The Road Not Taken
By S. Faith, © 2019
Words: 28,324
Rating: M / R
Summary: Zigging up and zagging down timelines on different tracks.
Disclaimer: Dance, puppets, dance! Sadly, though, not my puppets.
Notes: Started out to commemorate the 24th anniversary of the first Bridget Jones's Diary column's debut on 28 February 1995, and snowballed into this.
It assumes that in 1995, Bridget turns 33 (as she does in the movie universe), and rewinds from there. Mark is 6 years older, and Daniel is Mark's age. No mobile phones, my friends.
Despite celebrating the 24th anniversary of the columns, and taking Bridget's age from the movies, this is more of a book universe timeline.
Title and chapter headers inspired by the poem "The Road Not Taken" by Robert Frost, which here I have, perhaps, deliberately misinterpreted. (Search for "The Most Misread Poem in America" on The Paris Review for clarity on what I mean by 'misinterpreted.')
Rewind
March, 1986
Getting shit-faced with friends after splitting with your boyfriend of seven years was not, in retrospect, the best way to ring in the age of twenty-four.
The rhythm of the train on the tracks as it rolled north to Grafton Underwood seemed to be in time with the thumping of her vicious hangover headache. She had the rest of the train journey to banish it. She wasn't optimistic, but hoped that the paracetamol would kick in soon. She sipped on her takeaway coffee and rested her head against her seat. She felt like she could feel the blood pulse through her entire body with every heartbeat.
It was early on a Saturday, far earlier than she would have normally been awake after the previous night's drinking binge, but she had promised to go back to her childhood home for a birthday lunch with her parents. She had agreed to meet her dad at the Kettering train station at eleven in the morning; she was pushing her luck for making it on time by catching the 10 o'clock train. Thankfully, her dad's patience was boundless, for which she was eternally grateful. She hated disappointing her father almost more than anything.
She continued to sip her coffee and kept her eyes closed; she dozed off for what seemed only a moment when she heard the announcement for Kettering. She blinked a few times—thank bloody God the headache had eased—then gathered up her things in order to disembark.
Her father, Colin, was waiting patiently beside the car, his hands in his pockets, and he offered a fond smile that she was all too glad to reciprocate. "Hello, poppet," he said. "How's the head?"
"Better, thanks," she said, reaching to give her dad a quick hug. She hadn't told him she'd had a hangover; somehow, he just knew. "How are you?"
"Glad to see you," he said with a grin. "Let's be off. Your mother awaits."
As he put the car into gear, she asked, "And how is Mum?"
"She's, you know, your mum," he said with a smile. "I do want to warn you, though."
Alarm washed over her. "Warn me? What about?"
"Your birthday lunch has taken on a life of its own," he said.
"What does that mean?"
"It's a bit more than just a lunch now," he said. "It's been a while since she put together a birthday party for you…"
"Oh no," she said. With her mother's friends. And their children.
"And she wanted to cheer you up after your breakup," he continued.
She understood what he was saying. Try not to get too frustrated or annoyed with your mum, Bridget. She's doing her best. "I'm really okay," she said. "I'm the one who ended it with Peter. But I appreciate the warning."
He chuckled. "I've done and will keep doing what I can to keep this from turning into one of Una's theme parties."
She laughed, her head throbbing slightly as she did. "I appreciate that even more."
When they arrived, she was glad she'd mentally prepared for the crowd of all of the faces she usually saw only at the holidays, and several of their grown children, with whom she had played as a child. There was a table with a cutesy decorated birthday cake, a stack of plates, balloons, streamers…
Oh God, she thought. My mother is trying to recreate my childhood parties.
"Bridget!" A voice that could penetrate through any crowd, one she'd recognise anywhere.
"Hello, Mum," she said as she turned, reaching to embrace her and peck her cheek. "Wow, you really pushed the boat out here. This was way more than I was expecting—you needn't have gone to all this trouble."
"'Trouble,' I don't know!" said Pam. "It was no trouble at all; happy to surprise you with it. What do you think?"
She smiled. The effort that her mum had put in, and the pleasure that she derived from doing it, overrode any horror or annoyance she might have ordinarily felt. "It's terrific, Mum. Thanks."
Within a few moments her father was pressing a Bloody Mary into her hand, for which she was grateful. She circulated and made small talk with the Enderbys, the Alconburys, and even the Darcys, whom she had not seen in probably a decade or more, before her mother announced that lunch was ready.
True to form, it was a buffet-style luncheon; this time, it was all manner of what might best be termed finger foods: mini-quiches with cheddar and chives, cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwiches, cheese straws, cocktail meatballs on toothpicks, stuffed mushrooms, and even peanut chicken satay. This array of food was not atypical for her mother's parties, but she again appreciated the effort that her mum had made, and honestly, the food was better than usual.
The cake was superb, a Victoria sponge, and she had a large slice with a cup of fresh coffee. Bridget was grateful she was not pressed to blow out any candles, nor was she made to open a pile of gifts to a cooing audience. There were just a handful of cards, some of which contained £5 notes, and a present from her mum and dad, a blender to outfit her flat and a new scarf.
After all of the guests had gone, Bridget helped her mother collect all of the glasses, dishes, and flatware as her dad began doing the washing up. Before she knew it, it was time to get back to Kettering station to catch the train back to London.
"That was really lovely, Mum," she said, as she pecked her mother on the cheek. "Thanks again."
"Oh, darling, you're welcome," she said, her tone more subdued than usual. "Not quite what I'd hoped, but…" She trailed off.
"What do you mean?"
"Well," she began. "I'd hoped to have something to cheer you up after your split with Peter. Rather, someone. He's a nice young man with a fantastic future ahead of him, already a rising star in—"
Oh God, not a setup. "Mum, no," she interrupted.
"'No,' indeed," Pam said with a huff. "He just left for a job overseas, and who knows how long he'll be away, so my efforts to get him here to meet you were for naught."
Now that he wasn't coming, Bridget was half-relieved, half-intrigued. But in the end, relief won out. She had been the one to end the relationship with Peter, and now what she really wanted was to work on her career. Herself.
And maybe, maybe, dabble lightly in what else the world had to offer, as far as men who were not fucking Peter.
Fast-Forward
2005
"I can't believe this day is finally here."
Her mother stood there, hands clasped near her face, tears of happiness welling in her eyes. Bridget smiled. Bridget knew how badly (and for how long) Pam had wanted to see her married. Particularly to the man she'd be meeting at the altar. And she felt particularly beautiful in her gown.
Before Bridget could answer, her mother flung her arms around her, hugging tightly.
"I'm so happy for you, darling," Pam said.
"Watch the veil, Mum," Bridget said, to help stave off of her own tears, which were threatening to ruin her makeup.
Pam backed up. "You still look perfect." She paused for a moment. "To think this wedding might have happened a decade sooner…"
Bridget furrowed her brow. She had only met the man she was about to marry a decade ago, so… "What do you mean?"
"Do you remember that time when you came home from London for your birthday? You were…" She paused to think. "Ah yes. Turning twenty-four."
She remembered it vaguely. Vile hangover, finger foods, Victoria sponge. "Right. Just after I'd ended it with Peter," she said.
"Yes, that's the one. Now. You're going find this very amusing. I was also trying to set you up with someone to cheer you."
It was coming back to her now. "Oh, right, I do remem—" She stopped suddenly. "Oh my God. Was it Mark?"
"Yes! Exactly!" said Pam, clapping her hands. She was grinning proudly, but then her voice went soft, almost awestruck. "Just think, darling!"
It was a little mind-blowing to consider she could have completely avoided some of the ups and downs of the relationships of her twenties. Then again, everything she'd experienced during that time had made her who she was—hadn't it? Perhaps Fate had intervened because they weren't ready yet…
Hmmm.
"Just think," Bridget said at last, echoing her mum, unable to keep from smiling. She was looking forward to telling Mark.
"Well!" said Pam, her voice back to its bright and airy self. "Your dad will be here soon to walk you out." She paused, looking very pensive. "I really do wonder what might have happened if Mark had turned up."
Rewind
March, 1986
Bridget was just bringing her plate (and the remains of her birthday cake) to the kitchen when her mother caught her up, grinning wildly.
"Mum?" asked Bridget. "What is it?"
"Have I got a surprise for you!" she trilled, clasping her hands together.
A sinking sensation centred on her stomach; her mother's surprises usually evoked that reaction in her. "What kind of surprise?" Bridget asked cautiously.
"Just come and see."
"Mum."
"There's someone I'd like you to meet. He's a nice young man with a fantastic future ahead of him, already a rising star in—"
Bridget sighed, refraining from rolling her eyes. "Mum."
"But Bridget," she said. "I only want you to be happy. What's the harm?"
Her mother was an absolute expert at pulling all of the right strings for maximum guilt. "Fine," she said.
"Honestly, Bridget, you don't have to act like I'm leading you to the gallows."
The two of them left the kitchen; Bridget followed dutifully behind her mother. It was, she realised, very much like her childhood birthday parties, after all.
"Mark! There you are!" said Pam. At the sound of her voice, two young men turned to face her; two handsome young men of roughly the same height and similar attire, but with strikingly opposite features: one whose hair and eyes were dark brown, the other with light brown hair and blue eyes. The former wore a stony, unreadable expression, while the latter could not hide that he was pleased at her appearance; frankly, it was very flattering. Please, she thought, let the blue-eyed one be Mark.
"Hello, Mrs Jones," said the slightly taller one with the dark hair. He then looked to her. "You must be Bridget."
Shit.
"Yes," she said tentatively.
"You sound unsure," said the other man with a grin. "I'm Daniel."
She smiled in return.
"And, obviously, this is Mark," her mother supplied. "Malcolm and Elaine's son. Mark's a barrister, darling, very much a rising star in the legal world."
She glanced back to Mark. His face was still impassive, almost expressionless, though his eyes were still trained unblinkingly upon her.
"I'll leave you young people to chat," Pam said in conclusion, pushing her towards Mark in an unsubtle way before taking her leave.
"So," Bridget said, trying to resuscitate conversation. "You're a barrister?"
"Yes," he said.
When it was clear he was not going to add anything further, Bridget said, "Right. And you, Daniel? What do you do?"
"Editor at a London publishing house."
"Oh," she said, brightening. "Like editor-in-chief?"
"Not… quite," he said. "Sub-sub-editor in charge of the slush pile. Not for long, if I can help it."
Bridget grinned. From this brief (so far) interaction, she could tell Daniel was very charming; the man veritably oozed charisma. What in the world did he have in common with the living statue that stood beside him? "That sounds pretty interesting, actually," she said. "I'm working at a small press, myself, handling publicity requests. Hope to move up into something like editor someday soon."
"If we have any slots to fill, I'll be sure to let you know."
The way Daniel said this nearly made her blush. Was he actually flirting in front of the friend who'd come to meet her as a part of her mother's machinations?
"Anyway," Daniel continued, "you'd never know it from his performance today, but Mark here is quite the orator in court. Not surprising. He blew us all away in Cambridge Union."
"Daniel," Mark said, in a tone oddly familiar to her; it was the same dark, vaguely threatening tenor she used when her mother was about to tell her friends a humiliating story from her daughter's childhood.
"And he routinely kicks my skinny arse at racquetball," Daniel added.
The penny finally dropped. "Oh, so you went to uni together," Bridget said.
"Yep," Daniel said. "Actually, we go back farther than that."
At this, Bridget noticed visible tenseness in Mark's jaw. It seemed like he might be about to say something biting, but held his tongue.
"But I sense that Mark would hate—"
"You don't have to speak about me like I'm not here."
"Ah!" said Daniel. "At last, he speaks!"
Bridget giggled. She couldn't help herself.
"We should leave," Mark said. "I have a lot of prep to do."
"It's Saturday," Daniel said. "Live a little."
"Did you have cake?" Bridget asked abruptly; she didn't want it to get back to her mother that she hadn't been a graceful hostess. Ridiculous, but there it was. She supposed she didn't want her mother to think she'd driven Mark away, either.
"It was excellent, thank you," Mark said in a weirdly formal manner. "Be sure to pass my compliments to your mother." He went to take a step away, but then stopped, looked at her again, and said in that same tone, "Happy birthday."
"Thank you," she said, too stunned to say anything more.
With that, Mark turned and walked away.
Bridget turned to his friend. "Is he always like this?"
"Not always," Daniel said. "I'd better go before he leaves without me. Because he would."
"It was really nice meeting you, Daniel," she said. And she meant it.
"And Mark?" he said with a grin.
"He seems… interesting," Bridget said, laughing a little. "Bye."
She watched him walk away in the direction that his friend had headed; only belatedly did she think she should have given Daniel her telephone number. Impulsively she followed in the direction he'd gone, stopping only when she overheard the friends talking in the foyer.
"She thought you were interesting," said Daniel.
"She was probably being kind," Mark said quietly.
"And what did you think of her?" Daniel asked. Bridget held her breath in anticipation—not that Mark's positive opinion would validate her existence or anything, but she liked people to like her, and he was a good-looking man despite his demeanour.
"I'd rather not talk about it right now."
"Oh come on, mate, she's adorable."
She smiled to herself. Definitely flirting.
"I didn't say she wasn't," Mark said after a moment of silence.
"Okay, I guess that's a start. Why not ask—"
"Daniel," he interrupted sternly. "Drop it. Let's go."
With that the front door opened and closed again, and one peek around the corner into the foyer confirmed they had gone.
So Daniel knew it'd been a matchmaking effort, had seemingly tried to help facilitate communication (despite the flirting), and Mark had seemed uninterested at every turn. Mark obviously didn't want to ask her out. Her first instinct was to wonder what she'd done wrong, but she quickly rejected the notion. She'd conversed with Daniel quite comfortably, and Daniel had seemed interested. If something was wrong, she decided, it was with Mark, and she was probably better off.
"Did those boys go?"
Her mother.
"They just left," Bridget said.
"So soon? Well, no matter!" Pam said brightly. "How did you get on with Mark?"
"I think he said three words to me in total," she said. "He just was very… chilly."
"Oh, Bridget."
"Mum, I tried, but…" She shrugged. "I got on well with his friend, though."
"Watch yourself with that one," said her mother in a hushed tone. "Elaine was just telling me he's a bit of a playboy."
I can absolutely believe that, she thought. In the hopes of deflecting the topic, though, she said, "Mark said he thought the cake was excellent."
It worked.
"Of course it was excellent; it's a Victoria sponge, which was your granny's signature cake, which she taught me to bake, and which I'd hoped you'd have learnt to make by now…"
…
Monday night, as she came in from work, Bridget's phone was ringing off of the hook. She made it into the flat just in time for it to stop. Of course. With a broken answerphone, she had to hope whoever it was would call back.
She slipped out of her jacket, and had just poured herself a glass of wine when the phone began ringing again. She raced over to pick up the receiver.
"Hello?"
After a beat, a vaguely familiar male voice filled her ear. "Hello… is this Bridget?"
Her guard went up slightly. "Who's calling?"
"We met the other day," said this male voice. "Daniel?"
Her heart began racing. He looked me up! "Oh, yes, of course. How are you?"
"Very hungry," he said. "And wondering if you might be hungry too."
Was he asking her out? "Actually, I am," she said.
"Fantastic," he said. "You know, I knew that the birthday party thing was meant to be a setup with ol' Mark, but, well… he can be a bit odd. And if he's not going to ask you out, I will."
"I could tell you knew," Bridget said. She couldn't help the grin that spread across her face. "And I'd love to have dinner with you tonight." After a beat, she asked, "You did mean tonight, right?"
He chuckled. "Yes. Wouldn't do me any good to wait to Friday. I'd waste away to nothing. So. Tell me where you are. I'll pick you up."
She gave him her address, but asked him to give her a little time to freshen up. "I literally just walked in the door."
"It'll take me that long to get across London," he mused. "See you soon. Oh. And consider getting yourself an answerphone. Miracle of modern science."
She giggled, said goodbye, and put down the phone. She grabbed her wineglass, went to touch up her makeup, and then find her favourite shoes, the one that made her legs look amazing.
…
When she stepped out onto the street to meet her date, his gaze conveyed his appreciation of her appearance. The casually buttoned dress shirt and jacket highlighted his lean but fit build, and she could not help but return the appreciation. "That'll do," he said, then grinned. "Come on, let's go. Don't want to be late."
They began to walk towards his car; she spotted it instantly, as it was a new model silver sedan that she'd never seen around these parts before. "So where are we going?"
"The best curry in London. Shit. I hope you like curry."
"Oh, yes, absolutely."
"Thank Christ." He paused. "Double shit. You're not a religious girl, are you?"
"Hardly," she said with a laugh.
"Hm," he drawled. "That bodes well."
She remembered her mother's words and vowed to keep them in mind, but he was so charming and so very handsome…
After a brief car ride and a blessedly short quest to park the car, they went into the restaurant. The atmosphere was cosy and the scents in the air made her even hungrier. Within a few moments they were seated at their corner table being served mint water and a big basket of freshly made naan.
"Amazing."
"I told you this was the best," he said. "I'm glad you were available on such short notice."
"I'm glad you called," she said, perusing the menu. "I thought too late that I should've given you my number."
"Three cheers for directory assistance," Daniel said. "So what looks good?"
She picked the chicken korma, while he picked a vindaloo.
"Very brave of you," she joked.
"I like living on the edge," he volleyed back. "Wine?"
"Mm," she said. "Yes, please."
Within a few minutes the server brought and uncorked a bottle of German Riesling, and poured a glass for each of them, explaining that this was one of the best wines for the spices in their dishes.
"Mine's not too spicy, is it?" asked Bridget.
"No, miss, it's not," said the server, a young man whose nametag read Vivek, and who couldn't have been much older than she was. "Mr Daniel's dish, though…" He grinned. "Fire."
"Just the way I like it," said Daniel, waggling his brows.
"Do you want starters?"
"Yes, Vivek. The usual."
"Very good. I'll bring them straight away."
She drew her brows together. "So what's the usual?"
"You'll see."
As promised, Vivek brought the starters pretty much immediately, almost as if they had expected Daniel to order them. They were little fried discs made of potato and chickpea—"Aloo and dal," Daniel explained—which had just the right amount of spicy heat and which were served with a few chutneys: savoury onion, apple ginger, mint, and the standard mango-based Major Grey's. She couldn't decide which one she liked the most.
The main courses arrived next; Daniel had not exaggerated when he said this was the best in town. It was at least the best she'd ever had. Daniel poured more wine, and they had light, flirty conversation. They began eating their dessert: rose- and cardamom-flavoured fried dough balls called gulab jamum, along with creamy spiced chai.
"You know," he began, looking intently to his chai as he stirred it. "I have a bit of a confession to make."
"Oh?"
"I thought you were adorable on Saturday, but I was wrong," he said, then met her gaze. "You're bloody gorgeous."
She didn't know quite what to say, and looked to the table; it was such a shift in conversation, and was the sort of thing she usually heard in the afterglow of shagging, not at dinner on a first date. She again remembered (inconveniently) her mum's words about his being a ladies' man. "Thank you," she said, somewhat neutrally.
Out of the corner of her eye she saw him run his hand over his face. "Ah, damn, I've blown it," he said sheepishly. "Now you think I just want get you into bed… and while I would like that, that's not why I said that."
She laughed at his honesty. "Why did you say it?"
"Because I was thinking it, and I wanted you to know."
She smiled, feeling somewhat warmer towards him. "It is a rather nice compliment to hear."
"Maybe you'll give me the chance to give you a few more," Daniel said, placing his hand over hers; it was smooth and very warm. "Go out with me again."
Her smile broadened a little. "I'd like that. A lot."
He grinned; he had such a winning smile. "I was hoping you might." He withdrew his hand and sat up straight. "Getting a bit late on a school night, miss. If you're finished, I'd best get you home before your curfew."
She chuckled at his teasing. "Yes, sir."
They walked back to the car in pleasant silence; only once he was on London's roadways again did he ask if Friday would work for her.
"I'll have to check my diary," she said, "but I'm pretty sure that I have no plans."
"Excellent." He shifted gear as he sped up. "All right if I come 'round for you at half six?"
She'd have plenty of time to prepare. "Perfect," she said.
"Yes, indeed."
He found a place to stop the car along the kerb near her building, then reached forward to pop open the glove box. In there he pulled out a pen and a small notebook. He wrote something down, then tore out the page and gave it to her.
"My home number," he explained, "and my desk number at work. Give me a ring before Friday to confirm your diary is in fact free."
She smiled as she folded it and slipped it into her handbag. "I'll do that."
"Come on," Daniel said. "I'll walk you to your door."
They both rose at the same time for the short walk; she was a little lost in her thoughts. She had already decided that a kiss goodnight would be fine, but would not ask him upstairs. He had done an expert job at romancing her tonight, but it would do her no good to jump into things with a reputed womaniser.
"Had a really nice night," she said, turning to him from where he stood beside her on the stoop. "Looking forward to Friday."
"So am I."
He raised a hand to cup her face in his hand, then bent and placed a kiss on her lips; sweet, brief, almost chaste, yet still titillating. He met her gaze; it seemed like he was gauging whether she would welcome another one. Or more.
"Goodnight, Daniel," she said quietly.
He stepped back, smiling disarmingly, thrusting his hands into his pockets. "Goodnight," he said.
She reached into her handbag for her key, let herself in, and closed the door. She exhaled at length and leaned back, marvelling at the close call. She'd had more passionate kisses in her life, but the one from Daniel tonight had made her glad she had given advanced thought to how the evening should end. Had she not done so, she absolutely would have weakened at the electricity of that touch and asked him up to her flat. Slept with him.
She dug her packet of Silk Cut from the depths of her bag, and with a slightly shaking hand she lit a cigarette and thought further about the night. The thing was, she now doubted whether it would have been so bad to give in. She was young, and frankly, she missed sex. She'd been exclusively with Peter since uni, and while she had loved him at the start, their physical relationship had grown somewhat predictable and monotonous over the years. By the end of it, she was out of love with him. Now? Now, she wanted a rebound fling. She wanted excitement; she wanted a bit of adventure; she wanted her toes to curl. And she suspected Daniel could deliver.
Such a bad idea, she thought, as she pulled the paper with Daniel's number out of her handbag. It's Monday night. Should get ready for tomorrow, then get a good night's sleep.
She dialled it anyway. Left a message on his answerphone.
Within an hour, her entryphone was buzzing with his return.
She did not get a good night's sleep.
Was absolutely worth it.
…
From his position at the door of the pub, Daniel could see that Mark was sat nursing a pint of bitter as he waited. Daniel hadn't turned up to a pre-arranged drinks date (such as it was) with Mark later the previous evening. He knew that Mark had already guessed that the no-show had had something to do with a woman, as it often did. Not turning up would have annoyed Mark, but not surprised him, and would not have angered him enough to not turn up for lunch in retribution.
Poor sod probably lives vicariously through me, Daniel thought.
Daniel dropped into the seat opposite Mark, grin in place.
"Last night," Mark said rather than asked, meeting Daniel's gaze, then pointed to the bitter he'd ordered in advance for Daniel; their usual pub orders would undoubtedly be along shortly.
"Slight change of plans last night," Daniel said. "Sorry not to ring and let you know, but time was of the essence. Told you I had a dinner date, first date. Gave her my number, left her at her front door. As expected, else I never would have planned to still meet you. What I hadn't expected was to drop home to check messages just to find her asking me to come back." He laughed lightly. "Didn't think she'd be the sort to shag me on the first date. Was too good to pass up."
"I assumed it was something similar," Mark said.
"Come to think, Mark," Daniel continued, grasping the pint and picking it up, "you did pass it up."
"Pardon?"
"That birthday party you dragged me along to in your hometown," he elaborated. "The setup. Mmm."
Mark's eyes flashed up to look at Daniel, his features unreadable.
"What?" Daniel asked.
The plates of food arrived; the server retreated.
"I just didn't realise you were going to ask her out, that's all," Mark said in a low tone.
Fucking hell, Daniel thought. He exhaled roughly and said, "Mark, when I asked you what you thought of her, when I asked whether you were going to ask her out, you told me to drop it. And then you didn't say anything else. You didn't project anything like interest." Daniel watched his friend for any sign of a reaction; a slight reddening around the collar suggested that perhaps Mark had in fact been interested. "I've heard of playing it cool, but this is ridiculous. If you're interested in a girl, you have to… I don't know, give a sign. Especially you want to admit it to your wingman when he pointedly asks."
"It's not important," Mark said, turning to his lunch.
"It is," Daniel insisted. "Mark, I didn't press it because you never seem interested. I wouldn't have asked her out if I'd thought you were. But I did. You're not going to be peevish about it, are you?"
Mark firmed his jaw. "Of course not," he said tightly. He then seemed to relax. "Come on. Your chips are going cold."
…
There had been any number of attempts by the elders of Grafton Underwood to arrange meetings between Mark and the single girls of the village (and its surrounds). Hell, the same had been attempted by his colleagues in chambers; it almost felt like a hazing ritual aimed for the barrister with the least seniority.
The result had always been the same. The village girls were either incredibly naïve (not a fatal defect, but he did not have the time or patience to take on the task of helping them overcome it) or desperate to escape to the city (and fawned over him in an over-compensatory fashion). The city girls to which he was introduced were usually focused on finding a prestigious partner (Mark's star was quickly rising in law circles, and they would have known it) or simply one with a lot of money (while he wasn't there yet, they knew he would be). As cool and as brittle as shards of ice, overly coiffed and in fierce competition with one another over everything from the hottest designers and their newest lines, to owning the right vehicle, but there was nothing of substance to find when scratching beneath the surface. Daniel would occasionally try to introduce him to a potential date, and had done for years. While he appreciated the efforts, nothing ever seemed to click.
He did not find them at all appealing.
Given all of that, Mark's expectations that day at the birthday party had not been high. He'd expected… well, it was unkind to think of in retrospect, but he'd expected a girl (he supposed he should think 'woman') close to his own age, a plain one who never garnered a second look, or one who did not meet his requirements for personality, intellect, or both. After all, if her parents were trying to match-make for her…
What does that say about me, then?
Imagine his surprise, then, when he'd turned around and had seen her. Until that moment, her age hadn't really clicked. Twenty-four, as the paper bunting over the buffet spread had proclaimed. Blonde, blue-eyed, rosy-cream complexion. Tight black cardigan, brightly coloured miniskirt, black tights, and ankle-high black suede boots with a subtle heel that still put him almost a head taller. She was very pretty, and he'd been instantly attracted, but he'd still been cautious. He was looking for more than pretty, however. He did not want to invest the time if they were not compatible in other, more important ways.
It was soon obvious she had come into this meeting as reluctantly as he had, which was something of a novelty to him. She'd tried to make small talk, but he'd been caught unawares by her apparent sincere interest in knowing, and he was not good with small talk when he wasn't discombobulated. She had also not gone out of her way to try to impress Mark, as most of them did. Her banter with Daniel had been playful and comfortable, and she really did have a winning smile. She seemed confident and quick-witted. Though the conversation had been short, it'd been memorable.
She had definitely intrigued him. But he had blown it.
Daniel's query in the foyer had also caught him off-guard. Despite what Daniel had said, there was no way she'd found him the least bit interesting. He'd given her nothing with which to work; this was, admittedly, his own fault. He also hadn't wanted to talk about the situation while still in the house. Someone could have heard. She could have heard. And if she had no interest, then he'd seen little point in expressing his own, inside of the house or out of it.
He now regretted this position.
The admission that Daniel's date the night before—his shag the night before—had been Bridget had been unexpectedly devastating to Mark. Daniel had been absolutely right, though; Mark had given no hint to his thoughts or feelings, and Daniel was not a mind reader. Despite their long friendship, not even Daniel always knew what Mark was thinking. He didn't hold this against Daniel.
He blamed himself. His lack of self-confidence with women. He despaired he'd ever get it right.
…
"Look, Mark, I feel terrible. If you want to me put off the date on Friday…"
Mark looked up and out of his thoughts, and at Daniel again. "Why?"
"Well, if you'd like to have a shot."
Mark scoffed. "I'm not in the habit of accepting charity," he said. "Besides. She's already expressed ample interest in you. I'm an afterthought, at best."
Daniel pursed his lips. "It's not charity," he said. "I feel like I jumped the queue on you. I could step back if—"
Mark interrupted, "You're talking about a woman, not a funfair attraction."
Daniel laughed a little. "No comment," he said with a grin. "In all seriousness, all right. I get the picture."
…
Daniel did feel terrible. Daniel had always had an easy time talking with women, knowing just what to say and when to say it. Mark had not been so lucky. Mark had had a series of short-term girlfriends in uni—usually thanks to me, come to think of it—but once Mark had moved on to law school, once he'd entered into his profession, female companionship had seemed much rarer. Married to his work, thought Daniel.
However, once Mark had seen the age of thirty swiftly approaching on the horizon, he'd seemed to realise that there was more to life than working, and he'd begin to make the effort again. He was woefully out of practice, and Daniel tried to encourage him whenever he could. It was hard for Daniel to gauge what exactly Mark wanted in a woman now. In school it had seemed like physical attraction was at the top of the list; as a hormone-addled teen, this hardly seemed surprising. Physical attraction was certainly still on the list, but while Daniel was still satisfied with moving from woman to woman for sex with no strings attached, Mark seemed to be looking for more. And had apparently believed he might have found someone to meet his criteria—though he had not made any outward indication of same—with Daniel's latest lover.
Daniel liked her a lot, she had really turned him on, and he'd had a great time in bed with her, but knowing that he'd inadvertently shut out his best friend from the first girl in years in which he'd taken an active interest was going to be a mood-killer in future.
Mark had already made his feelings known, regarding Daniel's offer to cancel the date. What else could he do?
Then a slow smile washed over his features.
…
"Mark, it's Daniel. Are you free Friday night?"
Mark was immediately suspicious. "Thought you had a date on Friday."
"She cancelled," Daniel said nonchalantly. "Meet me instead for dinner. Pity to let the reservation go to waste."
"Where?"
"At the Savoy Grill."
Mark let out a breath. "Sure." He had no plans otherwise, and Daniel knew it. Even though Daniel was just a mate, it'd be nice to see a friendly face after a long week.
"Excellent, see you then."
On Friday, Mark turned up early, as was his wont.
"Reservation for Cleaver, 7:30."
The maître d' consulted their reservation book. "Ah, yes," he said, running his finger along the line on the schedule, then closed it and looked up. "The table is not yet ready, if you'd care to wait at the bar."
At the suggestion, Mark very suddenly wanted a drink. With a small smile he nodded in acknowledgment and went over to the bar.
He was most of the way through two fingers of scotch when he consulted his wristwatch. 7:35. He furrowed his brow; it was not like Daniel to be late like this. And what was taking so long with the table?
He turned from the bar to watch for Daniel's arrival. Instead, he saw the last person he expected to see: Daniel's supposedly cancelled date, Bridget. Her gaze scanned the bar, swept past him, then returned to him with confusion on her face. She began to walk towards him; he could not help noticing the way the high-heeled shoes accentuated her legs. She looked absolutely stunning in a sapphire dress that brushed her knees and was cut low in the front. Her hair was swept up with a light fringe around her face. "Hi," she said cautiously as she got nearer. "Daniel told me to meet him here, and they just told me he was in the bar. Have you seen him?"
Mark felt slightly lightheaded. In that instant, he knew that she had not cancelled her date with Daniel at all.
Daniel had set him up.
"The maître d' must have been confused," he said. "Daniel's…" he began, then, thinking quickly, he lied wildly, "Daniel sent me here to meet you, to let you know he was unavoidably detained and can't make it." He knew Daniel's intentions were good, and didn't want her to think ill of him.
She could not hide her disappointment quickly enough from him. "Oh," she said; she seemed ready to bolt.
Surprising himself with his unexpected boldness—The scotch as courage? Perhaps—he said, "Since you've come all this way, to make it up to you, let me buy you dinner, instead." Thinking of Daniel's words earlier that week, Mark added, "No point in letting the reservation go to waste. It would also give me the chance to apologise for my appalling lack of conversation and courtesy when we met at your birthday party."
She looked sceptical. "Um… sure," she said at last, then let slip a small smile. "You've already talked more to me just now than you did that day."
"Splendid," Mark said with a unreserved smile, then held out his free hand. "Let's see if that table's ready."
Miraculously, it was; he had to wonder if Daniel hadn't given specific instructions to facilitate meeting her in the bar area. Clever Cleaver.
Speaking of…
She took a seat and his manners kicked in; he pushed the chair in for her. "If you'll pardon me for just a moment … feel free to order a drink."
He returned to the maître d's station.
"Is there something wrong, sir?"
"Could I trouble you for a telephone to use? I'm expecting an important message on my machine at home."
"No trouble at all, sir."
The maître d' showed him to a small alcove just around the corner in the hotel proper. Mark was quick to dial Daniel's number.
"Cleaver here."
"It's Mark," he said in hushed tones, keeping his eye on the restaurant entrance; it would not do to have her follow him out and overhear this conversation.
"Ah. Got my surprise, did you?"
"Yes, but that's a discussion for another time. Calling to say that you sent me here to meet her and tell her that you couldn't make it."
"Right," Daniel said, understanding completely. "Same page."
"I'll leave it up to you to decide what kept you from coming tonight."
"In more ways than one," Daniel quipped. "Well, go on, then. Have a nice time."
"Hope to do," he said. Then he added, "Thanks."
"You can owe me one, mate." He then put down the phone. Mark did the same.
As he returned to the restaurant his gaze sought out where Bridget sat; the shade of blue of her dress was difficult to miss. He saw that, in the short time he had been gone, she had been brought a cocktail, a lemon drop martini, if the shape of the glass and the pale yellow of the drink was anything to go by, and she was perusing the menu.
"They came by for drinks, but I wasn't sure what you wanted," Bridget said as he took a seat. "I didn't think one of these—" She indicated her own drink. "—was your thing, especially after that." She indicated the remains of his scotch.
"Another scotch, sir?" came the attentive server's voice from behind him.
"Yes, thank you," he said.
"May I interest you in a starter?"
The server recommended the wild mushroom and leek vol-au-vents to share, and with that, he withdrew.
He suddenly felt pressure to keep conversation going. He didn't want to give the slightest suggestion that he might be disinterested.
"Given any thought to your main course?" he asked.
"Honestly, no," she said, referring to the menu again. "Can't make heads or tails of some of these descriptions."
"We could ask our waiter for recommendations."
"I guess it depends on how good the vol-au-vents are," she said with a smirk. He couldn't help chuckling. "Have you been here before?"
"Actually, I have, but it's been a while." Silently, the server placed the tumbler in front of Mark and was off again. "The sirloin dish is particularly good, as I recall. So is the pollock. But you really can't go wrong."
"Hm." Her eyes flitted over the menu again as she sipped her cocktail. She looked up and met his gaze, which was unfortunately at that moment trained upon her. He felt his face flush at being caught looking, and he looked down quickly to the menu. "What about you?"
"The sirloin," he said without hesitation.
Just then, the starter arrived, and it looked delectable.
"Ladies first," Mark said, indicating the platter.
"Ooh, thank you." She plucked one up and took a bite from it. The sound of approval as she did was unmistakeable. "Oh God," she said in hushed tones, "it's all right to eat these with your fingers, isn't it?"
…
God, this man was hard to read.
Her first impression of him from the party had not changed, at least not by much. Daniel was an open book; his thoughts, emotions, desires were close to the surface. This man… he barely let anything show.
Polar opposites.
She had been given hints tonight, though. He wasn't completely a robot, as evidenced by his apology and his offer to buy her dinner. He seemed to be making an effort; he had more than made up for his behaviour on her birthday by being exceedingly courteous and solicitous, and this had made him all the more attractive. She had also seen his expression upon seeing her, when she had first spotted him, and had seen him looking at her a few moments ago. He'd had a hard time tonight hiding that he'd appreciated what he'd seen, and that had been an unexpected ego booster.
He had a sternness, a seriousness about him, though; it was hard to believe that he and Daniel were the same age. When he tensed his jaw, she didn't know it was because he was holding his tongue from saying something disapproving, or for another reason altogether.
Like now. She couldn't tell by his reaction if eating the vol-au-vents with her fingers in the Savoy Grill was a faux pas, or not.
Finally, after what seemed like forever, he responded, "I wouldn't worry about it." And then he plucked up one with his fingers to take a bite, then another. Once he had finished eating it, he revealed his opinion very much matched her own. "Oh, that is quite good."
She still wasn't sure if eating the starter with her fingers was acceptable, but if it weren't, he seemed willing to commit a social blunder with her.
For her.
Very interesting, she thought.
"I suppose it'll be safe to ask for recommendations, then," he added, carefully choosing a second vol-au-vent.
"Very safe," she said, reaching for remaining one.
The server's recommendation of the braised pork and crushed potato turned out to be one of the more delicious meals she'd ever had, and the accompanying wine was perfect. As they ate, they made conversation about innocuous subjects. He explained a little more about his work—he had the most serious, grown-up job of anyone she'd ever met, working in human rights law—and then very considerately asked about her work in publishing. She was sure she was babbling, going from work to her previous schooling to the amazing flat she'd managed to secure. If it bored him, he was a masterful actor.
He asked whether she was interested in dessert; given that sticky toffee pudding with ice cream was on the menu, she agreed. He chose a rhubarb and custard tart. With dessert they had coffee, and as they worked through both, she asked about his own uni education. As soon as he said he'd gone to Cambridge, she remembered that she already knew that. Daniel had been a friend since uni.
"Allow me to drive you home," he said, as they retrieved her coat from the coat check. "It's late and it could be a while until you secure a cab."
She smiled a little to herself. She couldn't think of anyone she knew who talked like he did. She remembered his compliments to her mother for the Victoria sponge. "Yes, that'd be wonderful. Thanks."
He too had a pristine silver car—she wondered if the friends had coordinated on purpose, but quickly decided not—and opened then close the door for her. Within a few minutes they were silently gliding through the streets of London and over the bridge to the south bank of the Thames.
Given that the night had begun with abject disappointment that Daniel had to miss their date, it had turned out to be a wonderful evening. She was extremely grateful to have gotten more of a chance to talk with Mark and get to know him a bit better. She knew now that he had not been uninterested then, but (weirdly so, considering his job) just very reserved when it came to women. She realised then why it had been such an ego boost to see his appreciative regard. His normally high levels of reserve meant seeing anything come to the surface was all the more rewarding.
There were hidden depths there of which she'd had no idea. There might yet be more to plumb.
Much like after her date with Daniel, she found herself thinking on the way home about whether or not she should invite him up. Would she be betraying Daniel? Then again, she and Daniel could hardly be considered anything close to being in a committed relationship after one dinner date and a night of shagging… she had made no promises.
"I had a really nice time tonight," she said as he made the final turn onto her street. "It was also a kind of a happy accident that Daniel couldn't make it, since it gave us a sort of do-over."
She saw the corner of his mouth turn up in a small smile. "Entirely my pleasure."
He drew up to a blessedly empty spot along the kerb a half of a city block from her building, then switched off the car. "I'll walk you to the door," he said. "I'd never forgive myself if something happened to you between here and there."
"My neighbourhood isn't that bad," she joked.
He looked genuinely distraught. "Oh, I didn't mean—"
She laughed lightly. "I was kidding," she said. Her laugh transformed into a warm smile. "I'd like it if you came up."
He furrowed his brow, as if he could not quite comprehend what she was saying. She placed her hand atop where his sat on the centre console.
There was another fleeting moment where he was not quick enough to hide his emotions; he seemed surprised but pleased, and seemed to be at a loss for more coherent words. "Me?"
She smiled again, grazing her nails across the back of his hand. "Yes."
He blinked rapidly a few times; she watched as his jaw tensed and released as he swallowed. If Mark also thought of possible betrayal of Daniel, it did not stop him from saying, "I'd very much like that."
…
As he said it, he couldn't believe he was saying it.
He couldn't deny that he was interested in something more than casual sex; neither could he deny that he wanted her very much. She was even more attractive to him than when he first met her, and he was only a man, after all. Daniel had basically given his blessing. He would have been mad to turn down her invitation.
"Let's go upstairs then?" she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
"Yes, my apologies. One moment."
He exited the car and went around to her door to open it. She grinned up at him. "Well, that was nice of you."
"My pleasure." He held his hand out to help her out of the car, and she took it… and didn't let go.
"It's this way," she said, tugging him in the right direction.
All he could focus on was her warm hand holding his, until they reached the front stoop, when she opened her handbag for her keys. As she turned to unlock the building's door, he brought a hand to her midback, almost protectively.
He followed her to the top flat, followed her inside.
"Make yourself at home," she said. "Can I get you anything? A drink?"
Had he misinterpreted? Was she intending only a nightcap? "I don't suppose you have scotch," he said with a small smile.
"Sadly, I don't," she said. "I have some chardonnay…."
"That'll be fine."
She offered a smile. "Okay." She then headed towards the kitchen area. He couldn't take his eyes off of her; specifically, her backside. He shook his head as if to break the spell, then doffed his suit jacket and rested it across the banister by her flat's door.
"Fuck," he heard her mutter.
He turned back to see her peering into her refrigerator, before looking to him. "I've just realised that I'm out of wine."
"It's all right," he said. "I'm not really here for the wine."
Her smile was reserved but her amusement was clear. Again he could hardly believe he'd said what he'd said. "Ahh," she said. She walked back towards him. "I take the point." She came closer to him, met his gaze with her own. He had a distinct height advantage despite her heeled shoes. "You know," she said. "You have really lovely eyes."
"Thank y—"
He stopped short when she lifted herself up on her toes in order to press her lips to his. It was just a quick peck, but it held the promise of so much more.
And he wanted more.
"Let's adjourn to the sofa, shall we?" he said, his voice a whisper.
"I say we cut to the chase," she said, taking his hand in hers, "and go straight to my bedroom."
There was that lightheaded feeling again.
Bliss.
From the moment he stepped through the threshold and into the dimly lit room, he was swept up in her; she threw her arms about his neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He stumbled slightly forward, wrapping his arms around her, his mouth pressed to hers; then, as if waking from sleep, he plied her with a series of deep, passionate kisses that left him not caring if he ever breathed again. He heard her gasp as his hands slipped over the object of his earlier gaze and grasped, pressing her tightly to him.
He felt her own hands run over his back, over his trousers, and to his own arse; she was not shy about pressing her fingers into him, to the point where he let out a sigh.
Somehow, they were suddenly atop the bed—he wasn't sure if she had pulled him down, or he had directed her there—and his hand was raising the hem of that blue dress higher and higher, caressing her thigh as he did. His own thigh was between hers, and he pressed up into her, eliciting a little groan into his mouth. Then his hand was on the elastic leg band of her pants, traversing upward to feel the soft skin of her backside, her hip, her gently curved tummy.
"Wasting no time," she said throatily between stuttered breaths.
He pressed his thigh upward again as caressed her skin.
"Oh my God, get a condom," she breathed, then pointed towards her little bedside table. "Top drawer."
He pushed away and dove for the bedside table, even as he was taken by surprise that she had them at all. He always kept one in his wallet; it never hurt to be prepared, after all, to protect one's health. But he had never been with a woman who had been similarly prepared.
Hurriedly he undid his the belt and trousers, tugged down his pants, condom in hand. When he'd finished, he turned back to look at her, he saw that she had pushed herself properly back onto the bed, was reclined back on her elbows against the pillows, her dress tented between her raised knees. Her pants were on the floor; her blonde hair was mussed; her blue eyes glittered; her ruddy lips offered another smile.
God, did he want her.
And he was going to show her.
…
What the hell had just happened?
Bridget laid sprawled out on her back on the bed, staring in disbelief at the ceiling, her breath finally starting to resemble something close to normal; the fireworks behind her eyes were only just now fading, the sensation only just returning to her fingers and toes after the shag she'd just had.
A shag with the last man she would have expected to bring her to such ecstasy.
Hidden depths, indeed.
He rested to her side but partially against her, with his head on the pillow and an arm across her waist. She turned her head slightly to look at him; his breath had calmed, but his eyes were closed. She studied his features in repose; they were much softer than when he was awake, it seemed. Much less serious.
Handsome. Considerate. Courteous. Fantastic body. Amazing shag. Rocky smart. Pre-approved by her mum. She couldn't help wondering what was wrong with him. He seemed almost too good to be true. Maybe she could ask Daniel… but no. That'd be too weird.
His eyes then opened and met hers directly.
"Hi," she said stupidly.
He offered a small smile, said with unmistakeable fondness in his tone, "Hello." He blinked a couple of times. "Sorry, must have dozed off there."
After that exertion, little wonder, she mused.
"Are you cold?" he asked, shifting, pushing himself carefully up.
"A little."
He sat up, reaching for a blanket at the foot of her bed, which he then spread over the both of them.
"This poor dress," she began, thinking of the blue silk that was now currently bunched around her hips and lower back.
"Absolutely glorious on you," he said. "But, if you like… I can help you out of it. For the sake of the dress and all."
He was full of surprises.
Then he sighed and surprised her again.
…
"I have something of a confession to make."
She stirred, raising her head to look at him. "Ooh, what?"
At that moment, he almost lost his nerve, but he hated that the whole night was predicated on a little white lie. Pausing at just that moment, though, caused her features to fall. "Oh my God," she said. "What is it?"
"It's nothing serious," he said. "It's just that I wasn't completely honest earlier."
She sat up, drawing a blanket up to her. "That's 'nothing serious'?"
"I don't mean like that," he said with what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "Daniel didn't send me to find you."
"And you just happened to be there?"
"No, no. He told me that you had cancelled, and asked me to meet him for dinner."
She looked entirely dumbfounded. "What on—why in the world would he do that?"
He sat up, too. "It's about your birthday party. You know, where my mother and yours were trying to set us up. I'm afraid I… gave Daniel the impression that I wasn't interested."
To his surprise, she smiled ever so slightly; he'd expected at least a little offense at the thought of being snubbed. Then she spoke. "I got that impression, too."
"But since Daniel thought I was passing you over, he felt free to ask you out. When he realised that I, er, was interested, he felt terrible, and offered to cancel the date. I told him no. I mean—I did want to ask you out, but it… wasn't some kind of contest or prize to win, like I somehow deserved a shot with you first. So he took matters into his own hands and arranged it so that we'd both turn up expecting Daniel."
She looked very thoughtful; her usually expressive features were hard to read. "Very French farce," she said at last. "And terribly considerate of Daniel."
"I didn't ask him to do it, and I never expected the night would end like this," he said. "I panicked in the moment with the white lie because I really wanted to buy you dinner."
"Never expected?"
"Honestly, no," he said. "I just wanted to get to know you better, and get the opportunity to maybe improve your opinion of me after I'd been such an arse."
She was quiet again for many moments. "Have a confession, too," she said, then met his gaze again. "I overheard you speaking to Daniel in the foyer as you were leaving."
He was mortified. "Oh, no," he said. "I never wanted you to hear that. I'm sorry."
"It's all right," she said, then smiled as she reclined back onto her pillows, dropping the blanket again. "You might have noticed my opinion of you has in fact since improved. Now. About this dress?"
He should have gone home, but he resolutely ignored he voice of logic as he leaned over to kiss her again.