A Brand New Decade
Part 1 of 3
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)
Summary: The big 4-0 is approaching, and Bridget's dreading it.
Disclaimer: Really not mine.
Notes: The big 4-0 is next year for me, so… it got me to thinking. Also, you may have noticed I've chosen some British spellings for words, so don't mentally ding me for misspells. I have the language set to English UK for spellchecking.
ETA: "amnyous", thank you for the review, but I felt that your describing what you wanted to happen was too close to... well, just keep reading. :D
One month until doomsday.
Someone, probably Shaz, had very helpfully drawn a giant skull and crossbones on the calendar for October the ninth, with the ominous warning in heavy black marker. She thought she might just have to kill Shaz.
Thirty-three, thirty-four, seemed like the halcyon days of youth compared to where she was now, with only one month of her thirties left.
She sighed. Bridget Jones is fucked.
The worst of it was that it really seemed that her relationship with Mark was truly over. They'd been together on and off—more on than off—for roughly seven years, but the last row they'd had seemed to be the inevitable, gruesome end. She had not heard from him for ten weeks now, the longest period of time she had ever not spoken to him since they had started to see each other. God knows she still loved him, and physically they had always been very compatible, but things had just gotten so tense and edgy that it seemed all they did in the last few months of their relationship was spend hours in silence, not saying anything for fear of saying the wrong thing.
It might have had something to do with her increasing anxiety that, at nearing age forty, her hopes of ever having a baby were growing dimmer and dimmer. She was convinced that her years of meaningless shagging and ingestion of contraceptive pills meant that she had doomed herself from ever having a child. Jude kept telling her it was bollocks, and she seemed to have the science to back it up, but none of it made any sense when trying and trying with Mark yielded no results. On top of all else, she felt guilty and self-centred for insisting on waiting as long as she did; she smiled wistfully recalling all of the times Mark had earnestly tried to cajole her into agreeing to try.
Selfish old cow, she thought, then added, with images in her mind's eye of the hugely pregnant Woney rubbing her stomach smugly, except I can't even manage to be a proper cow.
Adding to that guilt was the long, ultimately unsuccessful engagement; in reaction to the welcome though sudden proposal, she supposed she didn't want Mark to feel pressured, like she wanted to rush him into marrying. So they didn't. There was also her own terror at the reality of the ceremony and of her life afterwards as a famous lawyer's wife. There was the inherent fear of losing her independence, not being able to go out with her friends when she wanted, not to be able to smoke in the house (or at all). She also couldn't say that Daniel Bloody Cleaver's one-time proclamation hadn't crossed her mind, the one about most lawyers' wives dying of boredom.
Marriage, like a baby, was something she always thought she might like to do in a year or two. And then…
It was all her fault, when it came down to it.
Shaz told her over and over again that she didn't need a man to define who she was, and realistically she knew this to be true. It didn't mean she missed Mark any less.
………
"Hm," said Mark, his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist, as they gazed out into the night. They were taking a break from the hubbub of the annual New Year's Turkey Curry Buffet, getting a little fresh air, and keeping warm by huddling close together. "Maybe this time next year we'll have a little someone else to bring to the party."
She must have stiffened a bit even as she said, "Maybe," because he turned her by her shoulder to face him.
"Bridget," he said solemnly. "We're not getting any younger."
She cast her gaze down. He was right. "I know."
"You still want a baby, don't you?"
Her eyes flashed up to meet his. She knew what he was really asking, the part of the question that went unspoken: 'with me.' "Of course I do, Mark," she said wholeheartedly, taking his hand in both of hers, grasping it tightly. "Let's start trying."
He looked at her in disbelief, his brown eyes searching hers for some sign that maybe he had misheard. "Really?"
She nodded, tentatively at first, then more vigorously. She found herself beaming quite without conscious thought; the expression of pure joy on his face filled her heart with love. He then placed a hand on her cheek and drew her into a tender, quick kiss.
"Dare I push my lucky streak," he began, "and ask you if you have decided on a dress? A date?" His tone, though playful, had an underlying concern to it that was very like his previous question's.
She pulled him into an embrace. "I'm very close now," she said.
………
After lolling about her flat for the whole of that evening and watching bad television, her entryphone rang. Listlessly she pulled herself up off of the sofa, went to the entryphone, and picked it up. "Yes?" she asked.
She heard giggling, then someone—Tom, most likely—began humming a funeral dirge. Other female voices chimed in.
"Fuck off," she grumbled, tempted to hang up on them.
They howled uproariously. "Oh Bridge," said Jude, "you know we love you, and we're just teasing. Let us up."
"Funny way of showing it," she said, fighting tears in her eyes as she pressed the button to release the lock; it was, after all, too late in life to be forming a new Urban Family from scratch, too.
Shaz, Tom and Jude were upstairs in little time at all, bearing wine and pizzas. "Forty is really not so bad," said Shaz, which conjured up memories of Shaz' own fortieth birthday party, an evening that had consisted of a lot of drinking, cursing and crying, and not necessarily in that order.
"I'm kicking and screaming the whole way too," said Tom supportively, putting his arm around Bridget's shoulders and squeezing tightly. "Anyway. We were wondering how you wanted to celebrate."
"I don't want to celebrate anything," Bridget said sullenly. "I want to crawl in a hole and die. Bring on the Alsatians. My life is over."
"Your life is not over," said Shaz. "You've made it this far on—" She stopped, looking immediately regretful at what she seemed poised to say: on your own. Bridget bit back tears. "And you have all of us," Shaz continued brightly, holding up a bottle of wine.
At that she did start to cry, because it was true: she had the best friends in the world. Shaz, Jude and Tom set down the wine and food, then all enfolded her in a big group hug.
"Now come on," said Tom, breaking up the hug. "This wine does us no good still in the bottle, and the pizza is going to get cold, which would be a tragedy of epic proportions."
Bridget laughed; she could always count on Tom to lift her spirits.
After nearly two bottles of wine, an hour into the movie, and all of the pizza she could eat, Bridget was out of her funk and laughing with the lot of them. "I want you to promise me, though," she said with great gravity. "I don't want to hear another word about a party."
Jude and Shaz shared a look and nodded, before looking to Bridget again. "Oh, we promise."
"Absolutely," said Tom, grinning drunkenly.
………
As the ninth of November drew ever nearer, she at least was not pestered by her friends about what she wanted to do to celebrate. She alternately tried to ignore the date's approach, tried to convince herself that forty was only a number and that age was a state of mind, or pretended like she did not care at all. Deep down, though, she did care; every beaming mum she passed pushing a pram underscored the point. She would have thought by age forty she would have met some very specific life goals.
She knew she wasn't being fair to herself, though. In her time at the television studio, she had parlayed her creativity into a heavier participation in production; on-screen appearances, while rarer, became more polished. She could work at home when she liked and was actually, for the first time in many years, happy with her job. She was also being paid a handsome salary to do it.
There was no discounting the value of her friends, either. They were always there for her, always supported her, through the tear-soaked nights lamenting why she couldn't even get 'getting up the spout' right. They always knew what to say and what to do, and she was more grateful for that than she could ever express.
She was blessed to still have her parents, who were edging up on seventy and seemed in good health and fine spirits. Her mother in particular seemed not to be slowing down at all… as orange and as opinionated as ever.
She was proud of what could best (or at least most delicately) be described as ageing gracefully. She still looked in her early thirties—backed up by independent comments from people she did not know well, as well as observations made by Shaz and Jude, who accused her of harbouring a portrait in the closet doing her ageing for her. And while her waistline did not miraculously reduce to some unnaturally small measurement, neither did it nor her weight creep up, which also garnered glares from her best girlfriends.
She smiled, then felt teary. Reflections of this nature always came back around to thoughts of Mark.
………
"I just don't understand how it's possible," said Mark, his tone as serious as his expression as he came up behind her in the bathroom, meeting her reflection's eyes with his own.
"What?" Bridget asked, alarmed.
"You," he said. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, not letting her gaze go for a moment. "I keep ageing, and you…. People are going to accuse me of robbing cradles before too much longer, you know."
Honestly, he didn't look any different to her now then when they had met; he had turned forty not too long ago, and she suspected that he might be having an unfounded age-related crisis. She turned her head and kissed him on the cheek.
"You're being silly," she said, looking at him in the mirror again. She swore he was actually pouting. "You look as wonderful and as handsome as ever."
"You're biased," he replied, tightening his embrace around her shoulders again. "I've got rampant grey hairs and deepening lines, and you look barely a day over thirty."
She suppressed a smile. "I think you're the one who's biased," she said. "Besides, a few greys make you look distinguished." She turned around and into a proper embrace, tracing her fingers over the hair on his temples, where the aforementioned greys had chosen to populate.
"A lie perpetuated to make ageing men feel better," he murmured.
"Did it work?" She felt his hands on the small of her back.
"Mmm," he said, then kissed her. "Yes."
………
At the café at which they were having lunch, Bridget looked across the table at her friend with high levels of suspicion, and with good reason.
"Just a massage. That's all?"
Magda looked offended. "Unless you want something more on your birthday…? I thought you didn't want a big party."
"I don't," she said emphatically. "I was just making sure you didn't have something else up your sleeve."
Magda made a dismissive sound, lifting her chin and looking as aristocratic as ever. "I'm a mother of three whose oldest is ten going on seventeen, Bridge. I'm far too busy to have anything up my sleeve but my arms."
Bridget smiled, then laughed. "All right."
"I can think of worse ways to spend a birthday, getting treated to a massage," said Magda with a grin and a wink. "I'll pick you up on Sunday at eleven, then."
Two days away. Her heart dropped like a stone. "All right."
"Fantastic. And then I'm fixing you supper. No point in spending your birthday alone."
Bridget had said she didn't want a party, but it depressed her that her friends were going to be unavailable for the day itself; she had hoped they would at least have spent the day with her. Jude had a job-related seminar to attend all weekend, one that she couldn't get out of; Tom said he might be back from a music festival in Birmingham in time for drinks after supper. Shaz asked her if she wanted to go see a movie in the afternoon and have dinner, and Bridget had tentatively agreed.
"Oh," said Bridget, then explained her previous plans.
"No problem," said Magda. "Just as easy to cook for seven as for six. I'll make a big pot of pasta. It'll be fun." Magda narrowed her eyes. "Are you sure you don't at least want a cake?"
"Maybe a pint of Ben and Jerry's," she said after a moment's reflection. "With a giant skull-and-crossbones-shaped candle stuck in it."
Magda smiled. "That's the spirit. Forty is not so bad, you know," she said; she had turned forty back in May. "Besides, you hardly look a day over thirty."
She smiled wistfully, thinking again of Mark. "Thanks."
………
As the masseur drove his fingertips directly into the hollow spots between muscles, as he worked out the knots within them, Bridget began to think she might have liked a party after all. Nothing big, but something with all of her friends, maybe her parents. Getting to forty was no small feat. She thought maybe she should have taken her moment in the limelight, after all.
No matter. Bridget had already talked via the telephone to her mother and father; the former had gone all fluttery and teary, hardly able to believe her only daughter was forty (with undertones of 'unmarried and childless' attached), while the latter sounded as he always did, filled with sincerity and quiet cheer, sounding as emotional as he ever had while proclaiming what joy she had brought to their lives.
Magda had advised upon pickup at eleven that she'd lied a little and had booked more than a massage: also included was a little time in the steam room, and afterwards, a facial. She had told Magda she really should not have done all of this, but Magda had been insistent. "It is the least I can do. Every woman needs to be treated like a queen on her birthday. Especially on her fortieth."
Bridget had actually not gotten depressed at the thought, which seemed a step in the right direction. She agreed.
After the spa day, she reflected, she would have her dinner with Magda, Jeremy, the kids and Sharon to look forward to. She was sure Magda had gotten a cake anyway—she would never confuse or disappoint her kids by celebrating a birthday without a cake—and she'd even see Tom after dinner. Perhaps Jude would get back to London in time to make the evening complete.
You see? she told herself. It will be a nice birthday, nonetheless.
"How do you feel?" asked Magda as they met in the steam room, each wearing terrycloth robes. Her auburn-haired friend was glowing and smiling broadly, her hair tucked up into a towel, much like Bridget's.
"Like a bundle of rubber bands," she said with a grin. "But ooof. That felt wonderful."
"I'm glad," she said. "Happy birthday, Bridge."
"Thanks, Magda," she said.
The facial was absolutely marvellous; after being patted dry and moisturised, she watched with a level of surprise as Jackie, her beautician, then began to make her up in subtle roses and peaches.
"Is this part of the deal?" Bridget asked hesitantly as dark brown mascara was swept onto her lashes.
Jackie smiled. "We can't very well send you out into the world without the finishing touches," she said. "How would we ever get repeat business?"
Bridget smiled. The woman made a good point, so she said nothing more as the application of makeup concluded.
"Were you wanting a trim?" Jackie asked.
"What?"
"Your hair."
"Um…" she said.
Jackie supplied, "It's part of the deal."
She wondered exactly how much Magda had spent on this spa day. "Then yes, I could use a trim. Bit of an update to the style, if you're feeling inclined." Jackie chuckled, then pulled out a very sharp-looking pair of small scissors, and got to work.
Emerging back into the lobby, Magda greeted Bridget with raised brows and a grin. "My, my," she said. "You look outstanding."
"I feel so good," she said. "Thank you so much. You really shouldn't have spent—"
"Chuh," she retorted, holding up her hand. "If I can't treat one of my very best friends in the world, the godmother to two of my children, on her birthday, then it's just all over, really."
She felt emotional, but refused to cry and ruin her makeup. "You're too good to me."
"Chuh," she said again, grinning.
"I do look good," said Bridget, admiring her haircut—chin-length bob that accentuated the shape of her face, with the barest hint of fringe—and makeup in the mirror. "I'm really going to knock your children's socks off," she teased.
Magda laughed. "Well, you know Harry. He's a sucker for a pretty girl."
They walked out to Magda's car; Magda glanced to her wristwatch. "Don't need to start dinner for another couple of hours yet. Do you want to go home? Do some shopping? Or do you just want to come over?"
"I don't know, feel like maybe I should change my clothes," she said, indicating her trousers and jumper. "This does not seem nearly as nice now that my hair and makeup look so fancy."
"Oh, Bridge," she said, climbing behind the wheel of her car. "You look fine. Better than fine. Gorgeous. But maybe…"
"What?"
Magda looked positively conspiratorial. "Let's stop by Marks and Spencer's on the way home. I saw a dress there the other day that I thought would look absolutely stunning on you. You deserve to look stunning, beyond stunning, on your birthday."
She thought about it for a few minutes, then grinned; even though it was just Magda and her family, she did feel like she ought to splash out a little that night. Additionally, the thought of spending some time before dinner with her goddaughter Constance pleased her greatly. "Then let's go. And after that, I'd love to just come over," she replied, buckling herself in.
"Brilliant," said Magda. "Let me just phone Jeremy and make sure I don't need to pick up anything at the store while I'm out." She pulled out her mobile and pressed a speed-dial number. "Jeremy? It's me. Calling to see if we need anything." There was a pause. "All right, then. We're stopping by for a dress, then we'll be home soon."
The dress was as if it were made for her. Short, flaring sleeves, royal blue in colour, with a faux wrap front, which provided her chest with some nice, uplifting definition. It was fitted close to the body just under her breasts before flaring gently out into an A-line skirt that fell to just above her knees, giving the impression of a smaller waist than she had, and very forgiving of slight bulges on the tummy and hips.
"Oh," said Magda, bringing her hands up to her mouth. "That looks… I have no words. You have to wear this dress home."
Bridget grinned, turning a little in front of the mirror. "I love it," she said. "I'm glad you spotted it. But you know, I can't leave without some shoes too. Trainers with a dress like this…"
Magda laughed.
She decided on a pair of kitten-heels—stylish without adding too much height or wobble—and along with some hosiery, she ducked into a change room with her purchases and dressed in her new outfit.
"Perfect," said Magda as she emerged.
It was, she thought. Quite perfect.
………
As they drove, the sky already started towards the dusky blue of twilight; Bridget could only think what a lovely day she'd had, with nary a mention of turning forty. This is it, thought Bridget, feeling more positive then she had in a long while. A brand new decade. Things will be wonderful.
Magda indicated then turned into her drive and disengaged the engine. "You feeling hungry?" she asked.
"I am," she replied.
"Well, Constance will likely put you through you paces before dinner's done. Are you up for it?"
Bridget grinned. "I think I can handle it."
Magda smiled, and with that they approached the house. Magda turned her key in the door and pushed it open. It seemed unusually dark and quiet in the house for a family with three pre-teen kids in it. "Jeremy?" she called out.
"We're back here," called Jeremy. "Watching a movie."
Magda rolled her eyes, slipping out of her coat. "Jeremy's idea of child care: putting on a Disney DVD for the millionth time. Why don't you go on back there? I'll put the pasta on."
"You don't want help?"
"Bridget," Magda scolded. "And risk getting sauce on that dress? No. Besides, it's your birthday. You relax."
Bridget smiled. "Thanks."
Bridget hung her coat on the coat rack, set her handbag down in the entryway, then made her way back towards what Magda referred to as their family room, complete with oversized sofa, widescreen television and a collection of movies that would have made Blockbuster Video envious. The door was slightly ajar and the room was dark. She pushed it and announced herself: "So, do we have Belle or Mulan to—"
She stopped speaking. She had to. At her entrance, the lights in the room went to full brightness, and at once, a cacophony of voices shouted out at her:
"Surprise!"
There, all wearing bright, beaming smiles and shiny black party hats, were Tom, Shaz, Jude, Simon, Jeremy, Constance, Harry and Jack; the latter of the three, being children, bounced up and down excitedly and repeated "Surprise! Surprise!" over and over again.
This biggest surprise of all, however, did not catch her attention immediately. Standing at the back of the crowd, wearing an expression best described as gobsmacked, was Mark. He looked immaculate as always, dressed in unwrinkled khaki trousers, which he always liked to wear with the ivory jumper he was wearing now. His hair was cropped as it always was, if a little longer and thicker on top than she was used to seeing, though still quite becoming on him. The grey at his temples was quite dense now.
Bridget felt completely winded.