It's a Nice Day to Start Again

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546
Chapters: 11 + epilogue
Rating: M / R
Summary: The unthinkable has happened, much to Mark Darcy's dismay.
Disclaimer: Not my characters. They only dance to my whim.
Notes: Much love for my Peanut partner in crime.
Warning: Mild spoilers. Parts of this story may have trigger-y effects on you if you've ever had a difficult pregnancy.

Chapter 1

Beside him was a beautiful woman, sleeping contentedly and evidently satiated; he could not help gazing upon her, trying to find some tangible proof to justify how close he felt to her. He should have been the happiest man on earth, but he wasn't, because he couldn't help feeling it was all going to fall apart. She was too good for him, and with the temptation he faced daily—and specifically the temptation awaiting him in London newly arrived from the US—it was only a matter of time before he did something to muck it up.

Maybe he didn't deserve her. Or maybe…

"Jones," he said quietly. "I have something I need to say."

…

Sun, 30 Apr – Fri, 5 May

It didn't surprise him, not really, when he learned that she would not be attending the party after all. After the conversation he had heard the night before—in which the man she was currently seeing was speaking surreptitiously to someone he felt comfortable calling 'love' and 'darling'—he was expecting the split to happen sooner rather than later.

"I'm a bit concerned for her, Mark," his mother confided when he expressed that he had noticed her absence. "I hope that boyfriend of hers hasn't hurt her."

Mark hoped the same—he was all too aware of the pain her boyfriend was capable of inflicting. His mother continued speaking.

"Pam and Colin—" Her parents. "—have been besides themselves hoping to meet him but every time that's arranged, something comes up and he can't make it."

This didn't surprise him in the least; there was little doubt he could have lasted under the scrutiny of their questions, particularly if they ever made the connection with a scandal that had ripped through the little village of Grafton Underwood a couple of years back. It was not worth making that connection for his mother, since it was clear to him that she hadn't made it on her own—Mark considered that perhaps now that she was free, he could approach and make a new start.

He realised he was being optimistic… but he hadn't been optimistic in a while when it came to his love life.

Upon returning to London late Sunday, Mark stared at the crumpled piece of paper, one that his mother had slipped to him back in January after the Turkey Curry Buffet, one that bore her phone number. He considered the time and reasoned that it was far too late to call.

He stared at it again the next night, and the next two, after arriving home far too late from work. He was too polite to call beyond nine in the evening. On Thursday, however, as he ate home alone at only seven, he spotted the piece of paper jutting out from where he had tucked it beneath the answerphone.

When you're done eating, call, he told himself.

He did. The phone rang five times before a recorded message sounded into his ear.

"Hi, you've reached Bridget Jones' line—I've gone out of town, and when I'm back will have tales to tell," said her voice; a low voice in the background said something that was not intelligible to him, but he wagered a guess it was regarding the wisdom of announcing she was leaving her flat unoccupied when she added hastily, "so I've left my vicious guard dog to watch the place whilst I'm away. Bye!"

He hung up the phone, slightly bewildered; what could she have meant by this?

He tried again the following night, but when the same message played again he again returned the phone to the receiver before picking it up again and ringing his mother. He did not wish to engage in idle gossip like the ladies of his hometown, but if his mother could impart any information to clear up this confusion, he would prefer to no longer be in the dark.

"Darcy residence, Elaine speaking."

"Mother, it's me."

"Oh, Mark, I'm so glad you've called," his mother said dramatically, which was rather unlike her. "I'd rather you heard from me."

"Heard what?" he asked automatically in a crisp voice.

"It's about…" She took in a deep breath. "It's about Bridget."

"What about her?" he asked, feeling suddenly and surprisingly panicked about the answer she might give.

"Much to everyone's surprise… her boyfriend—" she began; he wished she would just cut to the chase already. However, when she did, he wished he'd chosen to remain ignorant: "—is now her husband."

He staggered until he felt the support of the breakfast nook against his back. How was it possible that they were married so suddenly? But he knew, because if anyone was painfully aware of the legal hoops to jump through to pull off a wedding this quickly, Mark was, and now he regretted ever having shared that information with a man who had a steel trap for a mind.

…

The previous weekend

"Daniel! Stop being a jerk," she said, laughing and buffeting him playfully with a firm hotel pillow.

"Bridge, love, I'm not kidding," he said. And in a flash of light he knew he wasn't. It had taken this weekend to make him realise in a deeply profound way how utterly lost he would be without her, how terrified he was of losing her. In all his three-plus decades, he had never been involved with a woman quite like Bridget before. Spending time outside of the bedroom was not actually a chore, not like it had been with some of his past flings; on the contrary, it was something he quite enjoyed, but not something he expected in his life, now or ever. He did not want to be doomed to a future of lonely desperation, hitting on women (Girls, more like, he thought), failing miserably, and finding consolation at the bottom of a bottle of booze. "I can make this happen by this time tomorrow. I know people with the right connections. All you need to do is to look gorgeous."

As he continued speaking, she looked increasingly shocked. "You aren't kidding," she said in a whisper. He thought maybe he had just doomed himself forever, that she was about to chuck him, but she smiled, radiating absolute happiness. "Yes!" she exclaimed suddenly. "Let's do it!"

She then kissed him so passionately he forgot that he suddenly had a wedding to arrange. It was not until he woke after dozing that he remembered with an excited and terrified thrumming of his heart that he had actually proposed, that she had accepted, and that so he had calls to make. He grabbed his cigarettes, took his mobile out to the hall so as not to rouse her, lighting up as a party of bridesmaids—Surely a providential sign, he thought, that it's us and a wedding party occupying the hotel—whizzed past him in the hall.

The first call was to a childhood friend, Suzanne, who had connections when it came to special (and quite expensive, but he had the money) wedding licences.

"Darling," he said as Suzanne answered, smoothly but quietly so not to disturb the others on the floor. "I am terribly sorry to bother you but I need a favour."

"Daniel," she said. "It's Saturday night. Late Saturday night, I might add."

"And I will make it worth your while. I promise, love."

She sighed heavily into her phone. "What is it that you need?"

He gave her the short outline of their plans for the next day, speaking even more softly when another wayward bridesmaid came scuttling down the hall. He wasn't surprised when Suzanne retorted with a sceptical response. "You, getting married? I find that as likely as a panda walking a tightrope over Niagara Falls."

"I know, love, I know," he pleaded. "It must seem…"

"Ridiculous?" she replied, which he completely deserved.

"Yes—but I am also dead certain. More certain than I've been about anything in my life."

"You do realise tomorrow is Sunday."

"I do, darling. I do."

She was silent for many moments. "I can't believe I'm asking this, but: when can you be back to London?"

They had some things to do, like shopping to put her into the most stylish dress they could find. "Could leave first thing in the morning. Where can I meet you?"

"At the registrar's?"

"Perfect. I'll call you when the car's close. See you then, love."

"Bring your chequebook," she said brightly before disconnecting.

He stowed the mobile in the pocket of his robe, and looked up only to see he had been observed, after all, by a man who had clearly just ascended the stairs, his former friend, Mark Darcy. Daniel only smiled stiffly.

"Call you can't make from the room?" Mark asked coolly.

Contempt exuded from him; the feeling was mutual, so his response was less than eloquent: "Oh, just go fuck yourself, Darcy."

"Such a command of the language," came the droll retort; "the literary world is very lucky to have you at its helm." Mark, with an icy glare, then swept past him, down the hall and into his own room, to his own spindly girlfriend. With some amusement, Daniel imagined that the two of them having a shag produced the sound of brittle kindling breaking. He burst out into a laugh.

His own door opened, and he turned to it to see a very sleepy Bridget. "What are you doing out here, laughing like a maniac?" she asked.

He considered explaining, but thought better of bringing up Arsey Darcy again. "Nothing," he said. "Just starting on getting things arranged for tomorrow, and didn't want to wake you."

…

After almost four months of bliss with Daniel and one near-perfect minibreak, Bridget could hardly believe he'd proposed already—and she could hardly be faulted for thinking he'd been joking around, because he frequently did. And they'd be doing it ASAP! She grinned beatifically to him. "Oh," she said dreamily. He took her into his arms, nuzzled into her neck, which made her knees go weak.

"Just leave it all to me," he said in a soft purr, close to her ear. "You'll be the most gorgeous bride there ever was, I'll make sure of it."

She put her arms around his neck, raking her nails through his silky hair. She might not have been getting a fairy-tale wedding, but what could have been more romantic than this? She didn't know quite how to thank him, so instead, just kissed him again. "Does this mean I can get a posh dress tomorrow?"

"It does."

"Ooh," she said, shivering with delight. "And what about a honeymoon?"

"Of course," he murmured. "I'll talk to your boss giving you the time off."

She giggled, squeezing him tightly. "What about you?

"I'll be fine. I'll put Perpetua in charge."

Bridget giggled again. "She'll go mad with power."

"I won't care," he said, drawing back to meet her gaze; his hands slipped to her waist. "The place could be razed to the ground. I'd be perfectly content."

She felt her eyes well a bit—was he too good to be true?—and leaned to kiss him again. There were no doubts in her mind that she was rushing into this. Everything about it felt right and perfect—even if her mother was likely bollock her for essentially eloping.

They ordered some wine and some chocolates from room service as Daniel made his other calls—one to a travel agent (a call to which she was forbidden to listen), one to Perpetua to pass over the reins for the week (Bridget could hear her excited, quivering voice over the phone from her position on the bed), a call to a couple of his friends to be witnesses (one, a professional photographer)—before he set the mobile down and turned to her again. "A little practice for the honeymoon," he said.

The next twenty-four hours went by in a bit of a blur. There was the buying of the dress, the packing of bags (and locating of the passport), a quick trip to a salon for an appropriate coiffure, and his presenting her with a ring that had belonged to his grandmother as "quite possibly the shortest-tenure engagement ring on record"—but nothing compared to that moment, the actual ceremony in the registrar's, where they said "I do", kissed, then signed what needed signing.

"I hope this will do," Daniel said when it came to the exchanging of the rings. She laughed a little. In the palm of his hand rested a couple of cheap rings that looked like they'd come out of an old gumball machine. "For now, obviously," he added hastily.

Before she knew it, she was a married woman strolling hand in hand with her new husband on the shore of an aquamarine Greek sea. Everything was perfect in every way, she said to herself, as he took her into his arms and kissed her.

…

Fri, 5 May

"Mark? Are you still there?"

His mother's voice brought him back to his senses from his sudden reverie. "Yes, I'm sorry," he said. "I'm here. I'm just… surprised."

"Surprised?"

"At the suddenness of this all," he said; he chose not to voice his thought regarding the impossible having happened: that Daniel Cleaver had committed himself to a single woman. A woman, he realised, towards whom he was developing an attraction.

"Pam is beside herself," said his mother. "She's torn, because she's always worried that Bridget would never marry, but by the same token she's a bit irritated that she didn't get to participate in the process, and she doesn't know the groom at all. According to her, he could 'be anyone.'"

Mark nearly literally bit his tongue. He thought they all deserved to know exactly with whom Bridget had entangled herself, but he also, oddly enough, did not wish to prejudice them all on the remotest chance that Daniel had actually reformed himself and honestly loved her. He doubted it, but nonetheless he would not be the instrument of gossip in this way. Neutrally he said, "She should just hope her daughter knows what she's doing."

"How very… diplomatic of you, Mark," said his mother, an edge of amusement in her voice. "See you on Sunday for lunch?"

"Lunch?"

"You and Natasha. You agreed last weekend."

He remembered suddenly. His mother had asked, Natasha had agreed, and he'd had little say in the matter, though he'd seen no real harm in going. "Right. I'll see you then."

They exchanged good nights before disconnecting. Mark wished he'd intervened when he'd caught Daniel in the hallway on the phone with another woman, even if he had no idea what he would have possibly done. Besides punch him in the face, Mark thought with a sigh; while it would have been satisfying, violence wasn't a real answer.

"Why do I care anyway?" he asked aloud to no one. He barely knew Bridget; she didn't like him anyway; even still, he could not put her out of his mind… out in the punting boat, the image of her lit by the golden sun, the reflections on the water dazzling his eyes in a halo around her. She'd been laughing as if she had not a care in the world; she looked over the rim of her sunglasses to him… and how he'd wished more than anything in the world that he could have exchanged places with Daniel in that moment.

If Daniel dared hurt her… or spoil that joie de vivre she had… he would resort to violence.

…

Sat, 6 May
(post-honeymoon)

"I suppose that could have gone worse," said Bridget in a glum voice, hanging up the phone. Daniel tightened his arm around her, squeezed his hand on her shoulder.

"What did she say?"

Bridget had only previously left a message on her mother's answerphone about the elopement; it was only now that she actually spoke to her directly. "Typically contradictory. Congratulated me effusively; scolded me for depriving her of the memories of a dream wedding for her only daughter."

Daniel chuckled.

"And she's annoyed that she's never even met you," Bridget added. "And my father… I don't think he's ever been so angry. It's worrying."

"We can fix that," he said. "Tell them to come to London. I'll treat them to a really posh supper."

She narrowed her eyes. "And you won't back out of it?"

If he was going to be a good husband, be accepted into her family, he needed to get in their good books. "I won't. It was a mistake not to meet them first, and for that I'm sorry."

Her features softened and she smiled.

"What am I thinking?" Daniel said. "Hand me the phone. Dial the number. I'll ask them myself." She did just that, and he waited for them to answer.

"Jones residence, Pam Jones speaking."

"Mrs Jones, this is Daniel Cleaver."

Silence. "Daniel," she said. "Bridget's… Daniel?"

"Yes, ma'am," he said.

There was the sound of the receiver being taken over, then a man's irritated, gruff voice barked into his ear. "Daniel Cleaver, the man who stole my daughter away?" Mr Jones, Daniel presumed.

"I am sorry, sir," he said with contrition. He looked to Bridget. "We got caught up in the moment, but now that we're back to the real world, facing our responsibilities, I have every intention of making it up to you. I feel I need show you I'm sincere in having married your daughter."

Mr Jones was silent for a moment. "Making it up to us how?"

"I would like, as a start, to have you and your wife over for dinner."

"In London?"

"Yes, sir. I feel it's only right that you see where she'll be living, and that I'm prepared to take good care of her."

"When?"

He looked to Bridget, mouthed, "When?"

"Whenever," she whispered. "Tomorrow?"

He spoke up again. "If tomorrow suits you, I'll make all the arrangements." Bridget nodded approvingly.

Bridget's father was silent again for many seconds. "Tomorrow suits us just fine."

"Terrific. I'll send a car to pick you up at about five."

"We'll be leaving the house at half four," countered Mr Jones.

Daniel understood; he didn't want a car. "Yes, of course. Here's the address." He then proceeded to give the address to Mr Jones.

"Until then, Mr Cleaver."

"Yes, sir, Mr Jones. Until then."

After he hung up the phone again, Bridget threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. "You were brilliant," she gushed. "They're going to love you."

He smiled; she was so good for his ego. "It's too bad I don't have any birds for him to hunt, or a creek for him to fish in." She laughed. "That's another thing we need to do," he said. "Move you in with me."

…

Bridget thought of living in his lush flat with all of that light and those books, and she was filled with another bloom of love. She did not, however, relish the thought of packing up all of her things.

"I know what that face is about," he said, startling her—could he possibly have read her mind? "We are both too busy to deal with it. I can hire movers."

Her mouth dropped into an O. "You can read my mind," she stated unequivocally.

This made him laugh and hug her.

"Oh!" she said suddenly, pushing back. "Where shall we put my books?"

He laughed again. "I'll evict that Bosnian family from the spare room."

"Jane Austen will not be relegated to a spare room."

He took her into his arms again. "I think we'll be able work something out." He pecked her sweetly on the lips. "You should pack a bag," he said, "we'll go to my flat, and I'll carry you over the threshold."

They did exactly that. When it came time for him to carry her over the threshold, there was none of his usual jokey manner; no struggles, feigned or otherwise, in picking her up into his arms, just a smooth sweep before gingerly stepping into the flat, then kissing her softly on the mouth as he set her to stand on her feet again.

Everyone was wrong about him, she thought, tears springing to her eyes. Dead wrong.

She was further convinced of this when she woke the following morning to find Daniel pacing nervously around the kitchen area of his flat. She noticed too that the place was even tidier than before; he must have woken early to tend to it.

"Bridge. I'm hopeless," he said.

"What? No, you're not."

"What will impress them? What do they like for supper?"

She smiled tenderly. "They're pretty easy to impress. Maybe a nice roast, carrots, new potatoes?"

"It's coming on to summer," Daniel countered. "Running the oven for hours is maybe not the best idea."

"How about a green salad with… oh, I don't know, cold chicken, some parmesan, tomato…"

A slow smile crept across his features. "Greek olives and a nice vinaigrette."

"Balsamic," Bridget offered helpfully.

"That sounds great."

She furrowed her brows as it occurred to her that she did not know whether Daniel could cook. He laughed and to her horror she realised she had voiced her thoughts aloud. "I can cook passably well," he said through his quieting chuckles. "Though I may have to draw the line at dessert. I've never been much of a baker."

"Lemon meringue pie," she said. "You'll win my dad over in no time flat."

"I suppose we should get our day started, then," he said. "But not before I snog you senseless."

She began to giggle again before he covered her mouth with his own.

…

Within five minutes of his lunch date, Mark had regretted making it. Natasha had somehow heard about the surprise nuptials—Mark suspected her friend Perpetua had been the source of her information—and now that Bridget was no longer perceived as a rival for Mark's affection, Natasha had done a complete about-face in her opinion.

"It's so romantic," Natasha gushed as she sipped at her wine. "Swept away on impulse to marry, with no care for convention, driven only by love… don't you think it's romantic, Mark?"

It was an unlikely comment to come out of the decidedly practical and unemotional Natasha—who had often scoffed at sentimental gestures and lack of forethought—and it sent red flags shooting up. She had not made any secret of the fact that she thought Mark would be an ideal husband for her, if only in terms of the perfect merger. She had also never been one for subtlety. "It was a rash decision," he said carefully, "one which I think will be a major regret in the stark light of day."

"It's romantic," she repeated, "and given Bridget's impetuous nature…" She trailed off.

"Yes?" Mark bristled.

"Well, I just meant I'm not surprised she would have done this," Natasha said. "I totally respect her bravery in jumping in with both feet… for love."

He sipped his wine, wishing this conversation would come to an end. If she thought he was going to bolt up and insist in a moment of inspiration that they do the same, she was out of her mind.

And to think he had agreed to repeat this insanity with Natasha at his parents' house the following day.

…

Sun, 7 May

The Joneses came in with warm greetings for their daughter, but to Daniel her mother only offered a polite smile and a peck on the cheek; from her father, a stern expression and a very firm handshake.

"We brought some wine," said Mrs Jones, handing over a bottle of chardonnay.

"Thank you," Daniel said, accepting the bottle with a smile.

"We know it's one of Bridget's favourites," said Mr Jones tersely.

Daniel predicted her father would be a tougher nut to crack than her mother. "Please, come in and make yourselves comfortable."

They did seem well impressed by his flat, and he thought it was promising that he overheard her mother say to Bridget, "He's as handsome as you said, and this place… lovely, and so big!"

He glanced to Bridget in time to catch her smiling proudly in his direction.

Daniel had never been so nervous in meeting the parents of the woman he was seeing—but the more he thought about it, the more he realised he hadn't actually met many parents in such a situation. Certainly, he had never been in this present situation; after all, he had never been married.

"So if you'll just come this way, supper is ready," Daniel said, holding his hand out in a gallant manner towards the dining area.

"Something smells lovely," Mrs Jones offered brightly. "Roast chicken?"

"Yes," said Daniel. "Sort of."

"We've done up a nice chicken salad," said Bridget.

"Chicken salad?" asked her father.

"Not that sort of chicken salad, Dad. You'll really like it."

Mr Jones looked sceptical. "All right, darling," he said, then his eyes flashed to Daniel. "If you say so."

Daniel was courteous to the extreme, pulling out Mrs Jones' chair then pushing it in for her when she took the seat. When he headed for the kitchen, Bridget made to follow him, but he said, "No, please. I'll get it. The corkscrew's on the table… why don't you go on and open the wine?"

"Okay."

They had, in advance, arranged the romaine and cooled roast chicken on the plates, so all Daniel had to do was add tomato, olives and shredded parmesan on the top; the dressing was on the table already. He carried out the first two plates and put them down before her parents, then returned with the other two.

"You'll want to give the dressing a stir with the whisk before pouring it," advised Daniel.

"He made it himself," said Bridget proudly.

Bridget's mother did as he suggested, poured the dressing, then had a bite. Her expression gave away her obvious enjoyment. After finishing the bite she said, "Quite good, Daniel! Quite good indeed." She smiled a little more genuinely, then had a sip of the wine.

His gaze shifted to Mr Jones, who was bringing a forkful of chicken, tomato slice and romaine up to eat. He too seemed pleased by what he tasted, though was far more restrained in his reaction and response. Bridget ate enthusiastically and effused praise on the dish.

"So, Mr Cleaver," Mr Jones said as he prepared to have another bite, "I was expecting this to be a family affair. Where are your parents?"

Daniel cleared his throat. "I haven't seen or spoken to my father in years, sir," he said.

"Oh, I am sorry," said Mr Jones hastily. "I shouldn't have assumed."

"No need to apologise," said Daniel. "After the way he treated my mother and me… well, let's just say he isn't missed. As for my mother, I have every hope of bringing your daughter to meet her as soon as possible. She lives in Bath, but has been feeling poorly lately so I didn't ask her to try to make the trip." He reached for Bridget's hand with his. "She was quite thrilled to hear I'd found someone to settle down with."

Bridget beamed a smile back to him. "I could hear her over the phone from two feet away," she said. "I can't wait to meet her, too."

"That's a beautiful ring!" gushed her mother.

He looked down to where their hands met, and he smiled with pride. He had bought wedding bands for them at a jeweller's in Greece but he suspected it was his grandmother's ring about which Pam commented, white gold with ruby and diamonds. Bridget took off her rings in order to give said ring over to her mother.

"My mum gave that to me years ago for my prospective bride," said Daniel. "It was her mother's. I honestly was beginning to despair I'd ever give it to anyone."

"It is absolutely stunning. Colin, have a look—" She handed the ring to her husband. "—and tell me if this isn't the most stunning thing you've ever seen."

Mr Jones pulled his half-moon reading glasses from his shirt pocket, then examined it from every angle. "That's quite a ring, indeed." He raised his gaze to meet Daniel's; it was still too difficult to tell which way the wind was blowing. Colin handed the ring back to Bridget. "Quite a ring."

They were, within a very short time, through with their meal and the wine. Daniel thought her mother was warming up to him, particularly when she invited him to call her 'Pam', but he suspected that the closer parental tie was with her father. He needed to try a bit harder—he couldn't expect the pie to perform miracles.

Daniel reached over and placed his hand on Bridget's, waiting for her to finish what she was saying to her father before speaking. "Shall I clear the table," he asked, "and bring on dessert?"

Her smile was all the answer he needed; he did a little gracious bow, went around for the dirty plates, offering a smile to both elder Joneses while trying to assess their thoughts about him, then brought the plates into the kitchen. He put on the kettle while he cut the pie into eighths, put four slices onto plates, then arranged the plates on the large tray he'd pulled out of the cupboard and cleaned off, leaving room for the teapot and cups. As he waited for the kettle to come to a boil, he wondered if, in his absence, her parents were expressing their true feelings about him. Unpleasant, disapproving feelings.

Who are you, he thought as the first wisps of steam rose from the kettle, and what have you done with the real Daniel Cleaver? When have you cared about impressing a girl's parents? But he knew she wasn't just any girl. This was Bridget. She did matter to him.

The water boiled at last, so he prepared the teapot, then, with a ridiculous pounding of his heart, he lifted the tray then pushed the kitchen door open with what he hoped was a confidently bright smile on his face, even as he felt slightly paranoid that all conversation immediately ceased upon the opening of the door.

When Mr Jones saw the tray, though, his eyes lit up with unabashed delight. Perhaps, thought Daniel, I should place more faith in the pie.

"Lemon meringue," said Daniel. "Heard it was a great favourite of yours, sir."

He turned to his daughter. "Well, Daniel's certainly going out of his way to try to impress me," observed Mr Jones; Daniel could not help noticing the smirk hovering at the corner of his mouth, or the fact he'd used his first name.

Hope springs eternal, Daniel thought. The ice is thawing.

Her mother strengthened this impression when she said, "You know, I would really love to host a little do for the two of you… in Grafton Underwood, for all of the people who knew Bridget growing up."

"Oh, Mum," began Bridget with mild horror, "that really isn't necessary—"

"Do you mean a reception?" interrupted Daniel. "I think that's a smashing idea." He briefly considered offering to foot the bill, but he did not wish to offend them. "I'd love to meet the hometown gang."

Pam smiled brightly, clapping her hands. "Oh, how super," she said. She then directed her gaze to her daughter, looking very smug. "And that smug Mark Darcy can see just what he's missed out on."

Daniel kept tight control on his features as Bridget frowned. He was afraid she might launch into a tirade about Mark, about what she thought she knew about their past, so he leaned and placed his hand on her knee, then said quietly, "Not now."

She turned and in an instant, her anger dissipated, a smile finding her lips. "Okay."

As dessert continued and headed towards conclusion, it became ever more obvious to Daniel that he would have to confess to Bridget the truth of the situation with Mark and Mark's ex-wife. The lie had been borne in the moment at dinner after the Kafka's Motorbike book launch not just because he'd been keen to take her to bed—he couldn't lie; he had been keen—but because he was still truly ashamed of what had happened, how he had handled it afterwards, how Mark had handled it, and the pride that had kept them from mending fences in the intervening years.

Daniel rose to clear the table as Mrs Jones rambled on to Bridget about the things she would like to do for the reception. He took the tray into the kitchen, and to his surprise, Mr Jones came in bearing the teapot.

"Oh," Daniel said, accepting it. "More water?"

"Don't think so," he said, his eyes meeting the remainder of the pie. "We have the drive home yet, so we should be leaving soon. I just wanted a word in private before we go."

Daniel could not help feeling he ought to sit down, but remained where he was, nodding slightly. "All right."

"I just wanted to say I'm… well, you have made a wonderful effort today, one that hasn't gone unnoticed by myself and my wife. I'm willing to give you a chance."

Relief washed through him. "Thank you, sir."

Mr Jones held out his hand for a friendly shake, then said in a light tone and with a wink, "Hurt my daughter, however, and your innards will be on the menu next."

The humour with which this point was made caused him to chuckle a little, mostly at the pressure release. "Message received."

…

Bridget glanced to the kitchen door nervously as her mother nattered on about plans for the reception. She hardly heard a word; she was too busy listening for signs of raised voices.

The door swung open suddenly, startling her, but the fact that both her father and her husband—So weird to think that! she mused—were smiling and laughing. She too smiled. "What's so funny?"

"Just giving your Daniel here a bit of hard time," said her father, his expression the picture of warmth, "and in exchange he packed up the rest of the pie." She noticed Daniel was looking equally happy. Colin Jones came nearer to his daughter, carrier bag in hand. "We've had a wonderful time, poppet, but we ought to go," he said.

"So soon?" Bridget said, leaning to kiss his cheek.

"The drive," supplied Daniel. Her mother rose from her seat.

"Now, Bridget, you just leave it all up to me," said Pam Jones, her face ruddy with her happiness, "and just let me know which of your friends here in London you'd like to come."

"I will do, Mum," she said, leaning to kiss her mother on the cheek even as she dreaded breaking the news to her friends; they were going to murder her where she stood. "Thank you for coming down today."

"Oh, it was our pleasure, darling," she said, throwing an almost coquettish look at Daniel.

They said their goodbyes, then walked her parents down to the door; Bridget couldn't help feeling especially smug at the success of the day. As they returned upstairs, her spirits remained buoyed as they cleared away the last of the items on the table.

Daniel, however, looked a little distracted, even a bit pensive. "Daniel? Something wrong? Did my dad say something rude to you?"

"Oh, not at all," he said, offering a wan smile. He held out his hand. "Come here, Bridget. I have a confession to make."

She smiled again, reached and took his hand. "What is it?" She saw the seriousness of his expression and became alarmed. "Daniel, you're scaring me a bit. You're not regretting this, are you?"

"No, no. That isn't it at all," he said, squeezing her hand. "Though I hope after you hear what I have to say, you won't."

"Now you're really scaring me," she said, her voice shaking.

He clasped her hands in both of his. "It's about me," began Daniel, "and Mark Darcy."

Her head began to spin. What was he saying? "Did your fiancée leave because Mark slept with you?" she blurted.

Daniel burst out with a laugh. "Oh, you're priceless," he said, then turned serious again. "The situation with Mark—it isn't one I'm proud of, and I'm afraid I didn't tell you the truth. It's not fair and you should know."

"What is it then?" she asked; she was afraid to hear, but not knowing was worse.

"There wasn't a fiancée," he said. "It was me. I came between him and his wife, shortly after they married. I… slept with her."

She blinked in disbelief. Her dislike of Mark was formed in great part by Daniel's being cuckolded; to find that it had been the other way around completely…. "You had an affair with her?"

"No," he said. "It was nothing so lengthy as that. It was a mistake, one for which I have been paying dearly since that time—it cost me one of my best friends."

She felt a slight exasperation. "So why not apologise to him?"

"Mark will hear none of it," Daniel said. "Don't think I haven't tried. It's much easier for him to assume it was all my fault, and for him to slag me off. Him and his fucking pride."

She was very quiet as she weighed the options. She was shocked, upset and disappointed to learn he had been less than honest to her in the past; she couldn't lie to herself about that. However, he had chosen to come clean now, and that deserved consideration, particularly as he could have let the deception slide well into the future. While she wanted to move forward with a happy marriage, she needed more information. "Daniel," she said. "If you've lied about this, what else have you lied about?"

"I haven't lied," he said, too quickly (in her opinion) to be a fabrication. "Well, maybe once or twice I fibbed about having a meeting because I was terrified to meet your parents. But nothing that's a game-changer. I swear to you." His eyes were wide and his expression eager. He wanted, needed, to know if things were over before they'd begun.

Time to put his mind at ease. She squeezed his hand. "I know how hard it must have been to admit this to me, especially when I could have remained blissfully unaware for some time. I want you to know… I forgive you." She then pulled him into her arms.

"Oh, dearest wife, you are a queen amongst women," he said. "Thank you."

"That's what this is all about though, isn't it?" she asked, feeling quite like a Smug Married. "Forgiving and moving forward."

"Indeed," he said quietly. "I'm so grateful."

"But you'd better not—"

"No, no, of course not." He drew back, his face practically angelic. "Now, about your friends… any of them shaggable?" he said then winked.

She laughed drew back then kicked at him playfully. "Yes," she said. "Tom."

"Tom isn't a girl's name."

"I know."

At this, he laughed again and hugged her against him.

…

Daniel's relief was total and complete; never in his life had he felt quite so like he had dodged a bullet. And never had he wanted to change the subject so quickly.