "I'm so sorry," he said, taking her hands at they stood at the door of her flat. "It shouldn't take me all evening, but after dinner, I have to review my notes for court on Monday."
"But on Saturday night?"
"I don't really want to, but I've got to have this down pat," he said. "But after I'm done, I'll be all yours."
He did not miss seeing the corner of her mouth twitch up in a smile. "All mine, hmm?"
"Absolutely."
"Okay, fine, we'll stay in," she said. "Is it all right, then, if I put on the telly while you work?"
"That's fine," he said; he knew he could probably just tune it out. "In an effort to make it up to you, I brought dinner with me."
"Oh?"
He bent to pick up his attaché and the carrier bag containing their takeaway. "Mm-hmm," he said. "Ringing the changes a bit. I brought something I think you'll like a lot."
"Ooh."
He set the bag on her dining room table; she came up behind him, took up the bag, and brought it to the sofa. He smiled a little. He should have guessed she'd want to be more informal.
"So what is it?" she asked as he unpacked the bag. "Oh, smells delicious."
"Mexican," he said, handing her one of the containers, and keeping one for himself. "Carne asada, to be precise, with soft corn tortillas. Also got a couple of sides—arroz Mexicano and some guacamole."
"My mouth's watering," she said. "Great choice."
Out of the bag he also drew a bottle of Dos Equis, at which she pulled a sour face. He chuckled, then drew out a bottle of ready-to-drink margarita. "Oh, well, you're forgiven," she said, accepting the drink.
The food was very good; so good that he ate it probably a little too quickly. He also wanted to finish so that he could get his work completed, so that he could set it aside and spend his evening with her. She was very nearly done, too, when she reached over and switched on the television. He began gathering up the containers and paper napkins from dinner and asked, "What's on?"
Excitedly she replied, sipping her bottled margarita, "Five minutes to Blind Date."
He discarded their waste, then turned to look at her, reaching for his attaché. She looked utterly gleeful as the theme tune started up. "You can sit on the sofa with me," she said, looking away to him only at the last minute. "I mean, unless you think all of this—" She gestured towards the television. "—is going to bother you."
"I'll be fine," he said; indeed, he normally had a supernatural ability to focus, to block out all extraneous noise and distraction around him. This night, though, he did not count the effect her proximity would have on that focus.
"Oh, they're all so creepy," she said, piercing his thoughts. He looked up just to see her having another sip of her drink, then saw the men on the screen. They didn't seem remarkable to him, or particularly creepy. She made occasional pithy comments after that, but each one wore down his resolve to focus on his work. His pride would not allow him to show his interest in the show for all of his talk of needing to work, but something the female contestant said, regarding adhering to feminist principles, warranted a reply.
"If she's such a feminist," he muttered, "what the hell is she doing on this show?"
Her mouth dropped open in a gape. "I thought you weren't even watching this 'silly nonsense'."
"I never said I thought it was silly nonsense," he said. "I find it amusing, myself, but come on, the sexual innuendo is a bit thick, and the women are objectified."
"They don't exactly force the women to participate," she said. "And maybe she's taking the reins of her sexuality, subverting the patriarchy."
He chuckled. "That doesn't even make sense, Bridget. You just called them all creeps. Aren't they usually creeps? Why would she intentionally want one of them?"
"Well, durr, obviously she just wants a free minibreak," she said, sitting back against the sofa cushion, folding her arms across her chest. "Maybe I'll go on. I could use a nice little getaway."
At this, he outright laughed. "I can't see you parroting any of these double entendres with a straight face," he said.
"Knowing it wasn't for anything but a free holiday, yes, I could," she said. "I'll get to go regardless of which bloke I picked, so I'd just pick the nicest seeming guy and we'd go as pals."
"Bridget," he said, "that's incredibly dishonest. Both for the show, and for the poor fellow. Plus you'd never pull it off. You're a terrible liar."
She pursed her lips.
"Mind you, I like that about you," he said amusedly.
"You don't think I could do it?"
"I don't think you could do it, no," he said.
She sat and stared at him for a moment or two before rising to her feet. She cleared her throat, then said in a clear yet alluring voice, "Reading is one of my greatest pleasures. If I were a book, I'd probably be an Austen novel, so I hope you'd want to read me." She shifted from one foot to another, swinging her hips, and she managed to do so quite smoothly, fluidly, seductively. "If you were a book," she went on, "which book would you be?" She winked, then smiled, which was as triumphant a smile as he'd ever seen.
He had to admit she was convincing and that he appreciated the effort, but she was, after all, speaking to him. He was about to say the same when she began to laugh. "You found that a bit, shall we say, stirring?"
To his dismay he realised he had perhaps appreciated it a little too much. As his face flooded with embarrassment, he explained what he had just been thinking, that she was convincing mostly because she was saying it to him.
"Besides," he said, "would you rather go through all of that to have a holiday with some strange chap when you could have one with me?"
She lilted one brow up in response. "Are you offering?" she asked. "Would you be bringing work with you then, too? Mind you, you're a bit of a strange chap too."
He fought to suppress a smile, but he couldn't, nor could he stop a chuckle. He hadn't actually thought a whole lot about a holiday with her—more than a minibreak, as she would often say—and he didn't think a whole lot about holidays in general as he had mostly taken them alone in the past, but the idea was very appealing. "I am offering," he said.
"Oh, goody." She sat back down, pulled the papers from his lap, set them aside on the table, then put her arms around his neck to give him a kiss, before combing her fingers through his hair and bouncing in her seat. "You are the absolute best."
He thought briefly about teasing her about all of this Blind Date business having been an elaborate plot to wangle a holiday out of him, but he decided not to. She was the least conniving person he knew, and she might have taken it the wrong way. He certainly did not want to burst her bubble of excitement, which itself made him happy. "I do try." He slipped an arm around her waist as she curled in next to him; she was paying absolutely no mind anymore to the television, and he was all right with that. "I'll bet you've already got a place in mind."
She blew air through her lips. "Not a place," she said. "Whole lists of places I've dreamt of seeing someday. But it's not really so much about where… as with whom."
He chuckled again, pecking a kiss on her lips. "So what's at the top of that list?"
"You know. Cottage in the Cotswolds… beachside in Brighton… touring the Lake District. So romantic…." She sighed a happy sigh. "Why? What did you have in mind?"
He ran his fingers over her hair; her horizons weren't very broad, possibly budget-based, which made him want to choose something she never would have picked on her own. "Hadn't given much thought before right now," he said, "but I have some ideas."
"Oh?" she said. "What?"
"How about I book it and surprise you?"
She sat up to look into his eyes. "Are you joking?"
"I would never joke about something like this." He continued to comb her hair with his fingers, tracing a path along her hairline. "Have you still got a week's holiday this summer?"
"A week? Not a weekend minibreak?"
"If you're going to do it, do it right."
She honestly looked as if she had just won the national lottery, as if she'd just found the biggest spread of presents on Christmas morning. "You're really going to book a weeklong holiday?"
"You merely need to let me know when you have your holiday time."
She made a squeaking squeal sound low in her throat, then threw her arms around his neck for a hug, then a kiss. "I love you!"
"So I take it I'm forgiven for bringing work home?"
"Oh, yes, of course," she said. "Finish if you need to. So you can take the time off too."
"I'm done for the night," he murmured, then kissed her again.
…
Soon enough, the day of departure for their holiday arrived. Bridget had spoken of nothing else for the intervening month since they'd first talked about it, had pestered him to tell him where they were going, but he was steadfast.
Everything had been arranged; he needed now to pick her up. He wouldn't be able to hide the destination for long, particularly as heading to an airport was going to be a dead giveaway that they were not simply driving to somewhere up in the Cotswolds. But having already pocketed her passport to pack with his own, he hoped to prolong the surprise as long as possible. He just had one further task to do once at her flat.
"Are you ready?" he asked as he let himself into the flat.
"Oh God! You're early!" she said, coming out from the back of the flat with her hair half-dried. "Really, really early!"
"I take that to mean no," he said. "Are you packed?"
She pursed her lips.
"I could do it," he offered. "That way I can make sure you're packed appropriately."
She looked a bit dubious. "How do I know you won't forget something important?"
"You'll have to just trust me," he said. "You can do your own sponge bag."
Once he was done with her clothing, he made to oversee the packing of the sponge bag. It looked complete, and if there was anything forgotten, he could always pick it up once they arrived.
"So I can't see what you've put in there?"
"Nope," he said. "Live a little. Be spontaneous."
She burst out with a laugh. "Funny, you saying that," she said. "I feel sort of like I'm on a blind date. A blind holiday, really."
He smiled warmly at her, consciously taking in her appearance at last; she looked entirely ready for a beautiful sunny day, with her summer dress, light button down sweater, kitten-heeled shoes. Her makeup was fresh and light, and her golden hair laid in waves on her shoulders.
"So do I pass muster for our mystery destination?" she asked, probably at the length of his silence, the intensity of his gaze.
"Oh, yes," he said. "More than pass."
She beamed. "As you see," she said. "I'm ready."
"Indeed."
He gathered up her things and carried them to the car, popping them into the boot, while she dug into her handbag for her sunglasses. He got the door for her just as she found them. "So, is it a long drive?"
"Not terribly," he said mysteriously.
After a few minutes navigating out of town, entering the M1 roadway heading towards Luton, she said, "Oh, so it's something up north? Lake District? Ooh, Scotland?"
"Nope," he said with a smirk.
She sat back in her seat, deep in thought. "Well, where on earth… are we taking the long way 'round to somewhere like Cardiff?"
"That would be a clever misdirection," he said, "but no."
"Humpf," she said. "Aren't you going to give me a little hint?"
He glanced to her. "You'll be glad you brought your sunglasses."
"I'm glad I brought them anyway!" she said with a bit of frustration. "You're maddening." After a beat, she added, "You're lucky you're cute."
He chuckled. "'Cute'?"
"All right, 'a good shag'."
"I'll take 'cute'."
"Well, both, then," she said. "Fine. Ireland?"
"No."
"Brighton?"
He laughed. "No."
Just north of Watford, they began to see signs for Luton Airport. This seemed to prompt her to start guessing more distant destinations. "Ooh. Paris?"
"No."
"Berlin?"
"No."
"Barcelona?"
"No."
"Are we even taking a plane?" she asked impatiently.
"Yes."
"Are we—wait, yes?"
"Yes."
"Oooh," she said. "New York City? Los Angeles?"
"No," he said. "Bridget, we'll be boarding soon enough, and you'll know."
"I'm not very patient when it comes to a surprise like this."
"I hadn't noticed," he said drolly.
Mark directed the car into long-term parking for the week. They then boarded the shuttle bus to the terminal, which is when he finally showed her the mobile boarding pass he'd gotten from checking them in online.
Costa del Sol, Málaga, Spain.
"Oh, my God," she said, holding the mobile as if it were a holy relic. "Where is that?"
"On the southern coast of Spain," he said. "The translation is 'sun coast', after all."
"Oh my GOD," she said breathlessly.
"I made sure to pack your bikini and sandals."
"Oh, no, not the bikini," she said. "My belly's going to blind the masses. They're going to sound the alarm for a beached whale."
He leaned forward and whispered quietly into her ear, "You'll be beautiful. Now hush."
He saw a blush tinge the apples of her cheeks. Then her mouth fell open. "Oh God. What about my passport?"
"I nicked it," he said. "How do you think I was able to get the tickets?"
She grinned, then leaned into him to peck his cheek. "I love it when you're devious like this."
Proudly, he smiled.
"I wish you'd told me sooner," she said, still leant into him, still speaking quietly.
"I told you—" he began, but she placed a finger over his lips to quieten him.
"Not because of my impatience," she said. "But because it's going to be a bit before I can thank you… properly."
His thoughts began to run rampant—and not in a welcome way—about exactly what her thank-you might entail…
Just then, the shuttle bus stopped abruptly.
The end.