Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start
By S. Faith, © 2014-2015
Words: 50,000 in 6 chapters
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: Adventures abroad and at home, now that Bridget and Mark are back together.
Disclaimer: Really isn't mine.
Notes: I won't lie: wrote this primarily for the wedding, since it's unlikely we'll ever see what Ms. Fielding wrote. Also incorporating some things we learn about what happened to characters in the interim, from mentions in MATB.
This begins just post-EOR, after Mark asks her (on Friday, 19 Dec 1997) to go to Thailand with him.
Chapter 1
Sat, 10 Jan 1998
9st (though actually feel weightless), cigarettes 0 (as not allowed), nicotine patches 1 (lifesaver), alcohol units 4 (vg top cocktails), boyfriends 1 (hurrah!), life-altering moves 1 (terrifying, but good).
11.30 am, UK time. Have been far too busy with Christmas, New Years, etc. to update diary (actually, have not had a moment to breathe until now), though might have instead been updating diary from the stocks, prison or similar, as Mark Darcy revealed himself to be a bit of a prankster at the worst possible time. Just before Christmas, Mark had just asked me how I felt about going to Thailand instead of LA. Felt head began to swirl. Return to place where had narrowly escaped ten years for drug mule frame-up? Thought too of near-solid humid air and hole in floor for toilet when heard Mark prompt for an answer: "So what do you think?"
"I… this is so sudden," I managed, still reeling. I mean, had just told self that wanted to be with him wherever he was, but if 'where he was' was where nearly spent last remaining child-bearing years, incarcerated…. Was too much to ask of me, surely?
"Darling, are you still there?"
"Yes, sorry," I said. Took deep breath. "Yes. Of course I'll come to Thailand with you."
"Really?"
(Honestly, he didn't have to sound so incredulous.)
"Yes, really."
Then, through telephonic connection, heard him begin to chuckle.
Wounded, I asked, "Why is that funny?"
"I thought for sure you'd tell me to sod off, or chuck me, or know I was joking…" His voice went instantly sober. "Darling, I'd never ask such a thing of you," he said tenderly. "Though I'm exceedingly touched that you said yes, and so quickly at that."
Was v. confused. "So we're not going to Thailand?"
"We are not."
"Are we going anywhere?"
At this Mark laughed a short, sharp, highly amused laugh. "Yes," he said. "Lunch, a little Christmas shopping… a stop by the US Consulate?"
Was v. glad had taken day off from working. On top of Christmas and New Years, had to also spend time arranging things for trip.
Ooh, time for lunch. Or is it dinner? And another cocktail, while Mark has gone to loo. Still v. long flight ahead, so cocktails are essential.
1.00 pm, UK time. So as mentioned, now on way to Los Angeles on v. long flight, though is first class and v. posh.
Since new consultant work is freelance and can be done in pyjamas from sofa, can just as easily done from LA with Mark (preferably in bathing suit, while next to pool).
"Though you do realise," Mark was sure to point out, "with an eight hour time difference, you may have some very early mornings."
Humpf. Love Mark Darcy, but can be rather a wet blanket at times.
However, Mark Darcy, being Mark Darcy (as he is), made sure we applied for visitor visa for self for future, and had interview just a few days after Christmas (top human rights lawyers apparently have v. g. diplomatic connections).
Don't quite understand whole visa situation, to be honest, but seems clear will have to travel back to London at some point to get visa. Not sure why they cannot mail it to Los Angeles address, though they probably don't expect that one would already be in the US when receiving visa to visit US.
1.45 pm, UK time. Was sure that flight was nearly over, but find we are not even half way there. Should take nap or read, but am too restless. But at same time, am bored. Mark has gone to sleep. Seems he can sleep anywhere, any time. Bastard.
Ooh, I know. Will have another cocktail. Maybe will make me sleepy.
Maybe two.
1.30 pm (now on Los Angeles time). Oof. Last cocktail hit me like load of bricks; got all bleary and fell sleep and only awakened by rough shaking by Mark. He looked a little cross.
"We're landing soon," he said.
"What's wrong?" I asked. V. bad start to life in paradise.
"Nothing," he said, then looked down pointedly. "Well, except that you seem to have spilt some of your cocktail on your blouse."
Looked down, saw splodge on silk top that had now dried. Drink cup still sat on table thing; bloody air hostesses are not efficient when most need it. "Sorry. I couldn't fall asleep on my own."
He offered a little smirk. "You forgot about your pill, didn't you."
Had in fact forgotten about herbal remedy thing we had picked out at Boots. Drink was nicer tasting, anyway. "Did it work?"
Mark tipped his head. "As you saw."
Figured would just save it for sleeping that night, though with the majority of a day still ahead of us, suspect will not need it.
Ooh! Bonging sound means we are about to land.
9.30 pm. Completely shattered with exhaustion. About to fall into bed.
After passing through Customs—relatively smooth process—we emerged heading for baggage claim and found that someone had been sent to meet us. Should not have been surprised. Mark is stickler for detail.
Walked out of airport and into freakishly bright dazzling January sun. Realised instantly had no idea where had put sunglasses. Or if had actually packed them. Dug deeper into handbag.
Drive was marvellous. Everything gorgeous and shining, cloudless cerulean sky, expanse of deep blue ocean in distance. Palm tree-lined roads seem surreal. Feels like mirage, dream, or similar.
After wonder-filled drive, the polite and non-intrusive driver deposited us in front of property I was sure could not be correct, as seemed something out of a Hollywood picture (though not too far out as are v. near to Hollywood). But no, somehow the key Mark had worked and we opened the door to be met by a whoosh of cool air.
Left speechless. House in which we are staying is not to be believed. Luxurious suite of rooms, windows practically from floor to ceiling, and—as hoped and dreamed—a swimming pool. However, felt sure was too good to be true. Had to ask Mark who we were sharing house with. He dropped bags in entry way, gave me a look, then a smile, then he let out a laugh.
"Share? No, darling, this is for us."
"All of this?" Dared not think what a place like this might cost per month. For five months, no less.
He came towards me, took me into his arms. "All of this, just for you and me," he murmured, nuzzling into hair just by my hair. Was tired, was hungry, but instant feeling of love—well, lust—overtook me and was instantly awake, alert, ready for action, etc.
Scooped me up into his arms and took confident stride towards the staircase, then proceeded upwards. Like homing pigeon or similar he strode directly to master bedroom—door was conveniently open—and tossed self down onto bed.
Mmm. Things were just getting good when distinct sound of tune-of-town-hall-type doorbell started to go off from downstairs. Froze, which made Mark freeze too (and apparently recover ability to hear). He cursed under his breath as he pushed himself away to get to his feet.
"We could pretend not to be here?" I suggested lamely.
He offered a pained smile; the doorbell went off again. "They know I'm here. Where else would I go?"
So with great reluctance we composed ourselves and made our way back downstairs. At the door, Mark asked, "Yes, who is it?"
"Hello, Mr Darcy?" asked a deep, smooth, television-style-American-accented voice. "Ron Peters, here from the firm."
Mark looked to me with a 'I really have to let him in' look. I nodded. He swung open the door, to reveal a well-dressed man—dress shirt, tie, trousers—who was a bit shorter than Mark, with dark, coarse hair, light hazel eyes, and a grin best described as 'Californian'. Was something more about his expression that could not quite place—
"Hello, Mr Peters," Mark said, extending his hand for a shake, which Ron Peters took. "Mark Darcy."
"Please, call me Ron." He stood back then looked to me. "And this must be… your girlfriend?"
"Ah, er, yes." Mark seemed a little flustered; could see creeping stain of pink around his collar, which only now realise was quite uneven. "Ah, yes, allow me to introduce Bridget Jones. She works in television back in London."
Ron Peters reached to shake my hand, that grin never once leaving his face, and he placed his free hand over the back of mine as we shook. "Pleasure to meet you, miss."
Miss? Love Ron Peters.
"And feel free to call me Mark," Mark seemed to add as an afterthought.
Ron Peters looked to the door, then back to Mark, that same expression on his face. It occurred to self that it was deep amusement. But at what? "I hope you've been making yourself at home?"
"Yes, quite," Mark said. "We only just arrived, actually."
"I'd hoped to be here when you arrived, to greet you, but traffic was worse than usual, and that's saying something," he went on. "Wanted to make sure you were all settled in, give you a tour of the place—didn't think you'd be up for much socialisation tonight after the travel. We'll all have dinner another night. Maybe tomorrow?"
"Certainly."
"Great." Ron Peters then gestured that we follow him.
Sitting room is, I swear, larger than whole flat, has giant fireplace with wrap-around sofa. Kitchen has scary modern appliances and seamless cabinetry, though not nearly as scary and seamless as Mark's brushed aluminium kitchen in Holland Park. "Fully stocked the shelves. I'm sure you must be pretty hungry."
"Oh, yes," I said, quite without thinking. Mark looked to the floor, cheeks tinting pink.
Saw additional rooms on ground floor—loo, entertainment room with huge television, etc.—then Ron headed for the staircase to the first floor.
"Ah," Mark said, stopping. "You don't have to—I mean, we've found the master suite already."
As I saw Ron Peters' eyes involuntarily glance towards the front door again, I realised he wasn't looking at the front door at all, but our pile of suitcases next to said door, which we had not brought upstairs. I knew then the source of his amusement: he bloody knew full well we had already found the bedroom from the moment he'd seen us, and because we hadn't put our luggage away…. Oh God. Should have checked hair and makeup in mirror.
"Right," said Ron Peters. "Well, I won't keep you from your dinner." He turned for the door, but just as quickly turned back. "Oh, before I forget." He slipped his hand into his pocket, pulled it out, then extended what appeared to be a key to hand it to Mark. At our joint confusion—we already had keys to the house—he explained, "For the car."
Car? Where on earth was car?
As Mark accepted the key fob, Ron Peters explained (as if reading mind) while pointing to a door I assumed to be a storage cupboard, "It's in the garage—" pronounced guh-RAHJ—"and it's gassed up, ready to go. Garage door opener in the car. Of course, this is for your personal use while you're here. You can ride with me to and from the office. Driving in downtown LA can be challenging even for the natives, then on top of that we're all on the wrong side of the road." He winked. "Well, I'm off. I'll give you a buzz tomorrow. Have a good night."
The men shook hands again, and Mark saw him out.
"A house, a pool, a car in the 'guh-RAHJ'," I said, trying to lighten the embarrassment am sure Mark felt.
"Far more than I expected," he said.
Before things could get more awkward, said, "I'm sorry about…" But then trailed off as was not actually sorry about falling into bed (even if our business had been, er, left unfinished) with gorgeous boyfriend the moment we stepped into rented LA villa, so said instead, "…the law partner guy perhaps thinking we're some kind of shag-mad bunnies."
At this he stared at me, but then smiled and chuckled a little, reaching for my wrist, taking it, then pulling me into his arms for a cuddle. Hands made broad circles on back, felt his breath hot near my ear, which did have its usual effect on me, but truth of it was that I was feeling weak from hunger.
"Let's… let's investigate the pantries, shall we?" Stomach made a v. rude noise, as if to second the motion; Mark chuckled again.
Lots of veg in the (enormous) refrigerator—green leafy lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, etc.—as well as fruit of all sorts, some meats (lots of turkey), cheeses, and loads of small Perrier bottles. Bagels, imported Italian pasta, jars of pasta sauce, rice, etc. in the pantries. Wine in fridge (white) and pantry (red). They have even provided an electric kettle, English tea, and other assorted tastes of home like cream crackers and Jaffa cakes, bless.
For quick and easy we opted for pasta with a jar of tomato sauce with meat, something that seemed v. posh and high quality. Found a wedge of parmesan and a grater, opened bottle of white wine. Within 20 minutes we had practically five-star meal. (That it had been v. long time since last meal on plane surely affected judgement.)
"You know," said Mark, reclining in kitchen chair, "we didn't have a look in the freezer. Maybe there's something worth having for dessert."
Like a shot, was out of seat and at the refrigerator again pulling open the freezer drawer. As if personally selected just for me, there sat a box of lush-looking chocolate éclairs.
"What did you find?"
Took it out, held it up as if had found Holy Grail. Mark had one too, and it was fantastic.
We cleared the table and rinsed off our dishes, but Mark decided to leave the washing up for the morning (keeping his word, lovely man), then came upstairs with our bags. Had lovely, long shower in enormous deluxe stall, but after we got out the telephone began to ring. Mark has been on the line this whole while. Can't imagine what is so urgent on Saturday night. Would really like to resume—
Oooh. Wish is about to come true.
Sun, 11 Jan
9st 1 (blame on flight halfway round world), cigarettes 5 (saintly), alcohol units 3 (only polite), dips in pool 0 (though alternative much better).
4.30 am. Oh God. Have just woken and cannot get back to sleep. Should be exhausted after long flight then happy and extended consummation in giant bed in giant master suite of rental house.
4.34 am. Still awake. Ugh. Is far too early to be up. Is not even light out yet.
4.39 am. Still awake! Wonder when sunrise is? Maybe will get up to watch.
6.15 am. Have woke, got up, found cafetière, made coffee and then had some along with an éclair for breakfast, and still not light out. Thought it got lighter earlier here. Maybe still too early.
GAH!
7.45 am. Was Mark Darcy come down in boxers and shirtless, looking a bit sleep-bedraggled and frankly v. sexy. "Why are you already awake?"
"Couldn't sleep," told him. "Made some coffee."
"So you did," he said, running his hand over his hair. Weirdly instinctively, he went straight to the correct cupboard for a mug for the coffee. Watched him take his first sip, was v. pleased to see him smile. He came over to where I sat at the breakfast nook, slipped his arm around my shoulders, then bent to kiss me. "Good morning, darling," he said tenderly. "Did you have something to eat already?"
"Er…" Was unsure about admitting to éclair breakfast, but decided he would just figure it out later anyway, so in spirit of love and honesty, told him so.
He gave a light laugh. "Of course you did," he said, running his free hand over my undoubtedly mad hair. To my surprise he then added, "Well, there were four in the box, weren't there? I might as well have that last one. Not much different, I suppose, than one of your chocolate croissants."
Had moment of panic. Do they have chocolate croissants in LA?
"Unless you want it?" Mark added.
"Yes… er, I mean, no, it's OK," I said, then told him about the chocolate croissant concern.
"I'm sure there are patisseries here in Los Angeles," he said. "We can do a little shopping soon."
Realised that kitchen was starting to brighten up a little. Sunrise at last! Pointed it out to Mark, who insisted we go out onto terrace to watch. Absolutely stunning; stood there, his arm around my shoulders, and sipped our coffees as the sun rose higher into the sky.
"Our first LA sunrise," I said with a happy little sigh, and he tightened the hand on my shoulder, bent to kiss the crown of my head. Loved being there with him. Was perfect, beautiful moment; slipped my hand around his waist and pulled him closer.
"Come on," he murmured. "Let's go back inside, take care of that éclair, and then…."
Mmm. Love Mark Darcy.
11.03 am. Was able to sleep again after lovely shag session. Turned to snuggle up to Mark again, who roused and kissed me. "Suppose we ought to explore what's to be our neighbourhood for the next few months," he said quietly. "Wonder if there's a map—"
Lovely moment was interrupted by the shrill ring of the telephone, which am beginning to hate with fiery passion. Mark reached for it. "Darcy here…. Yes, hello, Ron." Mark's eyes flicked to look at me. "Yes, of course. Dinner tonight." Long silence. "Of course. Wonderful. We'll see you then. Goodbye."
Had already forgotten about promised dinner with law partner. Partners? Oh God. Feel sudden Law-Council-Dinner-levels of pressure. Did not bring anything nearly so posh for California.
Felt Mark take my hand. "Don't have to look traumatised," he said gently. "You brought that lovely black dress, didn't you?" I nodded. "Not to worry. You'll be great."
Apparently Ron Peters offered to take us on short sightseeing driving tour of local area before the dinner itself, so we can be lazy sloths today, take advantage of swimming pool.
"You should probably unpack your laptop and see if there's anything waiting for you for tomorrow's agenda," Mark said, acting as v. wet blanket again. Would prefer to think of this as holiday, though know it is not really. Still, is weekend. Now feel as if must do homework before school on Monday morning.
"I'll check," I said, "but I'm not doing anything until the morning."
"Seems fair."
Had sudden realisation, though, that did not have info to connect to internet to get assignments, documents, etc. Told Mark, who said he'd ring Ron back and ask. Actually grateful to have given it a go today while Mark's here, or would have had v. frustrating Monday morning. More so than usual.
12.30 pm. Have got internet up now. V. fast compared to home connection. Have checked email, nothing awaits. Hurrah! Time now for lunch. Mark is making us sandwiches after loading dishwasher. Domestic bliss.
5.15 pm. After eating we investigated the back garden terrace and pool, though obvs. did not intend on swimming just yet as would result in stomach cramps as warned repeatedly as child by mother.
(Oh God. Have realised did not call mother to let her know we are here safe and sound. Think it is too late to call now—eight hours ahead. Surely Mark has already called his mum. Surely she'll tell mine?)
Anyway, slipped upstairs to change into swimsuit. Had been so ecstatic at thought of outdoor pool in sunny, warm winter that had previously given no thought to horror of body in bikini in January. Fish-belly white and flobbery. Terrifying. Mark Darcy will run in disgust for airport for flight back.
"What are you being so secretive about?" It was Mark, behind me as I fished through suitcase in search of bikini. "Why haven't you unpacked your things?"
When had he had time to unpack his? "Going to change to have a swim."
"I thought as much," he said. Did not have to turn to see smirk on face to know it was there. "You're acting like you're a double agent about to photograph secret documents for the Communists. You can change in front of me."
Bloody cheek from Mr Perfect Pants Five-a-Side. Did not want to change in front of him, but also did not want to give him satisfaction. Stood with quarry in hand and met his gaze. "I know."
"Go on, then," he said in authoritative tone. "Change."
"Don't you need to change, too?" I said in obvious attempt to distract.
"It can wait." He folded arms across chest. "Let's have it then."
No getting out of it now. When he puts out his own eyes with forks, he will have only himself to blame. Met his gaze then pulled sundress (which had slipped on after morning shag) up and over head. Realised as our gazes re-engaged that he had weird look in eye. Realised weird look in eye was lust.
Was utterly bewildered at reaction to self's unfit winter body; low lighting or body covered over with sheets is normal shag circumstance, so must have been surprise or shock, and not lust, after all. Carried on with changing into bikini, and noticed expression had not altered. He apparently made no move to switch into his trunks.
The final touch was when I tied the string of the bikini top. Waited for him to say something. He cleared his throat, wetted his lips, and in that moment realised first instinct was right; saw unmistakeable evidence in front of trousers. Felt playful urge take over self. "Meet you downstairs, then?" I asked in demure voice, coyly batting lashes a little.
As I went to pass by, hand shot out to reach across my front and grasp the opposite hip.
"What, do you need help?" I asked, feigning innocence.
"I did insist you change in front of me, didn't I," he said in quiet voice. "My own fault." Then he turned his head as he pulled me close to him. Hand slipped down back of bikini bottom and…
Necessitated re-dressing in bikini after particularly vigorous romp (seems any jet lag has been adequately conquered) before Mark slipped into his trunks, and with towels in hand, we at last ventured to the back garden, and to the pool.
To our surprise and delight, was more than just a pool. One end had sectioned-off area. Have seen enough television to know it was a hot tub. Squealed happily and made my way to the hot tub, which made Mark chuckle. As I went to step in I looked over to him. So nice to see him relaxed and happy, even if I know he has a tough case to begin tomorrow.
Water was pleasantly hot. Did not think hot tub experience could get more delightful, but Mark discovered what looked like a control panel with a timer. Turn of dial caused jets of bubbles to activate. Sort of wish had known of this after eleven hour plane ride, though no complaint about last night's shower and shag. When time was up we reluctantly pulled selves from the hot water. Limbs felt made of rubber.
After that am desperate for nap, but Mark reminds me that Ron Peters will be here for us at 7, so had quick shower and hair wash. Now must dress, do hair and makeup. Fortunate that dress has been in Mark's garment bag and is unwrinkled, and also that Mark bought converters for power plugs. Would have mad creased dress and sopping wet hair, otherwise.
Midnight. Of course it took him no time at all to shave and dress, so while I finished up he went back downstairs. Found him in the kitchen making us a fruit salad of apple, banana and red grapes. Was confused.
"To tide us over until—" Then he stopped talking when he looked up and saw me.
"Do I look all right?"
"Bridget, you look more than all right," he said. Expression was extremely appreciative. "Stunning. Gorgeous."
Looked down. Felt face go warm. Don't know why taking praise from Mark is so difficult. "Thanks."
Felt his hand slip around my waist. "Mm," he said. "You smell nice, too." He kissed my cheek lightly, but then slipped away from me, as if knowing full well that staying close to me might make us miss our pickup in twenty minutes. "Here. I made this for us, since dinner reservations aren't apparently until 9.15."
Do not understand concept of dinner so late in the evening, but Mark told me that was v. common in Los Angeles. Assured me we could have our dinner whenever we wanted. "And tea, too, if you like," he said with a grin.
At about ten past seven the hideous doorbell went off again. Grabbed my clutch and slipped shawl around shoulders—was already full dark outside—as Mark went to the foyer to answer the door.
"Hello, Mark," said our tour guide; tone of voice suggested dual meaning as he added, "See you've had a nice day." After shawl was in place, stepped forward and the sound of my heels clacking on the floor drew his attention. When he saw me, he offered a broad smile. "As do you, Miss Jones," he said smoothly. "Shall we?"
We went to his car. Was unsure of protocol of where I should sit. Ron swept forward and opened door. Had moment of horror thinking he wanted me to drive, but realised/remembered that driver sits on opposite side than in UK. Not actually sure I can drive whilst here.
Ron pointed out for our information that the area of LA we're in is called Brentwood. All evidence—huge houses, imposing gates, v. expensive cars—suggests it is v. posh area of town. "Actually, my house is just a few blocks away from you," he said. He pointed out the Getty Museum and the freeway, asking if we had anything quite like it England. Do not think so. Freeway is roadway of monstrous proportion—driver yesterday had taken us on more scenic route closer to ocean, and am glad for it. We then wound up on Santa Monica Boulevard, with all of its glittering lights, and felt instantly as if thrust into the pictures.
"Ooh! Where's Rodeo Drive?" I asked in reverent tone.
Ron chuckled. "It's actually just ahead. Planning a little shopping?" Before I could answer, he added, "You should feel free to do a little sightseeing if you like during the day. You can drive the car. You're on the insurance policy."
Snuck a look back at Mark. Could tell in the neon glow of our surroundings that his face had gone ashen.
We made another turn before Ron sidled up to a kerb, and we all exited. Mark got the door for me, the darling, after the shock he'd had. A parking attendant swept up and whooshed the car away to valet parking. Ron then led us to an obscure-looking door. Began to wonder if it was in fact restaurant and not, say, opium den (do opium dens still exist? Must make note to research, in case is actual threat) but he opened the door and inside was shown to be v. noir glamorous.
"Ortiz," Ron said to the maître d', "party of six."
Worst fears come true. Not just me, Mark, and Ron, but three other scary law partners too. Maybe was not supposed to come at all?
The maître d' looked at reservation book. "Ah yes. Here we are," he said, then made a little scribble and looked up again with tight little smile. "You're the first to arrive."
Led us to round table in corner, took orders for cocktails (tried not to sound too desperate in accepting and ordering a Bloody Mary). Promised self would not get too pissed so as not to cause embarrassment in front of Mark's work colleagues.
"Interesting cocktail choice," said Ron to me with a smile. "Very traditional." He had ordered something I hadn't heard of. Suspect restaurant had made it up. Did not wish to be too experimental and get something wasn't sure would like.
Mark had ordered a gin and tonic. Perhaps slightly less traditional than mine? Do not understand why Bloody Mary worthy of comment.
Ended up with weird goat cheese and tomato starters, which Ron picked, I think. Were each partaking when the next person arrived. Was tall, dark, Antonio Banderas-type man with perfect coiffed hair and genuine smile, walking directly towards our table. Ron rose to greet him. Mark did too. Not sure if Americans expected me to stand so sat there in tense, ready-to-stand-up pose.
Antonio was actually called Eduardo Gonzales. As Ron did introductions, Eduardo reached to offer Mark a handshake. "Mr Darcy, such an honour to meet you, sir." He had some kind of Latin-type accent.
"And you, Mr Gonzales," Mark said, shaking firmly and briefly. "I have heard a lot about your work. Very impressive. Looking forward to working with you."
"Please, call me Ed," he said. "Everyone does."
"And call me Mark." He gestured towards me. "This is my girlfriend, Bridget Jones."
Eduardo turned his attention to me, came around to take the empty seat beside me. He offered a dazzling smile, then reached out a hand as if to offer me a handshake, too. Instead, though, he bowed slightly at waist, brought hand up and pressed polite, fleeting kiss to back of it. Felt v. flustered.
"Very nice to meet you, Miss Jones," he said.
He released my hand then sat, as Mark and Ron sat too. Turned to look at Mark, who was, as usual, inscrutable; was certain he was having fleeting bad reaction about gallant hand kiss.
Ooh. Mark is finished getting his things ready for morning pickup. Should reassure him that kiss on hand etc. meant nothing at all.
Mon, 12 Jan
9st (not surprising after last night's dinner), cigarettes 7 (panic: where to buy more Silk Cut?), alcohol units 1 (for health purposes), dips in pool 1 (but have paid heavy price), new friends 1 (poss.).
8.00 am. Have just seen Mark off for first day working with the law partners. Felt as if sending child off to first day of new term of school.
Back on track about last night's dinner. Were nearly through our starters (and first cocktail gone) when the remaining of our party arrived. Utter surprise and delight to see women. The men rose again and Ron did introductions:
"This is Ms Soledad Ortiz, our senior partner," said Ron, "and Ms Juliza Villatoro." The former, probably mid-50s, had benevolent-but-authoritative presence in manner of portly nun, with dark hair shot through with grey and bold red specs. The latter was younger; bit of a stunner, to be honest, with long, dark, curly hair drawn back into plait, and warm brown eyes. Both, like Eduardo, were clearly Latin American, not surprising given the case Mark is here to work on.
Again Mark introduced me to the newcomers. Juliza did a brow wrinkle of confusion as he said my name. "Bridget Jones," she said as she sat to the other side of Ed. "Your name's so familiar to me. What is it that you do?"
Took me a moment to realise she meant for work, and said, "I'm a consultant to a television programme in the UK." Said the name, but no spark of recognition.
"Hm," she said with thoughtful expression. "Well. It'll come to me, I'm sure."
Newcomers ordered wine (as did we all) and then before too long, covered plates were brought out along with wine. Did not remember seeing menu at all and was v. confused, until Ron explained that restaurant features a fixed menu.
On plate was artistic arrangement of small slice of chicken breast drizzled with a yellow stripe of what turned out to be a mustard sauce, three new potato halves (tiny, with skin on), and (I swear) five green beans. If this is typical LA meal, no wonder everyone is so thin. On verge of starvation at all times.
Tried to pace self so as not to be first to finish, but also wanted to finish while food was still hot. Caught Mark's expression once or twice and swear he was about to burst out with a laugh. Ended up being first to finish, mostly because they were all engaged in lawyer talk and mouth had nothing to do but eat. Tempted to ask for second entrée as food was barely enough for toddler, let alone adult woman.
After dinner, round of espresso was served with golf-ball-sized scoops of vanilla gelato with minuscule chocolate shavings and slight raspberry drizzle on top. Thought would have cig afterwards and reached into clutch for packet of Silk Cut and lighter when quiet throat clearing came from side—and not the Mark side.
Looked over to Eduardo/Antonio, who shook his head. "Can't, in restaurants or bars."
Was shocked. Could almost understand no smoking in restaurants, but in bars? Thought point of bar was to smoke and drink insensible. "Oh," I said dejectedly.
"You can smoke out back," he said, tilting his head. "Care to join me?"
Glanced to Mark, who was speaking to Soledad intently. "Yes," I said, then to Mark, "Be right back." He glanced to me, saw both Eduardo and me rising at same time, furrowed brows but nodded in acknowledgement all the same.
Eduardo had clearly been here before, walked straight to door. Smoking area was v. large balcony enclosed by waist-high marble gate. Had not realised restaurant was on bit of hillside, so view from balcony was gorgeous, twinkly city at night. Dug into bag for cigarette and with fag perched on lip I lifted my head to see the flame of Eduardo's lighter in offer. "Thank you," I said.
"De nada," he said, then lit his own. "Mark, he does not approve, I think."
"Of smoking? No," I said, taking a long draw. Had only been fifth of whole of day. Other four had been on the sly while Mark was occupied. Said I could smoke in house but still did not like doing so in front of him.
"Yes, of smoking," he said kindly. "I am not being too personal in asking if you have been together long, am I?"
A bit, I thought, but smiled and said, "A little over a year." Did not want to go into whole "break up period because of jellyfisher" complication with a man have just met and with whom Mark will have to work for next five months.
"That is lovely," he said. His smile seemed genuine, then he took another drag, looking out to night sky. Really was gorgeous out here, all stars in sky—
Had sudden thought of sad segregation of smokers from society, as had foreseen a couple of years ago, pushed to the fringes to live like lepers. "So how long have smokers been forced to live like this?" I asked him in deep, sepulchral voice.
He laughed in stylish, smooth, European-style way. "The restaurant ban has been in effect since 1995," he explained. "Bar ban took effect the first of this year."
Staggering. "It's finally happened," I said, then explained smokers-as-lepers theory.
Eduardo laughed, but nodded. "Before long we won't even get to smoke in our own cars," he said with sombre gravity, though suspected he might have been taking the piss, a bit. "I have to admit," he went on, "you're not what I was expecting." Suddenly had Law-Council-dinner anxiety creep in. Must have showed on face, as he chuckled a little. "I mean that in a very positive way. Was really expecting someone as serious and staid as Mark, not a witty girl with a glamorous television job." Had vision of mad pre-rehab Richard Finch running around shouting "I'm thinking tits-for-Tuesday, I'm thinking…" but then Eduardo spoke again, quite suddenly, "Oh. But that sounds like an insult to Mark, and I don't mean that at all."
"No offense taken," I said; honestly was a bit pleased to hear insinuation that I might have "settled" for Mark (obviously not true), instead of pompous colleagues of Mark's thinking am third-class citizen. Would never say so to Mark, though.
Stubbed out butt ends into big, bulbous outdoor ashtray thing, then came back inside. Mark looked a bit (and inexplicably) sheepish. Gave him beaming smile as took seat again, put my hand over his. Then I learnt why the sheepishness.
"While you were gone for a smoke," said Juliza with excited brightness, "I realised why your name was so familiar!"
"Oh?" I turned to look at her. "From where?"
"From your absolutely fantastic interview with Colin Firth!" she said in an awed voice. Was both flattered and humiliated. Had not been my finest hour. How had she even seen it? Was only in The Independent. Oh God. Had they put article on world wide web? Then her tone turned confessional: "I loved the series when they played it on A&E, so I'd occasionally search the web for updated interviews with Mr Dar—er, Mr Firth. And I remember finding yours. Felt like I was right there with you! Don't blame you for, well…" Then she grinned and winked at me. "The crash at the end."
Felt face go scarlet, though smiled gracefully and thanked her.
"Don't know what women see in that guy," Ron said with a chuckle; the other men laughed, too, but Mark continued to look something between sheepish and a little worried. Did he think we were going to collapse into girlish giggles and fawn over Mr Darcy? (Though come to think, that would be fun. Maybe we will form fast friendship over love of Mr Darcy.)
Soledad, who up to this point had been mostly listening and making very serious and astute conversation, surprised us all by drolly saying, "Well, I wouldn't kick him out of bed for eating crackers."
Couldn't help but all laugh at that. Conversation then moved onto another (safer) topic, and then we were preparing to leave for home. "It was really nice meeting you," Juliza said to me. "If there's anything I can help with, let me know. Maybe I can show you around, take you for lunch or to shopping, if you like."
Said would like that v. much. Love Mark, obviously, but would be nice spending time with another female. Miss Shaz and Jude v. much. (Owe them phone calls, for sure.)
After saying our good nights, we went back to Ron's car for driving home. Wanted to sit with Mark in back for a little cuddle after the Mr Darcy indignity, but thought Ron might be insulted if we treated him like paid driver or similar, so again took front passenger seat.
"I'll be by at about eight for you, Mark," said Ron as we pulled into the drive. "Have a good night, see you then."
"Thanks again for a terrific night," Mark said.
"Yes," I chimed in stupidly.
Once back in the house, kicked off heels then gathered them up to set them nicely by the door. Mark sighed heavily. It was nearly eleven-thirty. Poor man would have to be up in no time.
"I need something more to eat. Starving." He sounded really tired. Maybe annoyed. "You?"
I nodded, relieved had not been alone in feeling dinner was inadequate portion. Was v. sad we had already eaten all éclairs. After poking faces around in freezer, however, we found frozen chicken nugget snacks that only took a few minutes to heat in the microwave. Weird sickly sweet sauce on the side, but they quelled the hunger well enough.
"Need to get my things together for the morning," Mark said with a sort of sigh.
Took his hand in both of mine. "All right," I said. "I'll be waiting for you upstairs."
Gah! Is now nearly nine. Which means is… v. late in London. Need to get to work.
10.30 am. More coffee accomplished. Check of messages from work revealed they have not in fact forgotten about me (or made me redundant). Have to review pitch ideas from Monday meeting and return feedback before 10pm tonight. Easy peasy.
Is so beautiful outside, though. V. difficult to concentrate. Surely a quick dip in pool would not hurt. Oodles of time before 10pm. Oodles of time before Mark will even be home. Will go in pool, then do work, then prepare and have dinner ready for when he returns, even at risk of seeming like 50s throwback or traitor to Germaine Greer.
11.15 am. Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck. Have locked self out of house.
Pool was wonderful though. Not sure was worth proving to Mark that self is totally irresponsible person who cannot be left at home alone.
11.19 am. Have realised that when closed kitchen window earlier, did not latch. Can climb up onto patio furniture and get inside.
Noon. Oh God. Had just gotten through, over kitchen counter, and stepped down onto floor (nearly landing on backside in process) when doorbell went off, accompanied by brisk knocking. Was in bikini with wet hair slowly turning mad. Slipped into jelly mules and pulled damp towel around shoulders. Looked through peephole to see besuited policeman, badge on display, radio on shoulder, mirrored sunglasses and everything.
"Who is it?" I called, as wanted to prove self responsible adult who doesn't just throw open a door.
"LAPD, ma'am," came deep, serious voice. "Had a report of a possible burglary."
Opened door cautiously to come face to face with towering, broad-shouldered, blond Officer Williamson.
"Nope, no burglars here," I said meekly.
"Your name?"
"Bridget Jones."
"Miss Jones. Are you the owner of this residence?" he asked.
Shook head; realised did not actually know who owner of the house was. "I'm staying here as a guest with Mark Darcy," I said. "He's a very well-known lawyer."
"Anything in your possession to confirm this?" he asked.
Shook head again. "Sorry, no."
He looked as if I were mad, then decided on course of action. "Normally I'd take you down for questioning," he said. "But I've never known a criminal to go on a burgling spree in a bikini. Stay there."
Nodded. Couldn't move if wanted to. Was terrified that would be in trouble with the law. Would embarrass Mark so much… oh fuck. Would the US deport me? Both of us?
He turned down the walk a little, talked into the radio on his shoulder, waited, then talked some more. Felt like eternity before he came back. At least he had amused smile on face.
"All right, Miss Jones," he said. "Confirmed with the residence's owner, Ms Soledad Ortiz"—oh my God, Mark's boss, of a sort—"that you are entitled to be here." He paused. "Just a warning, this time: be careful about going out for a swim without your key, all right?"
Nodded and gabbled insensibly, "Thank you, Officer, sir. Yes, I will. Thank you."
Came back inside, feeling traumatised. Surely she'll tell Mark. He'll be so embarrassed and furious with me. Am in no mood to work. Want to curl up under duvet and hope he doesn't notice where have gone.
However, must get work done. I know! Will proceed with plan. Will do work, will do fantastic dinner, which will make it all up to Mark and he will forgive me for indignity of police calling his boss about his girlfriend breaking into her house wearing nothing but bikini.
OH GOD.
12.33 pm. On top of this, only have one packet of Silk Cut left, as have chain-smoked remainder of open pack in dread of Mark's return. Have ensured last of the butts has been adequately extinguished. Do not need to burn house down on top of other indignities.
1.00 pm. Under duvet. Cannot think about work or dinner yet. Too many scenarios swirling around in head resulting in my getting chucked and put on a plane back to London.
5.15 pm. All good intentions destroyed, as fell asleep and awakened only by Mark when he came home a bit early. Contrary to expectations, he didn't look angry at all, but he is master of masking his feelings when he needs to. With the duvet drawn up to my to chin, waited for him to speak.
"Heard you had a bit of an adventure today," he said neutrally.
"Mm-hm," I said.
"Got locked out of the house."
"Yes."
"Had to climb back in through a window."
Honestly, was as if he enjoyed tormenting me. "Yes."
"With nothing but your bikini on, no less."
"I know, I'm a total fuck-up," I said, breaking at last under the strain. "I'd intended on doing my work, then making a nice dinner for you," I went on in pathetic tone. "I can't do anything right."
To my surprise, tender smile touched the corners of his mouth. "Oh, Bridget," he said, in gentle, patient tone. He brushed my hair away from my forehead, then leaned and kissed me.
"You're not angry?"
He shook his head, his smile broadening. "We were all in the conference room with Soledad when the call came through. She put it on speakerphone." OH MY BLOODY GOD AND FUCK. "Police dispatch put the officer through from the scene… sort of felt sorry for the chap." Felt sorry for him? "Trying to describe the situation, reports of burglary, woman in bikini—"
Pulled duvet over head. Would never be able to look any of them in eye again. However, he tugged it back down, saw that was still in bikini. One brow raised in manner of Bond.
"I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"Yes, you've said that you meant to do your work," he said. "When's your deadline?"
"Ten tonight."
"Hm," he said. His gaze was fixed on point much lower than self's eyes. "I propose Chinese food delivery so that you might focus on work."
"OK," I said cautiously.
"And maybe, before that, I can convince you that I'm not angry." Traced line of bikini tie with his finger. "If it makes you feel better about the others, Soledad gave the officer a piece of her mind. 'So my houseguest got locked outside in her bikini and had to climb in the window. Leave her alone.' Everyone commented on your resourcefulness, darling." Suddenly loved Soledad and other lawyers.
Then he kissed exposed skin between… well, never mind. Am thoroughly convinced Mark is not angry. Best get dressed and to my work before something else, er, comes up.
9.45 pm. Tra la! Have finished work with time to spare, have just connected to send it off. We sat on luxurious leather sofa, me on one end, Mark on the other, with feet stretched towards one another, and both did our work. Was such a lovely evening.
Broke for dinner at about eight. V. much enjoyed delicious Chinese noodle dish we had for supper, though Mark says we cannot make it a habit. Agreed wholeheartedly. Will send diet into tailspin, though tried to explain it made up for paltry restaurant meal the night before, like a calorie bank or similar.
"Like when you sleep extra long to bank your sleep," I further explained.
"I see," he said. Was clearly humouring me. "You know that doesn't really work."
"Oh, but it does," I said emphatically.
"Anyway, we had the chicken nuggets," he said, clearly interrupting on purpose, before could expound on the sleep-bank theory, "so the notion of making up for yesterday is kind of blown out of the water."
Had totally forgotten about the nuggets, which so distracted me from my dissertation about sleep-banking enough that only just remembered it now.
Anyway, v. g. night.