A Day in the Life

by S. Faith

There's nothing like embarking on a new career in earnest to kick-start one's life. Don't be surprised, then, when it starts kick-starting other things, too.

1. Chapter 1: A New Assignment

A Day in the Life

By S. Faith, © 2016

Words: 33,624
Rating: M / R (For Chapter 3)
Summary: There's nothing like embarking on a new career in earnest to kick-start one's life. Don't be surprised, then, when it starts kick-starting other things, too.
Disclaimer: This is my circus, just not my monkeys. And as far as I know, there is no such series in The Independent.
Notes: Book universe. With some leakage in from the films.

Chapter 1: A New Assignment

Late December

"I hate my job. I fucking, fucking, fucking hate my job."

Bridget set the glass of wine down with a little more force than intended, splashing it all over her hand. Another curse escaped her lips.

"Oh, come now, Bee," said her friend as Bridget dried the wine from her hand. "It's not all bad. And at least you get out of the house and speak to other human beings with vocabularies larger than twenty-five words."

"It is all that bad," she said. "My boss is a moron and my work is not in any way satisfying." She picked up the wineglass then took another sip of wine, draining it dry. "I'm just waiting to be assigned to a dog fashion show. It's only a matter of time, really."

She sighed. Her friend did not say anything in response… but her husband did.

"Are you still wanting to do actual journalism?"

"I have done actual—" She stopped because she didn't want to lie, then poured more wine. Instead, she asked, "Did you hear about a job opening or something?"

"Not as such," he said. "At the news agents, I happened to notice the announcement of a new series in The Independent that they're launching soon. I thought of you."

"If they'd let me," she murmured, thinking of that failed attempt at celebrity interviewing. "What's the series?" she asked. "And why me?"

"Because you're always complaining you want to do something a bit more serious, more satisfying," Jeremy said with a wink. "As for the series, they're doing a bunch of 'a day in the life' of different sorts of professional people. This week's an A&E doctor, I guess. Next week'll be a secondary school teacher."

She had to admit the idea was appealing, but… "I wouldn't have the faintest idea which profession to cover."

"Aha, I can help there, too," he said. He held out his hands. "Barrister!"

She cocked a brow. She couldn't think of anything duller than one of Jeremy's days, an accounting of which she'd heard far too many times. "Seriously?"

"If you want people to take you seriously," her friend, Magda, cut in, "you have to tackle serious topics. Jeremy and his partners in chambers take on some very serious cases. It could be just what you need, Bridge."

Bridget regarded Jeremy again. She was beginning to think that maybe, for once, Jeremy might have had a winning idea. "All right," she said. "I'll whip together a pitch, and if they bite, I'll… I don't know. Take off a day or so to write it up."

"That's the spirit, Bridge," said Magda, lifting her glass as if in toast. "May this upcoming year be even better than the last."

Early January

Once the bug had bitten her, she couldn't stop thinking about doing it. In fact, she rang up her mother to feign illness in order to escape the yearly horror of the New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet, which she considered a win on two fronts: career advancement, and avoiding this year's single girl prize, a man her mother had been dropping mentions into every conversation since August, at least.

"You're going to be very sorry," her mother had scolded. "I had a lovely outfit picked out for you; you know, darling, the darling floral skirt and waistcoat, with the shirt with the ruffled collar—"

It was all she'd had to hear to make her feel like she'd dodged a bullet.

But her pitch was as perfect as it was going to get, and on the first work day in the new year, she marched down to their editorial offices, politely but forcefully requested an appointment to pitch her story, then did so.

She got the job. Her past experience with celebrity interviews had not, in fact, worked against her; they remembered the interest it had garnered, and hoped she'd garner just as much with this piece.

"But I intend this to be a more serious piece," she'd said. They looked like they didn't believe her. She'd show them.

The year was off to an excellent start.

…

The year was off to a depressing start.

He had accompanied his parents to a party with them at their request, most due to his intrigue at his mother's mentioning that she had someone nice to introduce to him: a professional career woman who worked in a field vastly different to his own; attractive and popular, but lacking in the area of love.

He had to admit he'd been intrigued—particularly by the assertion that, despite having millions of men taking her out, she was too much of a feminist to deign to settle with any of them—even though he never would have admitted to it. He'd thought of it, of her, as a challenge. When he'd arrived at the party, though, he found she had phoned to say she wasn't feeling well, but own mother didn't even seem to believe her. This made it patently clear to him that she'd had no interest in attending in order to meet him.

He'd felt stood up, sight unseen.

This, compounded by the unhappy holiday-related memories that haunted him every year, did not put him in the most amenable of moods upon returning to work after the Christmas holiday, particularly when, not even a week into the year, he learnt he would be taking on a special assignment.

"Why me?" he asked his colleague, Jeremy, who had come to inform him.

"Because I know the journalist so I'd feel it was a conflict of interest," Jeremy said, "and you have not adequately paid your dues in the press."

"Just because I refuse to give them interviews about my cases?"

"Yes, to be honest," said Jeremy, "because being so tight-lipped gives you a reputation of being cold and unapproachable."

He bristled. "What does that have to do with anything? It's not like it's stopping me from getting clients."

"Mark," he said, "you are actually the best in chambers, I don't mind admitting, just ahead Horatio for cases-won percentage for last year… but you also had twenty-five per cent fewer clients than he did, for God's sake."

"My cases are often more challenging," he said, though realised Horatio was also supposed to be half-retired at this point.

Jeremy clapped Mark on the shoulder in a friendly way. "You're a decent chap and I consider you a good friend," he said. "But the fact is that you're a bit scary sometimes, and your public image could use softening a little. This story for The Independent is exactly what you need."

Mark realised he was not going to win this argument, and he sighed. "Fine," he said. "But does it have to be The Independent?"

"Yes," he said. "They're doing a whole public interest series, 'a day in the life' sort of thing. So Monday oncoming, you will have Ms Jones shadowing you."

"All day?" Mark asked.

"Actually," Jeremy replied, "probably most of the week."

When he returned to his office, the normally pacifist Mark barely kept himself from punching something. What on earth had he done to deserve this?

Monday, 4 Jan

Mark was, as always, able to immerse himself in his work, but the downside meant that it was Monday again before he knew it. He didn't have a court appearance that day, so he forecasted that the day was going to be a very long, very tedious one.

He had expected her to be there at the very start of the day, but she wasn't. In fact, it was nearly ten a.m. before he heard the tap on his office door. He looked up to see Jeremy standing there, and beside him was a young woman with a messenger bag slung on her shoulder. She was dressed smartly, a tailored suit jacket and skirt, her dark blonde hair pulled away from her face. "Mark," said Jeremy. "Allow me to introduce Ms Bridget Jones, the journalist with The Independent who'll be with you today. Bridge, this is Mark Darcy, our top barrister here in chambers."

She was regarding him with an odd look as she extended her hand for a cordial handshake. He was sure his own expression was odd, as there was something very familiar about her, or at least her name. "Very nice to meet you," she said. "I'm so sorry I'm late."

"She got a bit lost," Jeremy said.

"I got turned around," she said emphatically. "Anyway, you can just fill me in on what you've been doing so far this morning, and we'll catch up."

"I'll leave you to it, then," said Jeremy. To her, he said, "Still on for lunch?"

"Sure thing," she said, then gave him a quick hug and a peck on the cheek. "Bye."

Then it came to him, why her name seemed familiar. This was the Ms Millions-of-Men-Feminist who had blown off the Turkey Curry Buffet with a flimsy excuse. No wonder she had not wanted to attend to meet him. No wonder Jeremy had said she couldn't interview him because of a conflict of interest. Jeremy had embarked on yet another affair; this time, with this woman.

He could remain thoroughly professional and discreet, even though personally, he thought it was distasteful on Jeremy's part.

Once Jeremy had gone, Mark said, "Why don't you have a seat?"

"Yes, thank you," she said, though she was still regarding him with scrutiny. "I'm sorry to stare, but have we actually met before? Your name's famil—" As she spoke, it clearly occurred to her how his name was familiar.

"We were, I think, supposed to meet on New Year's Day," he said curtly, resuming his seat. "Now. As for the portion of my day that you missed, I attended our Monday morning meeting, then I've been reviewing this brief." He pushed a piece of paper towards her.

"This?" She picked it up, looking it over; there was nothing in it that was particularly confidential. "All morning?"

"A good portion of it, yes."

She looked to him again. "I don't even understand it."

"It's extremely precise, legal language."

"I'll say." She handed it back to him. She turned to her bag. "Let me get some background on you," she said, pulling out a notebook computer, opening it, poising her fingers to type. "Where did you do your legal training? Did you have to do an internship?"

"Cambridge," he said. "Triple-Starred First. Then I did what's called a pupillage—"

"Wait, a what? A Triple-Starred First?" she asked in disbelief, then laughed. "You're making that up!"

"I'm not," he said coolly. "My pupillage was with a law firm close to the school, and after being called to the Bar, I was brought on by the partners here."

She blinked a few times, then typed in what he said. "Right," she said. "Is 'Triple-Starred' hyphenated?"

"I believe that it is," he said. "Yes."

"Pupillage. One 'l' or—"

"Two," he said.

"Great," she said, finishing up her thoughts, then looking up to him. "Now what?"

Curious about these basic grammar and spelling uncertainties, he asked, "Exactly what are your journalistic credentials?"

She sat up straighter in her chair. "You may have seen a celebrity interview that I did with Colin Firth in The Independent."

"Who?"

She let out an annoyed breath. "He played Mr Darcy on the BBC, for one."

"As for 'now what'," he continued as if she hadn't answered at all, "I have to finish reviewing the brief to prepare my defence."

"Wait. So someone else wrote it?" she asked.

"Yes," he said. "Solicitors do the paperwork. Barristers, such as myself, take charge of the case for court."

"Ooh," she said brightly, "so do we get to go to court?"

"No."

…

All of this legal stuff was all very confusing. And boring as hell. It must be boring, she thought, if going to court's something to actually look forward to. Deflated, she said, "Oh."

"Well, not today, anyway," he amended.

"So today is all about… staring at papers?"

He directed his gaze at her; a gaze, she noticed, that was exceedingly penetrating and a bit intimidating, which she supposed worked to his advantage in a courtroom scenario. "This work is not as glamourous as journalist's, I suppose," he said drolly. "Who on earth suggested this story to you, anyway?"

"Jeremy," she said.

"Ah, that explains it," he said. "Well. Not staring. Reading, comprehending, strategizing."

"And then eventually going to court," she said. She started to type again. "Can you talk about the case you're working on?"

"No."

She glanced up. "No?"

"Confidentiality. No."

"But it was all right for me to look at that paper?"

"It's a procedural brief," he said, "and there's nothing confidential about it, but even if it were, you already said you didn't understand it, anyway. I have very little I could show you that isn't either equally incomprehensible, or confidential."

"But what about my story?"

"That's hardly my concern," he said, folding his hands over the paper he'd been reviewing. "You're here to observe my day. I am happy to explain what I'm doing but I'd be a terrible barrister—and likely a sanctioned one—if I broke confidentiality with my clients."

She opened her mouth to respond when his telephone began to ring. He reached over and picked up the receiver, addressing whomever it was with, "Mark Darcy."

"Shall I step outside, then?" she asked, though he paid her no heed. "I'll just go then." He waved his hand as if to dismiss her, as he listened to his caller. "Right."

She decided that she needed a cigarette, but then as she looked around in the hallway, she realised she might never find her way back, so she stayed put. She looked to her watch then sighed heavily. She had only been in there with him for twenty minutes.

"Fuck me," she muttered to herself, just as the door opened again.

"Ah, I was hoping you hadn't gone far," Mark said. "It's very easy to get… turned around in this building."

She hoped her own expression matched one of his darker ones. "Appreciate your concern," she said coolly, passing by him to go into his office again.

He took his seat once more, and looked to her waiting for her to take hers, too. When she did, when she brought her netbook close enough to type on again, he spoke. "I apologise for the interruption. I had scheduled a conference call meeting over the lunch hour, and that was a call asking to start at ten minutes past."

"Noon?"

He looked as if he thought she might be mad. "Yes," he said slowly. "The lunch hour. Fortunately you'll be able to give it a miss."

Thank God, she thought.

"I'll just finish the review of this paperwork, then if you like, you can accompany me to the solicitor's office."

"Hurrah," she said with mock-enthusiasm. He raised his eyes, glaring at her once more. "Let's get on with it then."

"After you return from lunch, I mean," he said. "I don't know how long it'll take me, and I can't be late for the conference call."

"Ah." She typed in some notes, saw what she'd put down earlier. "So you have meetings on Monday morning? What do you talk about? Provided, of course, you can talk about these things."

"Of course. The partners get together to discuss their caseload and the progress they've made, and what's anticipated in the week ahead. Now, I'll finish this, if you want to, I don't know, polish up your notes from the morning."

"Right."

She promptly made edits to what she'd already written, added in several new paragraphs at her first impressions and to add in information about their weekly status meetings, and typed in a few things to spark her memory for later. She then she looked to him again. He was obviously still working, studying the paper with impressive levels of concentration.

"Pardon me," she said quietly. He looked up, clearly annoyed. "I was wondering where I might find a coffee."

"I believe there's a Pret down the street."

"Nothing in the building?"

"Afraid not." He looked back down, studying the page again.

"How about the loos? Is there one nearby?"

"If you go into the hallway to the left, then turn right at the intersection, you'll find them." After a pause, he said, "If you're not back in a few minutes, I'll send out a search party."

She pursed her lips, rose, and went to the ladies' room.

…

"Oh my God, Jeremy," said Bridget over her wineglass at lunch. "Did you have to give me the rudest bastard in chambers for my story?"

"What do you mean?" he said.

"He's been doing nothing but revising a brief all bloody morning, and he doesn't answer any of my questions about his cases."

"Unfortunately," Jeremy said, "that's kind of what we do. All of those Pelican Brief-type pictures have been very misleading."

"I'll say. Why the hell did you recommend this for my 'day in the life' story?"

"It'll be your challenge to spice it up, make it good reading," he said with a wink.

With a heavy sigh, she took another bite of her lunch.

"It turns out he's the same guy my mum wanted to set me up with on New Years Day," she said, then looked up at a stunned Jeremy. He then began to laugh.

"Maybe he's in a bad mood," Jeremy said. "I mean, if he is in a bad mood—"

"Seems like it to me."

"Then again," he said, "he's always a bit like that. Has a reputation for a cool demeanour."

"You can say that again."

"But he's the best at what he does," said Jeremy, "and really a good guy. Maybe he just needs a little time to warm to you."

She gave him a sidelong glance. "He has no sense of humour. At all."

"It is a bit dry…."

"It's a bloody desert, Jeremy."

Jeremy smirked. "I have every confidence that you'll get a good story out of this," he said.

She snorted in disbelief, ate some more of her salad, then sighed. "It'd be easier getting blood from a stone," she said. "I'm going to need more than today, for sure."

"Probably," said Jeremy. "Oh, bloody hell. It's a bit later than I thought."

They didn't linger once they were finished eating, and it wasn't until she was standing before his door again that she remembered she had meant to call to extend her time off. Which excuse would she offer this time? Or perhaps she should just extend her current excuse…

She pulled out her mobile and rang up Perpetua.

"Sorry to report, I'll need a day or two more."

Perpetua's tone was highly sceptical. "A day or two for the gynaecologist?"

"Really sorry, but it's a particularly complicated gynaecological problem," she said quietly… just as she looked up to meet Mark Darcy's disapproving eye. "Thanks. I'll see you Thursday."

…

She disconnected her call and composed herself. "Meeting's over, then?"

"Yes," he said, pondering what he had just apparently overheard: her making an appointment for a… very personal problem. "Through with lunch?"

"Obviously," she said. "Shall we head off to the solicitor's?"

He nodded, retreating into the office to gather the paper, the words 'particularly complicated' turning and turning in his head, along with the descriptor 'millions of men'—and thought too of Jeremy.

"It was just an excuse," she said. "I mean, I know you overheard me on the phone."

"Your medical issues are none of my business," he said, turning his gaze to her.

"I don't have any medical issues," she said. "It's just… that was work."

"That clears everything up."

"I mean, my normal work, in publishing," she explained. "I was taking today off to write this, but I'll need more time. I guess I just can't help winding my nosy superior up a bit, that's all."

"I see," he said, though could not help think how immature such a thing was.

A little more brightly, she continued, "Do you think… do you think you can be, I don't know…" She then trailed off at his stern expression.

"Be what?" he asked, looking at his papers again to ensure he had everything he needed.

"…a little livelier? I—"

He managed to silence her mid-sentence with only a look. He didn't know if he'd have the patience to deal with her for another two days. "Come on," he said gruffly, handing her the netbook she'd brought. "Let's go see Mr McKinney."

While his conversation with Alastair McKinney was slightly more exciting, objectively speaking, than sitting and reviewing the brief, she seemed bored beyond belief, and typed very little, only speaking once to apologise for an audio outburst from her computer that he recognised as the music from the game Solitaire. His glare meant that it did not happen again.

As they left that office to walk back to his own, as she lagged behind, he felt something akin to sympathy; he supposed it was rather slow work for someone whose own livelihood was a bit faster paced. He redirected them to the nearby Pret.

"What's this?"

"You had mentioned wanting a coffee," he said. "Unless you'd rather—"

"No, no, I'd love one," she said.

He went up to the counter and ordered himself a black house coffee before he turned to her. "And whatever she'd like."

She looked surprised—as if she'd never expected he'd pay—but blathered out that she wanted a cappuccino. "Thank you," she said, offering a small smile.

Upon arriving back to his office, he took his seat again and she took the one she'd used since arriving, on the opposite side of his desk. She held her drink with two hands and took a careful sip.

"So what other adventure does your day hold?" she asked.

Ignoring the superficial tone, he said, "Well, I do have a court appearance tomorrow, so I'll review the brief again with an eye towards defence. I mean, I've already got my strategy in mind, but it's good to have it all nailed down before I'm in front of the judge."

She nodded, showing the most interest in his work that she'd shown all day.

"You'll want to be here by eight," he went on, "and you can accompany me to the Royal Court of Justice."

"Eight?" she said. "In the morning?"

"Certainly not this evening," he said. He glanced to the clock. It was quarter to five. "I don't really see any reason for you to stay while I work on strategy. Go on home, and I'll see you bright and early."

"Oh," she said. "Well, all right then." She reached to pick up her netbook in order to pack it in her bag, but in doing so she knocked her drink over. Thanks to the lid, his papers were spared, but the directed nature of the spill—cappuccino coming directly through the spout—meant his trousers were not.

He looked down at the spill as she exclaimed, "Oh my God, I'm so sorry." She jumped up, looked around, then, seeing a box of tissues, she grabbed a few and ran around to try to help, pressing them into the spill.

"I think I can handle this myself," he said curtly, rolling the chair away from her.

"Oh God," she said again, realising precisely what she'd done. "You're not…" Her eyes flicked down. "—burnt, I hope."

"No damage done," he said stoically, "except for an unexpected stop at the cleaners."

"I'll pay," she blurted. "I'll totally pay."

"Not necessary," he said, reaching for the now-empty cup to right it. "It was an accident." Go on, he thought, before my office bursts into spontaneous flames. "I'll see you in the morning."

Looking utterly chastened, she finished packing her bag. Slinging it onto her shoulder, she said, "Well. See you then, then." With that, she was gone, and peace was restored to his world. For now, anyway, he thought, thinking of the next two days.

He turned to his work—thank goodness the damage was beyond minimal—and began to read and take more notes when a knock sounded on his door. "Come in," he said without thinking.

The door swung wide. Jeremy stood there, and seemed puzzled that he was alone. "Where's Bee? I mean… Bridget?"

The slip, the usage of the affectionate abbreviation of her name, only seemed to confirm Mark's suspicions, though he was careful not to reveal anything in his features. "I sent her home," Mark said, "as there was no need for her to stay while I did strategy work."

"Ah," said Jeremy. "Was supposed to give her a lift."

And probably a little more, Mark thought sourly. "You've missed her," Mark said. "Sorry."

"Everything all right?"

Mark sighed, setting down his pen. "Just fine," he said, "save for surreptitious Solitaire games and spilt cappuccino in the lap."

Jeremy began laughing. "That sounds… typical. I'm sorry, Mark. Tomorrow will probably be a little more interesting for her. I find it's often a challenge to keep her entertained."

Mark prayed that Jeremy would not regale him with details.

Jeremy, undoubtedly at Mark's expression, smiled and clapped his friend on the shoulder. "Good luck, and good night," Jeremy said. "Me, I've got a date to keep."

…

Bridget had to admit that a day in court was much more appealing than watching Mr Stuffy Britches revise a brief, though funnily enough, the boredom of the day had really taken the energy it out of her. When her mobile went off shortly after her arrival home, she groaned; it was Jeremy, asking if she was still willing to come and watch the kids so he and Magda could have dinner together. She had totally forgotten she was supposed to ride to the house with him.

"I'll come and get you," he said. "No worries. Gives you a chance to put on something more comfortable."

Fortunately—miraculously, even—the children were exceptionally well-behaved, giving her a chance to work on her article as they watched DVDs of Pingu, and went to bed obediently and on time. Jeremy and Magda came back from their date night at a respectable hour, and she was home and in her flat by eleven. She smiled to think of her friends' reconciliation; in an effort to keep their relationship energised after an affair that Jeremy had had (and about which he had been thoroughly penitent), they had begun regular date nights. Monday night was a weird night to do it, but due to Jeremy's caseload, he would be working late the rest of the week, and he wanted to honour his commitment to his wife.

"See?" he'd said to Magda before they'd left, bringing emotional tears to Bridget's eyes; "I told you I was serious."

Tuesday, 5 Jan

She did make it to Mark Darcy's office by the appointed hour of eight, though she had to sacrifice stopping at the nearby Pret a Manger for a coffee. To her surprise, however, Mark was in his office, and a paper coffee cup from Pret sat in front of the chair that she had occupied the day before.

"Good morning; glad to see you made it on time," he said curtly. He indicated the cup. "Cappuccino, as per yesterday. Please try to not spill it."

She offered a smile. Maybe he was warming to her, after all. "Thank—" she began, but was overtaken by a yawn. "Sorry. Thank you."

"You're welcome." He smiled stiffly, then asked, "Late night?" With those two words, his tone was somehow reproachful.

"Not really any of your business," she said matter-of-factly, picking up the coffee and sipping. So much for warming to me. "Don't we have to go?"

"We have a few minutes yet," he said, then added, "I thought that you might be late. We don't have to be before the judge until nine."

"Ah," she said, then sipped again. He had even had them add the sugar she had asked them to add. She'd give him this much: he had an amazing attention for detail. "It's a very good cappuccino. Thanks again."

"No trouble at all."

As they walked down to the Royal Courts of Justice, he advised her what she could and could not write about: no case details for privacy's sake, just descriptors of the procedure. "I brought you a pad of paper and a pen," he said, "so that you'll be a little less conspicuous."

It was once they arrived to the correct hearing room that she met Mark Darcy's client, or rather, clients; a foreign-born man who was fighting extradition back to a very dangerous home country, and his wife, a young Englishwoman who had been an aid worker in that turbulent area.

"Surely I can mention he's trying to stay in the UK," she said. "I mean, there's nothing secretive about that."

"I'd prefer that you didn't," he said. "Politically, it could be very sensitive."

"So what do I say the hearing's about, then?"

"You just say it's a routine legal hearing," Mark said.

"Don't you think that I could use this story to help humanise their plight, emphasise the importance of—"

"Just a routine hearing," he interrupted.

She gave him a bit of a glaring look—surely nothing to rival any of his withering ones—as she took the pad and pencil from him.

She sat in the gallery through the morning-long dull discussion, during which they were picking apart and interpreting the law in ways that she didn't pretend to understand. She failed to understand why they were trying to send him back at all; his marriage to a UK citizen should have been more than enough, or at least that's how she understood it to work. She was grateful for the coffee to get her brain cells firing this much, but desperate for another, and for a wee, as well.

At a recess break, after a run to the loos, she found the little café that was actually within the Royal Courts of Justice itself, and also found Eleanor Heaney, the client of Mark's, looking a bit bereft. Neither Mark nor Eleanor's husband, Kafir Aghani, were nearby.

"Hi," she said to the woman. "Where's Mr Darcy?"

"He's having some kind of important off-the-record sidebar or something."

"Ah," said Bridget. "Oh. Can I buy you a coffee?"

"Oh, um, yes, that'd be nice. Thanks."

"Do you think your husband might want one, too?" she asked, assuming he, too, was availing himself of the toilets."

"I think he would, thank you."

She brought the three coffees back to the table just as Kafir Aghani joined them.

"I don't know if I understand exactly what this is all about," Bridget said, "but I bet this is a bit stressful."

Eleanor nodded. "This is just a hearing to try to get the request dismissed altogether. This part of the process could go on for months and months. It's already been on-going for more than four years."

"Just over four and a half," amended Kafir.

"How…" Bridget said; she was at a loss for words. "How absolutely dreadful."

"That's an understatement," Eleanor said tiredly. She reached for her husband's hand with her free one, and offered him a warm smile that lit up her face. "But whatever happens, I'll be here for him." The love and affection Kafir Aghani had for his wife in return was all too obvious to her.

"That's so sweet," Bridget said with all sincerity. They all took a moment to drink their coffees.

Eleanor cradled her coffee cup with both hands, then spoke again, much more cautiously than before. "You know, Mr Darcy keeps saying he doesn't want us to speak with the press, but then he brings you along to the hearing. It's very confusing."

"I'm doing a piece for The Independent," she said, then explained the series in general, and her pitch specifically. "This is more about him than the case."

"Oh," she said. "Well, he's an excellent choice for a profile. His reputation for knowledge of the law, especially when it comes to human rights… he really is the best. And we have really needed the best."

She smiled, wishing she could ask for details on why, but she did not. "I hope he's able to bring you the outcome you want." Bridget noticed their hands were still linked. "Well, the one you deserve, because you're clearly in love and deserve to stay together."

Eleanor looked thoughtful, then to Bridget's surprise, tears welled in the woman's eyes. "He deserves to stay alive," she murmured, more to herself than anything… then looked to Bridget quickly. "Oh, God, I shouldn't have said that."

"It's all right," she said, though privately, her heart began to race. Deserves to stay alive? What on earth does she mean by that—is it that dangerous in his home country? "I won't say a thing. I promise."

Eleanor looked at her earnestly, then smiled. "It's strange," she said, "since we only just met, but… I believe you."

"Thank you," said Bridget with a smile. "You are both so lovely. I'm so nervous about screwing this story up."

"What else have you written about in the press?" Kafir asked.

Bridget's mind flashed to her thrilling but ultimately ill-fated interview with the delightful actor who'd played Mr Darcy… and felt her face flush with embarrassment. "This is my first serious piece," she said instead.

"I hope it brings you many more assignments," he said.

"Me too," she confided. "I hate my day job, if I'm to be honest. My real job."

"What is it that you do?"

"I work in publishing. I read through what's called the slush pile, and let me tell you, there are some real winners there." After a beat, she added, "And by winners, I mean total and absolute stinkers."

They both chuckled, it was really the first time she'd seen them with genuine smiles, and she felt proud for putting them at ease. "What's the worst you've read?" asked Eleanor. "I mean, if you can say."

"No harm in saying," said Bridget. "A really, really bad philosophical take on history through different cheeses."

"I'm sorry, did you say 'cheeses'?" said Eleanor. "As in Muenster? Wensleydale? Emmenthal?"

"Unfortunately, I did."

They both began laughing again.

"Ah," said Kafir. "Here comes Mr Darcy now."

He had returned from his sidebar discussion to advise them that the recess was almost over. The expression on Mark's face spoke of his concern that they had been speaking on taboo subjects. "Ms Jones was kind enough to buy us coffees and keep us company."

"Kind, indeed," he said tersely. "Come. We're about to start again."

…

Mark had no idea about what they had all been speaking as he was approaching, but he was pretty sure he'd overheard Eleanor listing off types of cheese. Fortunately, this curiosity did not distract him from his arguments, and they ended the morning hearing on what he felt was a successful note, though it had taken longer than he'd thought, and at nearly two in the afternoon, he felt the lack of lunch quite acutely.

"We'll return here for the decision after lunch," Mark said as they left the courtroom. "Ms Jones, why don't you call it an early day, since there's no reason for you to continue to sit in the courtroom?"

"Why doesn't Ms Jones join us for lunch?" Eleanor Heaney piped up.

Bridget looked up. "Oh, no, I appreciate the offer, but…" she began, looking to Mark. "I'm sure that you need to discuss your case, and you should speak freely."

"She's correct," said Mark. To Bridget, he said, "You can use your afternoon to transcribe your notes from today."

She nodded; he was glad she saw it his way. She turned to his clients. "It was a very great pleasure meeting you both. I'll be rooting for you." Then she turned back to him. "Until tomorrow morning, then. Eight a.m.?"

"Nine will do," he said. "See you then."

"I'll bring the coffee," she said.

For lunch, for maximum privacy, he decided to order takeaway to be brought to the office, and they had it within twenty minutes. God bless London and modern technology, he thought as he dug into his curry.

"So things went well today?" Kafir asked. "Things went our way?"

Mark nodded. "At least, I think so. The judge seemed to agree with my interpretation of the law as it stands," he said. "Which, if he does, it paves the way for a formal hearing to get the extradition request dropped, and for you both to finally be left in peace to live your lives."

"I certainly hope so," said Eleanor. "Why on earth they insist our marriage is only one of convenience is…" She trailed off. "I know. It's a political hot potato and they want any excuse to send him back to that hellhole."

Mark knew she was right, and said nothing. He very much hoped the same.

"You know," Eleanor ventured, reaching to take her husband's hand, "it might be worth our while to get our story out there, after all. If the public got behind us… it might be harder to so blatantly force him out of the country."

Mark narrowed his eyes. They had never brought up the idea of appealing to the public through the press before today, so he was naturally suspicious of the timing. "You didn't speak to Ms Jones about case-related information, did you?"

"No, of course not," said Eleanor.

"Good," he said. "Journalists are trained to ingratiate themselves in order to gain trust… and the risk of betrayal is just too high." Eleanor seemed about to reply when he noticed the time, realised they'd been talking more than eating, and said, "Come on, let's finish eating so we can get back down there for the decision."

…

Furious.

When Bridget pulled up a browser on her netbook at the pub she'd stopped in for lunch, she immediately got to searching for any information that she could about Kafir Aghani, and what she found made her absolutely furious. The papers were asserting as fact that the attempt to run him out of the UK by claiming that his marriage to Eleanor was a sham, and therefore nullifying any legal reason for him to remain in the country. They didn't mention anything about the work he'd done to advance human rights in his native country (one of the things she had understood from sitting in on the hearing), nor did they mention the danger he felt by the local government if he returned there.

She had seen them together. She had known instantly that they were in love.

She was almost too angry to eat. Instead, she decided to return to Mark Darcy's office after she'd finished her lunch and make her case for adding case details into her story to help Kafir Aghani. She couldn't imagine sitting back and not helping him if she could.

When she finished, she went back to Inns of Court, only to learn that they had already been dismissed, so she went over to Mark's office and rapped on the door.

"Come in."

She didn't know what she had expected to find, but the funereal air was not it. She brought her brows together. "What's happened?"

Mark glanced up to her from his desk. "The decision," he said; he looked utterly blindsided. "I thought the judge was persuaded by my arguments, but he evidently wasn't. The extradition proceedings are to go on as scheduled, after all."

"Oh," said Bridget, glancing to both Eleanor and Kafir, who were somewhere between gutted and despondent. "Surely not all hope is lost, is it?"

"No, it's not," Mark said; she wasn't sure she believed him. "It's just more of an uphill battle than before."

It couldn't have been a more perfect setup for her proposal. "Would it help," she began, "if I included facts of Kafir's situation to counter the prejudicial crap that the papers have already been printing?"

He stared at her silently for a few minutes, as if comprehending the implications of what she was saying. "You've been doing some research."

She offered a little smile. "Well, yes. I could hardly call myself a journalist if I didn't," she said. "So, what do you say?"

"I'm not convinced there would be any benefit," he said. "This case is not going to be decided on public opinion."

Bridget glanced to Eleanor and Kafir. They looked surprised. "In a perfect world, sure, but I think the public's opinion is already firming up. Correcting what's already out there just levels the playing field."

"Ms Jones," Mark said, "I think you should take my advice: go home and work on the article The Independent is presumably paying you to write."

She firmed her jaw and fixed him with a piercing gaze, furious again, this time at the being utterly dismissed from his presence. "Until tomorrow morning, then, Mr Darcy."

…

If there was one thing that Mark Darcy hated, it was when people tried to tell him how best to do his job. He exhaled sharply as the door closed behind Bridget. Enough of that for today.

Or so he thought.

He looked to Eleanor and to Kafir, and was met with expressions he didn't expect.

"Yes?" he said. "What's on your mind?"

"I have a great deal of respect for you and the work you've done for us and others, sir," Eleanor said, "but on this I can't help wondering if you've absolutely lost yours."

"Pardon?"

"I think she's saying that she agrees with Ms Jones' assessment," Kafir said quietly, "because I do, too. Public opinion shouldn't come into it, but it obviously does, and already has. If the public make enough noise, put on enough pressure…"

He brought his brows together. "Ms Jones is doing this story because of her… connection with one of the partners in chambers," he said. "I understand her previous journalistic experience consists of a single interview with an actor."

"Oh, she told us," Eleanor said. "This is her first serious story. And still I think her instincts are correct here."

He glanced between Eleanor and her husband; they both looked extremely earnest. Maybe there was something he wasn't seeing… or maybe he was just allowing emotions to wash over him, too. He took in a deep breath, then exhaled. "We've had a very long, very stressful day, and things didn't go the way we expected," he said. "Let's come back to this tomorrow, when our minds are refreshed again."

Eleanor began to nod. "Good idea," she said. "Sorry about that outburst, there. Perhaps I am feeling a bit too desperate."

"Don't worry about it," Mark said, offering a smile. "It's been a source of stress for all of us, but for you especially. Go home and have a nice, quiet night in."

After seeing the two of them out, he sighed heavily, then packed his files into his attaché. He needed a nice, quiet night in, too.

When he walked out of his office, he practically walked into Jeremy, who was also apparently on his way out of the door. "Hey there," Jeremy said.

"Hi," Mark said. Normally he'd be glad to see him, but the day had already been so tiring, he hadn't the mental bandwidth for any more conversation.

"How was day two with Bee?"

Mark stopped in his tracks. "Bee," he said angrily.

"You know, Ms Jones."

"I know to whom you refer," Mark said. Lowering his voice, he added, "Perhaps a little discretion is warranted."

Jeremy couldn't have looked more confused. "Discretion?"

"I thought you had reconciled with your wife," Mark said. "Then to be so bold with your latest mistress—"

"My what?" Jeremy interrupted. And then he began to laugh. "Are you joking? With Bee? My wife's best friend?" He was nearly breathless with laughter now. "Even if I didn't think of her as a little sister—which I do—my attempt to seduce her would result in Bee tying my bollocks about my neck in a perfect bow. Or my wife. Take your pick."

It was Mark's turn to be confused. "So she's… you didn't have a date on Monday night?"

"I did," Jeremy said slowly, "with Magda." He seemed to be rolling back the filmstrip in his mind. "Oh. This is about offering Bee a ride then my mentioning the date. I was going to bring her with me, because she was going to watch the children." At that moment something clicked. "Wait. Did you think she got this assignment because she was a good shag? I hardly have sway at The Independent."

Mark could not think of the last time he had felt quite so mortified. "I don't know what to say," Mark said after what felt like an eternity of agony. "Please accept my apology for being a total arse."

"I don't know which bothers me more," Jeremy said, "that you thought I'd be stupid enough to cheat on my wife again, or that you think that little of my judgment that I'd—"

"I know, I know," Mark said, holding up his hand, shaking his head. "Where my head was in making such awful assumptions, I will never know…"

At long last, Jeremy smiled. "You're only human," he said, "and to be honest, it's nice to have such confirmation." He brought up his hand to pat Mark's shoulder. "No harm done." He then chuckled. "I'll never tell Bee, that's for sure."

With that they said their good evenings and parted ways. As Mark drove home, he fell into a contemplative state. He realised that he did know, after all, where his assumptions had come from, after all: it had been a Christmas not too long ago that the meltdown of his brand-new marriage had occurred, the double betrayal of his new wife sleeping with his best man. The residual feelings that the season always brought to him were obviously still very close to the surface. His marriage ending so abruptly hadn't been the destruction of a pure and perfect love, by any means; far from it. For all intents and purposes, it had been less marriage, more merger. She was someone for whom he'd had high regard, both professionally and socially, and they'd seemed to be compatible as companions as well as lovers. He hadn't been in love with her, but he had cared enough to think of it as love, and with the marriage came an agreement to remain faithful to one another in that respect. To Mark, there had been every benefit to making the partnership legal through marriage, and few perceived drawbacks.

Except, of course, for the infidelity; she had broken that promise, and after that, he could never trust her again.

He rolled to a stop in front of his own house before he knew it; he switched off the engine, and with a heavy exhale of breath, he headed into the house. Onward to dinner, onward to a quiet night, though perhaps quiet in a way that wasn't necessarily desirable. Quiet in a lonely way.

After dropping off his work things, checking that his appearance didn't look too rough (it didn't), and grabbing his book, he left again, for a seat at his favourite restaurant. Not so much favourite as regular, he realised. He barely had to be seated that a glass of red wine appeared at his side, and shortly after his meal would appear. They knew him well there.

As he ate, he found that while he had his book open, he hardly took in a word; when his eyes went over the same paragraph several times he resigned himself to no progress at all, closed the book, and set it aside. His thoughts returned to—hell, had never actually left—the misunderstanding centred around Jeremy and Bridget. He was glad that Jeremy was not about to go and tell her about the foolish assumptions he had made, but the more that he thought about it, the more he realised that although he had never said directly what he had thought about her, he had surely expressed this opinion in other ways, and that had not been fair. He would have to make it up to her. Maybe bring a coffee in the morning as a peace offering.

He thought too about Jeremy; how happy Mark had been to hear that the date on Monday had been with his own wife. He was really very pleased that Jeremy was really making the effort to make up for his past mistakes. He had met Magda at the Law Council Dinner and at a handful of other social engagements, and had liked her very much indeed.

Thinking of Magda, Mark then remembered what Jeremy had said about Bridget being her best friend. Such a strange occurrence, really, that he and Bridget had had so few degrees of separation, yet had never actually met before this assignment.

He was torn from these thoughts when he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket. He saw instantly that it was Eleanor, and after the day's events he felt he should take the call. He spoke quietly so not to disturb the other diners in the place. "Mark Darcy," he said. "Hello, Ms Heaney."

"I am so sorry to disturb you," she said without preamble, "and at so late in the evening—" He glanced to his watch; it was half nine, not exactly midnight, but he knew she did not like to bother him outside of business hours. "—but I did not want to leave it until tomorrow. Do you have a few minutes to talk?"

"Yes, I'm just finishing dinner," he said.

"Oh, I'm so sorry again."

"No, it's fine," he said; under normal circumstances he might have been annoyed, but he could immediately tell that whatever was on her mind was very concerning to her. "I'm quite near to your flat, actually. Shall I drop by, and you can tell me what's on your mind?"

"If it's no trouble," she said. "I'll put on the kettle, make some tea. Camomile?"

He smiled. "That'd be nice. See you soon."

Mark paid his bill, then was soon on his way to their flat. Eleanor was waiting by the entryphone, apparently, because she answered immediately to confirm it was him and buzz him in.

"So, what's troubling you that couldn't wait until tomorrow?"

Eleanor and Kafir shared a glance, then he nodded. She turned and spoke. "I would have come in the morning but I didn't want to put you on the spot with Ms Jones there."

"Put me on the spot?" he asked. "About what?"

"We have been talking this over even more, and we've decided that we would really, really like for Ms Jones to include our story in her piece in The Independent. I know what you said about journalists gaining trust in order to gain advantage, but I honestly… I don't think she'd do that. The court seems so dead-set against allowing Kafir to stay despite your solid arguments; they don't think anyone's watching, and they'd just as soon wash their hands of a man who's considered a terrorist in his home country. I think we have to present the humanity of this situation. Public outcry is the only way to put the pressure on the government. I'm convinced of this."

"It could backfire," said Mark. "The current political climate is not friendly to foreigners, and one who's considered an insurgent at home…"

"The worst that would happen would be what, exactly? His deportation?" she asked, her cheeks high with colour. "That seems an almost certainty now. What have we got to lose?"

She certainly had a point. Mark glanced to Kafir. He knew that the man was not a very confident English speaker—despite being quite proficient in it—and therefore left a lot of the speaking to his wife. "Are you in agreement, here?"

"Yes, absolutely," Kafir said. "I will risk any hateful public responses against me personally for a better chance at remaining in the UK with Eleanor."

Mark had to admit that Eleanor's impassioned argument was winning him over. Knowing that Bridget wasn't just a girl Jeremy was trying to help get ahead because he fancied her—that she had gotten the gig on her own merit—helped Mark to trust her more. That his clients' trust in her had been so easily secured, that she had put them at ease so readily, helped to cement his change in opinion.

"All right," he said quietly. "I will talk to her tomorrow, though you can be sure I'll be helping to carefully control what it is that she includes. But never mind that right now." He offered a smile. "Thank you for fighting me on this."

Eleanor smiled, then chuckled a little. "That's got to be the first time I've ever heard that particular sentence."

Mark offered a small smile. Now that he had accepted the idea, his mind began to turn over the possibility that he might allow her an exclusive interview in addition to her story. "I'll leave you to take the rest of the night to relax now that you've got that off your chest."

She smiled. "You take it easy, too," she said. "And let me know if you need us for anything."

"I will." After a moment. "Good night."

He too felt a little better after getting that settled with them, but knew he would feel better in the morning after straightening things out with Bridget.