Shadows of Things That Might Be
© December 2006 by S. Faith
Let's say that Magda has a Christmas dinner every year, and let's say Bridget goes, and bearing in mind the small-world-ness of it all… pre-BJD, A/U. A little bit of holiday fluff.
Disclaimers in full force: Not mine. Not profiting from it. Happy holidays. :)
………
She never knows why she goes to this thing, but she does every year, as if she has a masochistic death wish. They're one level up from a Smug Married dinner party: the clucking and maternal cooing of the Orphans' Christmas Dinner, folks with no local family to spend the holidays with. Except she isn't an orphan, and it isn't Christmas. Not quite, anyway; not for two days.
Filled with a sense of the ironic, she puts on her favourite black dress; she knows she's destined to be paired up with this year's sad sack single man as she is every year. If he's not lonely and depressed from having just been dumped, then he's all over her. And if it's not braces and a bow tie, it's out-of-control hair in a seventies side part; good Lord, she thinks as she recalls one year's prize, wearing a powder blue suit and an ascot tie. If she's lucky? No spectacles and maybe even pleasant breath. The dress comes down daringly far in the front, which she may regret by the end of the evening—hell, she may regret it from the moment she steps through the door—but it makes her feel pretty and slim, and she's not wearing it for them, anyway. She's wearing it to broadcast her singleness to the Marrieds, especially to broadcast 'you wish' to the married men.
She takes her amusement where she can get it.
None of her other single friends are going. It's like her 'married friend' sphere and her 'single friends' sphere are magnetically repellent. It's too bad, really. She could have used the safety of the 'let's get the hell out of here' signal that would allow them to quickly escape if the Smugness level got too high.
There's the door buzzer, signaling the arrival of the taxi. She looks one last time in the mirror, not at all sure about leaving her hair down, but could not quite make the up-do work, either. With this particular tea-length dress, the shoes she's wearing were not negotiable, and she looks down one last time at the elegant curve of her calf, smirking. She has to admit she looks pretty good, even if she felt the size of a river barge trying to get the dress up over her hips. She slips on her black coat, swipes her clutch purse, her keys, and the small wrapped present for her friend off of the table on her way out the door.
As the taxi approaches the house, she looks up, marveling at the grandeur of it. It's a long way from a flat over a pub to a Sloaney house like this. It's already dark outside, being that it's near the end of December; there's a single electric candle flickering in every window on both floors, perfect little yellow miniature blooms of light. If she squints she can see shadows against the heavy drapes, figures moving inside, perhaps talking, drinking, laughing. For a moment she thinks it's warm and cosy, a picture perfect Christmas scene, until she realises the glowing dots have turned the windows into rows of creepy eyes, and she looks away.
She rises from the taxi, pays the driver, and treads carefully on the glittering path to the front door. She's late of course, but it wasn't her fault she couldn't find the other shoe. It's the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, really.
"Ah! We were wondering when you'd get here!" says the hostess as she throws wide the door, throws her arms around her friend. She gives the hostess her little present, a pretty silk scarf she picked up at Marks and Sparks. It is set beneath the tree in the foyer along with many others of similar size. And none with tags, she realises.
"You know how it is, Magda," she chuckles. Her friend Magda laughs with her, but they both know it's been a long time since her days as a single woman, and there's a lot she no longer knows or remembers about single life.
"Come and have a drink. I have your favourite chardonnay. And all kinds of biscuits and treats to nibble on."
She's waiting for the other shoe to drop, the inevitable And I have someone who's just dying to meet you! or Oh look who happened to pop by—he's perfect for you! But she's given an ample glass of wine and after a few minutes of chit-chat, the hostess smiles then excuses herself to mingle.
Well, bollocks. She almost feels let down, in a way. It's as if they've stopped trying. Given up on her with even the most pathetic dregs of the male of the species.
She decides herself to mingle, but after a few minutes of mind-numbing conversation with Marrieds going on and on about how they've tried everything to conceive, she drifts to another conversation devoted to potty training and then to a third prominently about the latest football news. With a sigh she slips quietly away and through the kitchen, leaving her glass of wine on the counter, out the door and into the back lot for a ciggie, wondering if it'd be terribly rude to cut out even before dinner begins.
The light from the kitchen filters through the window sheers and illuminates the back patio. It's snowing lightly but it almost feels too warm for that to be possible. There's a covered trellis just past the door that acts as a windbreaker against the cool night air, and she sidles up and under it, slips her packet of cigs and lighter out, flicking the flame to life.
"Excuse me," comes a deep yet quiet voice, startling the living Jesus out of her so badly she drops the lighter. It's the house, she thinks irrationally. First it was watching me and now it's going to tell me not to smoke near it.
"Who the bloody hell's there?"
She hears a soft chuckle and the scrape of men's shoes against the paving stones.
"I didn't mean to give you such a fright," he continues. He's lit from behind so it's not easy to make out who he is. She doesn't think she knows him, though; he's pretty tall, taller than Magda's husband, and she knows the outline of a suit when she sees one. "I just didn't want to scare you if you thought you were out here alone."
"Too late for that," she says in a strained voice, her hand over her heart as if to ensure it wouldn't leap from her chest.
He bends down and scoops up the lighter, dusting it off and handing it to her. His eyes must have been much more adjusted to the darkness than her own. "I'm sorry. I—I'll leave you to your cigarette."
And with that he retreats. Not a man of many words, she muses.
………
She has her cig and gets back inside as quick as she can, because she realises it is bloody cold out in the yard, even with the wind being diverted by the trellis. The assembled masses have begun to make their way towards dinner, and as she enters the dining room she sees that there aren't nearly as many people here as she thought. Fourteen, sixteen at most.
There is one person she doesn't recognise, and she figures he was the one who startled her in the yard. She can't tell how tall he is because he's already sitting, but he has a suit on, and he's the only one there who does. Brown hair, dark eyes, and probably a nice smile, but she hasn't seen one cross his features yet, so for right now it's just a theory. He is handsome, though; if he is there alone—she counts boy-girl, boy girl, and surely he is—she wonders why she hadn't been thrown in his path. He certainly was a better offering than Mr Powder Blue Suit. He's seated beside the host for the evening at the head of the table. Magda has the other end, and she has blessedly arranged the seating so that they're sitting together, she to Magda's right.
Magda's got one of her cleaning people serving the soup, and after her own bowl's filled with luscious butternut squash soup, she leans in close for the scoop and a warm buttered roll.
"So who's that down there by your husband?"
Her friend knits her brows. "Oh come on. You've met Mark before. Jeremy's partner in chambers."
"I… don't think so," she says hesitantly but thinks I would have remembered.
"I'm sure you have."
She eats. The soup is good, really good, autumnal and spicy and very much Magda. "So what's wrong with him? Is he completely insane? Does he have a really weird facial tick when he talks? Or… hm, is he gay?" Magda laughs, short and sharp. The man called Mark glances to them momentarily before returning his attention to the soup. "I'm just used to you foisting me off on the single man at the party, figure there must be some reason why you haven't this year."
When her friend speaks again, her voice is decidedly quieter, such that she can barely be heard over the murmur of other conversation. "Nothing's wrong with him. It's just that the Christmas season is a terrible time for him." Magda glances in his direction, almost to make sure he's not watching. He isn't. "His wife left him on Christmas Day a few years ago."
Her heart sinks for this man she hasn't even properly been introduced to yet. "How dreadful to have such a memory to associate with Christmas."
"I know." She raises her spoon to eat, but pauses, then lowers it again. "She left him for some chappie in the publishing field; you might know him, actually. Daniel something. I'd know the last name to hear it, but for the life of me I can't remember it."
She sets her spoon down on the edge of the bowl, feels her eyes grow wide despite her best efforts. "Cleaver?" she says quietly.
"Yes! Yes. That's it."
Her own boss, the man she has been harbouring an unrequited crush for practically since she started her job five years ago. She wonders which of the women he'd brought back to the office after a lunch date had been this man's wife. What a goddamn bastard. Fuckwittage makes a man much, much less attractive.
All of this passes through her mind in a split-second. Without missing a beat she says, "God, do I know him. He's the editor-in-chief at Pemberley."
Magda's mouth drops ever so slightly. "The one that you have—"
"Yes. No. Not anymore. Not after hearing that."
Her friend smirks. "Anyhow. He was out of the country last December on a case again—personally, I think he takes these cases specifically to be out of the country during Christmas though he'd never admit to it—but this year I thought it might be nice to get him a little bit more socially active without putting, you know, any pressure on him."
She tries not to hear the words as the clucking of a mother hen. "Am I pressure?"
Magda chuckles. "Well, no, but foisting the single girl upon the single man might be construed as such."
She pulls a face. "But it's okay to foist them on me every year," she says good-naturedly. "And him without a trace of powder blue clothing. And actually handsome. I wouldn't have minded."
Magda knows exactly to what she's referring, and a smile overtakes her face. "Ah, but you didn't find your spouse with your best friend from uni."
Ouch. She glances up at him again, is surprised to find him glancing back. She offers a small smile but the connection is broken as Magda's cleaning girl dives in front of her and their soup bowls are swept away. When the interloper retreats after gathering an entire corner's worth of bowls, she sees he has been pulled into conversation with the host and another of their boorish married friends. She pulls her brows together and wonders how it's possible that this man could be law partners with her good friend's husband and she has never met him before. Not once. Very strange.
………
After the dinner of orange-glazed Cornish hens and green beans with toasted almonds, the table breaks up for coffee and desserts. She watches him shed his suit jacket and take up a post in a chair in the corner of the room, near a bookshelf and a small table. Madga flutters over him, asking him if there's anything he needs. He says something she can't quite make out. And then lo and behold, he does smile. It's not just nice; it's spectacular, with striking indentations forming slight parentheses around his mouth. It's unfortunately gone in a flash. Magda walks away him and towards her, and he dives back into a magazine he's picked up.
As she passes by, Magda whispers, "He wants petit fours and eggnog. Could you?"
She feels slightly emboldened. With her purse tucked under her arm, she wanders to the dessert table, gets a small dessert plate and stacks four of them on there, then pours a coffee mug's worth of eggnog from the bowl. It looks homemade and the smell of nutmeg and rum is very strong. So as not to seem too obvious, she fills a second plate with a couple of frosted sugar cookies and a couple of gingerbread men, pours herself a mug of nog, too.
She then realises she can't carry it all. She decides to take the drinks over first. She sets them on the table without so much as a glance at her from him. She retrieves the plates and approaches him once more. He doesn't look up from his article on third-world labour conditions. Must be fascinating stuff. "You can set them down there with the eggnog. Thank you very much."
It apparently occurs to him to look up when she doesn't set the plate down. His surprise registers on his face. "I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else."
"Magda asked me to bring these to you." She goes to hand him a plate and he reaches for it, but at the last moment realises she's handing him her cookies, so she pulls it back towards her. He looks perplexed that she would renege on the offer of cookies, but she thrusts the petit fours closer to him. "Sorry. Those were mine."
He smiles again. It's mostly polite, but there are those dimples again. "Thank you." He takes them, sets the plate down, and goes back to sweatshop atrocities.
She draws her beverage up from the table, takes a sip, then balances her cookie plate in the same hand in order to grab then nibble the head off of a gingerbread man. She takes a few steps away from him but stops. She has no interest in returning to conversations involving breastfeeding or the cricket, but he obviously has no interest in talking to her and she's not going to force him. He has made it clear he wants to be left alone. So she stands there, frozen between the worlds, for what feels like a really long time.
"Sit if you like."
She turns around and it's almost as if he hasn't spoken, because he looks exactly the same, focused intently on the written word, until he looks up at her. He reaches for the nog and sips, looks pleasantly surprised, then lifts a petit four off the plate and bites off a corner. He returns to reading.
She does want to sit, but because her feet are starting to hurt, not because he's asked.
There's a matching chair on the other side of the table which puts her facing him. She sets down her mug, the plate and her clutch purse. She bites off the gingerbread man's right hand, sips her drink again, then takes off the left.
The words are out of her mouth before her internal editor can remind her of what Magda's just told her: "So do you have any plans for Christmas?"
He turns his eyes to her again. He's very difficult to read. If she's stepped in it, or if he's reminded himself that she can't know, she can't tell. "I'm visiting my parents for the holidays."
She smiles, nods a little bit. "Me too. Do your parents live in London?"
"No, but not far from it. You?" He's got a nice voice, but it seems a little flat in tone. She wonders if he's merely being polite.
Her cookie has lost both legs by this stage. "Same, mmm. Then it's back here—" She points downward, indicating the very residence they're in. "—for New Year's Eve."
"Yes, I've been invited as well."
"Ah."
"I'll probably not come," he adds.
"Oh."
There's an awkward pause. She hopes the tone of her monosyllabic utterance wasn't disappointed, because she didn't want to appear to be.
"I don't like making the drive in the winter more than I have to," he continues. "It gets treacherous on M1 and I'm invited to a party with my parents on New Year's Day out where they live."
"My parents are having a party they're making me go to, and I'm taking the train up," she offers, polishing off the limbless gingerbread man. New Year's Eve with her parents seems unfathomable.
He lowers his voice so not to be overheard by anyone farther away than she was. "That and I… don't honestly have much in common with these people."
The left side of her mouth lifts in a lopsided smile. "I hadn't noticed." She sips again. The rum is warming her from the inside out. She can certainly relate—she doesn't have much to contribute when it comes to pregnancy or football, either.
He actually chuckles. With horror she realises she has said that part out loud. With a residual grin on his face, he partakes of his eggnog. "So," he asks, "if you're not a Christmas orphan and you don't care for these people, how did you end up at this party?"
"Magda's a good friend of mine. We've known each other since before she got married."
He wrinkles his brow.
"She tells me you're Jeremy's partner in law," she adds.
"Have we met before?" he asks.
She shakes her head. "Isn't that weird?"
She's finished the mug of eggnog and now has a pleasant buzz. She offers to get more but he holds up his hand. "Allow me." He stands, holds his hand out, and she gives him her mug. She watches as he walks to the dessert buffet. She decides to blame it on the rum when she finds herself staring at his bottom. It's pretty nice as bottoms go. She looks away, catching a look of surprise on Magda's face as she sees him ladling the eggnog, as if his emerging from his little pocket of sequestration is unheard of.
He's probably just being well-mannered, she tells herself. He seems exceedingly so. When she thinks of manners she realises she has not properly introduced herself.
He returns with her drink and she thanks him, taking another sip. Nothing beats homemade eggnog, she thinks.
"Mm, I'm Bridget by the way." She leans forward, holding her hand out to him.
He takes it, shaking firmly. If she had never been told he was a barrister she might have guessed simply by the texture of his hands. Smooth. The hands of someone who thinks for a living. And huge, completely enveloping her own hand. "Mark Darcy."
"Very nice to meet you at last," she says with a smile, as she tries one of the sugar cookies on her plate. She sips the eggnog again, thinking his name seems very familiar. Maybe she's overheard Magda say it in the past. Maybe he's been in the news; after all, Jeremy's a pretty high profile lawyer himself. Surely his partners are too. Or maybe—
"Wait. Did you say your name was 'Bridget'?" he asks. Her eyes turn to him. He looks as thoughtful as she feels.
"Yes."
She begins to wonder why he's asked to confirm her name when he asks, "Your last name isn't 'Jones' by some odd chance, is it?"
She is stunned. Obviously he downplays his psychic abilities. No wonder Jeremy has him as a law partner. "Yes it is! How could you possibly know that?"
He's on his second petit four now, looking ever more thoughtful. Finally he explains, "The party I'm attending with my parents is at your parents'."
And then it strikes her, where she's heard the name before: her mother, who has since last August been pushing the son of her friends on her (in conversation only) in the latest attempt to fix her up. She was anticipating a duplicate of, or someone similar to, Mr Powder Blue Suit, as was usually the case. Instead… it's this man. Holy Jesus.
"You're Malcolm and Elaine's son?" she blurts out, feels like she's parroting her mother, feels her face flush. It's not the rum.
"And you're Pam and Colin's daughter," he finishes up. Oh God. His parents must have been working on him in a similar manner.
She nods.
"What an exceedingly small world," he says quietly.
"Very."
Quietly they each drink their nog. "I hope you don't take this the wrong way," she says at last, "but you're not at all what I was expecting."
He doesn't take it the wrong way, and offers a small smile. She wonders what kind of nightmare scenario he had imagined her to be. Then she doesn't have to wonder as he says, "I was just thinking the same thing."
She smiles, holds up her cup of eggnog in a toast. "To small worlds."
He holds up his cup, reaches to clink hers, then drinks.
It suddenly seems important for her to disclose that she's not in the dark about his past, like he should know that she doesn't expect anything from him during a time he finds hard to cope with. "You know," she begins unsurely, "it may not have been her place to do so, but Magda did explain that Christmas is difficult for you… and why. I'm really sorry."
He lowers his cup, raises his eyes to meet hers again. "I appreciate your saying so." She can't tell if he's relieved or offended that she already knows.
She sets down her now-empty cup, rises from her chair, grabbing her clutch. "Well, I'm going go have another smoke and call for a taxi home. I'll… see you at the party, I guess."
He appears to be a million miles away, and doesn't reply or look at her as she walks away from him.
………
Out on the back patio beyond the trellis hanging over the kitchen door, she lights a cig and whips out her mobile. The wind has disappeared, but the snow's really coming down now; big white fluffy flakes that have turned Magda's backyard into a winter wonderland, dappling the herbaceous borders and the trellis with thick layers of white. She likes being out in it, feels it gathering in her hair as well. She's trying to remember which of the speed dial numbers on her phone is for a taxi when the light level streaming from the kitchen rises then falls again, and she hears the telltale sound of shoes on stone.
"I'll drive you home, if you like."
She looks up. It's Mark in his suit jacket, standing just under the edge of the trellis. Backlit once more, she can't quite read his expression.
Lightly she says, "I thought you preferred not to drive in the winter."
"I'm willing to make an exception for a new friend." She can see the light playing on his cheek, illuminating the edge of his smile.
She smiles in return. "Thank you. That'd be nice."
"If you don't mind waiting a bit," he adds. "The eggnog was good but…" He raises his arms out from his body, then tilts side to side, imitating wobbling a bit. "I don't trust myself behind the wheel just yet."
She can't help but chuckle. "Oh, that's fine. I'm not in a hurry."
She's suddenly quite cold. She drops then stomps on the end of her cig, hears the ember fizzle in the snow, and walks towards the house. Her eyes are caught by the garland over the trellis, realises there's a sprig of mistletoe dangling just over his head. Following her gaze, he raises his head to look up, then back down.
She feels herself flush. "Um." She steps up near to him. She can't pass; he's blocking the way in.
She can make out the smile spreading across his face. "Well. There's nothing to be done about it. It is tradition."
She blinks in disbelief. He bends and places a kiss upon her lips. As fleeting as the kiss is, it's soft and very warm and at once she does not feel cold at all.
He stands up straight, just looking at her. She turns so that she is under the canopy of the trellis. Stray flakes are still making their way through the holes, catching in his dark hair.
"We should go inside." She realises her teeth are chattering.
He slips out of his jacket, putting it over her shoulders. She's enveloped by his warmth. "I'm not ready. It's too lovely out here," he says, staring directly at her. "And look." His eyes raise. Now she is directly beneath the mistletoe. "Tradition."
He lowers his head again and this time it is more than a fleeting kiss. She gets a little dizzy, puts her hands on his forearms.
This is kind of weird, she realises as she pulls back. They've only just met. He's seasonally depressed. They've had a bonding experience as the only two people at the party that aren't married parental stiffs (and as children being set up by their meddling parents). Plus he's got rum in him. That's all it is, she decides. Especially the rum part.
The silence is a little awkward. He puts his arm around her shoulder and walks her inside.
The warmth of the house creeps over her. "Would you like me to get you some coffee?" he asks.
"That'd be nice," she says, leaning back against the kitchen counter, setting her purse down from under her arm, wrapping her arms around herself.
He's back with the coffee in a flash. "Madga told me you like cream and sugar." He hands her the lightened cup. His own is black.
"Thank you."
They both sip. Her cheeks feel windburned.
"Look," he says quietly, unsurely. "I'm… sorry about that."
She shakes her head. "Don't worry about it. Tradition is tradition, after all."
"I just didn't want to get off on the wrong foot with you."
She smiles. "It's really okay."
He looks relieved.
"Good coffee," she adds. He has put too much sugar in, but she isn't about to say anything.
"Thanks."
"I think we have some cookies to finish," she offers.
He nods, finally smiling. She slips out of his jacket and hands it back to him then follows him out of the kitchen. Madga ambushes her as she exits, pulling her aside. "Where have you been?" she asks, her voice like steam off a kettle.
"Having a cig."
"With Mark? He doesn't smoke." Madga was suddenly a mother bear protecting her cub.
"He came out to offer me a ride home."
"Oh." Magda backs off. She wonders how Madga would react if she told her about the mistletoe incident as she excuses herself to return to the little haven they've created in the corner.
………
Before she knows it, she's had three cups of coffee (each a little too sweet) and more cookies than she can count. She's talked about her work almost more than she can stand, and he's described what his law specialty is—human rights, which explains his choice in reading material before. It's nearing eleven, and the partygoers start filtering out into the night. She looks to Mark, wondering if the offer still stands for a ride home. He rises from the chair. He's as sober as a judge now, solid on his feet, and he looks to her. "Well."
"Time to leave," she agrees.
"I can still drive you," he prompts when it's apparent she isn't going to stand.
"I didn't want to assume."
He smiles. "Come on."
Magda gives her the eye when she hands her coat to her. She knows what it means—don't do anything to hurt him when he's so fragile—and she nods, mouthing I know in reply.
The snow has tapered off and crunches under their feet as they tread to his car, a silver BMW. Very nice, she thinks. He opens the door for her. Very nice also.
She directs him towards her flat and surprisingly he tells her he actually doesn't live very far from her neighbourhood. As he sidles up to the kerb, he puts the car in park and steps out to get the door for her. He's a gentleman to a fault. Good God.
She rises from the car. "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He has his hands in his coat pockets. "Listen, I realise you're awfully attached to the train and all, but if you like, I can give you a lift to your parents' tomorrow." He's got that small smile on his face again. Those dimples hovering just under the surface.
She doesn't have to think two seconds about how she'd rather spend the travel time to Grafton Underwood. "That'd be fantastic."
"And I might be amenable to driving back for the New Year's Eve party if you're going to be there," he continues unsurely.
She smiles fully. "Even though it's treacherous this time of year on M1."
"It's not so bad in this car," he admits.
"I expect it's not," she says with a grin.
It has snowed heavily in her neck of the woods too, and it's still coming down. "Well. You should get inside. It's cold out here."
She's been considering asking him up, but doesn't dare now. "Thanks again."
"No. Thank you," he replies.
"What for?"
He doesn't answer immediately, and when he does the melancholy in his voice is unmistakable. "For helping me to forget for a little while."
She's promised Magda not to hurt him when he's fragile, and she reasons that letting him go home to an empty flat, or house, or whatever he has, would be a bad idea, because clearly he's just recollected why this season's so bad for him. "Do you want to come up for coffee?"
"I'm just about coffeed out," he replies. She tries not to visibly deflate. "But," he adds, "I wouldn't mind your company for a little while longer."
She smiles. It seems he knows he shouldn't be alone, either.
She hopes that her flat isn't too much of a disaster as the scale the stairs up to her top floor flat. It's not perfect, but it's definitely been worse.
He slips out of his overcoat and suit jacket, looking around at the photos and other objets d'art, such as they are. "Nice place you have."
"Thanks." She doesn't say it's too small and cramped and decorated courtesy of second-hand stores, but it'll do.
"It's kind of strange," he says, picking up a framed picture of herself and her two best girlfriends, examining it. "In a way I already feel like I've known you longer than just tonight." He sets it back down.
She tilts her head in query.
"My mother and the hard sell."
She understands instantly, though she shudders to think what his mother has told him. A smoking, boozing single girl who has a dead-end job in a publishing house and an inability to keep a boyfriend. The last part would go without saying, of course; otherwise parental intervention would not be needed.
He chuckles. "That's quite a face you're pulling. Believe me, she had only nice things to say about you." He grimaces, then continues. "It had me wondering what was wrong with you that my mother felt the need to play matchmaker."
She out and out laughs. "Oh my God."
"What?"
"Nothing, just… well, pretty much the same."
He smiles again.
She adds, "My mother has tried in the past to fix me up, and has failed spectacularly. You were doomed before I ever met you." She clears her throat. "Well. I mean before I actually met you."
His smile hasn't faded. He knows what she means, she guesses.
She remembers a tiny detail from her mother's litany of Why Malcolm and Elaine's Son Would Be Perfect For You, Darling, and gasps. "Oh! You have known me longer than tonight."
"What?"
"Apparently," she says conspiratorially, "when I was four I used to play in your paddling pool."
He knits his brow. "I was eight, and—Jesus, that was you?"
She nods.
He looks amazed. "Small world indeed." Then he turns his head and looks in the direction of the fireplace. "Does that work?"
"Yes." At least she thinks it does. It's been a while since she turned it on.
"I could do with a seat in front of a fireplace and some drinking chocolate, if you have any."
"I do."
"Show me where it is. I'll make it if you get the fire going."
"It's a plan."
The fire's gas so it takes less than a minute to get going. She decides to change out of her dress. Pretty as it is, it was not made for relaxing on a sofa with a very nice, very attractive new friend. She changes into a pair of black cotton trousers and a red jumper and scolds herself for even thinking it might be nice if he were to be more than that. Anything that's happened tonight is strictly because he's in a delicate state of mind. And because of doctored eggnog.
She emerges to find he's swung her sofa around to that it's parallel to the wall the fireplace is on, and has already seated himself on the right side, where the back is higher. He's holding two mugs, offers her one. She smiles and accepts it.
He sits back into the cushion. "Very lovely place," he mutters. It's warm in front of the fire, but not uncomfortably so. The chocolate's perfect, and, she thinks, tinged with Bailey's. She doesn't mind, rather likes it. They drink and sit in companionable silence. She's mesmerised by the flicker of flames.
Quietly, he says, "Thank you again. This is very nice."
"Least I can do for a family friend," she quips.
It's the last thing that's said between them. After some minutes she looks to him and finds he's finished his chocolate, rested his head on the back of the sofa, closed his eyes and evidently fallen asleep. She doesn't take it personally; in fact, she smiles. Traumatic holiday-related memories must make each day tiring, each night impossible to get to sleep. She doesn't have the heart to wake him. She finishes her own chocolate, takes the mug from beside him on the cushion, pulls a blanket over his lap, turns the flame down on the fire, and heads for her bed.
………
When she wakes the following morning, she stumbles to her bathroom, does her usual morning routine: toilet, brush teeth, wash face, comb peaks and horns out of hair. She considers showering but decides she wants coffee first. She wanders towards her kitchen with a yawn and nearly jumps out of her skin when she realises Mark is still there, standing in the kitchen. She thanks whatever deity's up there that she wore pyjamas to bed last night.
He's already made coffee and he offers her a cup. It is good but is once again overly sweet. "Sorry to startle you yet again," he says, "and sorry to have to go rooting around in your kitchen to find the coffee. But I wanted to stay long enough to offer to take you out for breakfast to thank you for last night."
She can't contain a chuckle. "I don't mean to laugh. I'd love to have breakfast. I just rarely get the offer, even when I don't sleep alone."
"That's a tragedy," he says quickly, as if it comes out before he has a chance to think about it. And then he smiles; without words she understands that he would offer. Always. Especially if she didn't sleep alone.
Maybe the rum or any of those other things had nothing to do with anything.
"I'll just get… something else on."
He nods as she retreats from the living room.
She continues drinking her coffee in the bedroom. She digs out clean smalls, looks around the room at the explosion of clothing around her. She has no idea what's clean and what's not, but the red jumper and the black trousers she had worn briefly the previous night are on the top of the pile, so she pulls them on, thinking how odd it seems to trust him so much already as to change clothing with him just in the other room. She jumps back into the bathroom and shuts the door for an application of deodorant and a swipe at her face with loose powder, returns to find him in his suit jacket and coat.
"Shall we?" she says as she approaches him, slipping into her coat. But he just stands there, looking at her with such intensity that she starts to wonder if she's managed to dust the front of her jumper with a spray of powder. Just to be sure, she looks down, brushes off her front for powder that might be there.
"You look fine," he says. Before she can ask what it is about, he explains, "I'm just trying to convince myself that what I feel for you right now has more to do with the time of the year and your kindness last night than anything else." He blinks thoughtfully.
"And?" she prompts.
He lets out a breath. "With everything I know about you from my mother, talking with you last night—well. It's not working."
She looks down. All she can think is that Magda is going to kill her. The words 'delicate' and 'fragile' echo in her head, swirling around, making her lightheaded. Magda's voice pipes up that this is a huge mistake, that he's just taking comfort in her empathy, to run away very fast for both their sakes and maybe try again in June. "Mark, you barely know me. We had a great evening but—"
She looks back up due to the gentle persuasion of his fingertips upon her chin, and her eyes meet his. "I'm sensible of all of that, and yet…" He drops his head and kisses her. Thoughts of Magda fly out of her head, and all that's left is his lips on hers, then his mouth over hers, his arms around her, all of it warm and wonderful.
All of this, and not a sprig of mistletoe to be found.
………
Imagine her mother's surprise when her very good friend's attractive, wealthy son brings her daughter to them on Christmas Eve, then comes to call on her on Christmas Day. With a smile.
His mother says he never smiles on Christmas Day.
The end.