All my Roads Lead to You
by Eggsbenni221
Disclaimer: the author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. NO copyright infringement is intended.
Part 1
"I don't regret a single broken heart
That taught me what love is and what it's not.
Someone must have planned our two paths to cross.
I couldn't see it then, but I was never lost.
'Cause all my roads have led me to
This night, this love I share with you.
And though the road was never smooth
Life has made me someone who
Could be the right someone for you."- Colin Ray, "The Right Someone for You"
Mark dropped his attaché case beside the front door and rolled his shoulders several times in an endeavor to work the knots out of them. Wistfully he registered the uncharacteristic silence that greeted him rather than the usual opening and slamming of doors and the pattering of footsteps throughout the house. He knew Bridget was less than thrilled at the number of times work had necessitated his absence well beyond supper during the last several weeks, but he hoped soon to explain that away.
The sitting-room was dimly lit; a small lamp on a low table cast a yellowish glow over Bridget as she lay curled beneath a blanket, a book dangling loosely from one hand, her cheek cradled in the other. Mark stood gazing down at her for several moments, his face relaxing into the first genuine smile of the day. As he gently tugged the book from her relaxed fingers and bent to drop a kiss on her temple, Bridget's eyes opened. She blinked against the light and blearily pulled him into focus.
"Mark," she said groggily. "It's about time. I wondered where you were."
"I'm sorry, love. I know I'm rather late. It couldn't be helped," Mark said gently, draping his coat over a nearby chair and reaching to undo the knot in his tie before bending to kiss his wife. She raised herself on her elbows to receive his kiss; her lips just touched his before she pulled back.
"This is the fourth time this week," she complained, a flash of annoyance in her eyes as she spoke.
Mark sighed. "I know. I would have called, but I just—"
"Lost track of time," Bridget finished. "What time is it anyway?" she asked, stifling a yawn.
"Nearly ten," answered Mark. Tenderly he reached to brush the hair back from Bridget's face. "You needn't have waited up for me if you were tired," he said gently.
"It's all right," Bridget replied grudgingly.
"I'm glad you did though," Mark said with a smile, "even if you didn't manage to keep your vigil."
"If you want a warm welcome, come home earlier next time," said Bridget.
"Point taken."
Bridget rose and picked up her empty wine glass. "I think I'll just have another glass of wine," she said, moving toward the kitchen. "Can I get you one?"
Mark shook his head. "I think I need something a bit stronger." He crossed the room to the liquor cabinet and poured himself a generous measure of scotch. Dropping onto the sofa, he leaned his head wearily on his hand and closed his eyes, trying to push away the image of the pile of papers that had kept him at chambers well past his usual time. Setting his drink aside, he yawned and slumped against the cushions, thinking longingly of bed and wondering at the same time if he even had the strength to move. Bridget returned within moments and sat down beside Mark. Her expression softened as she looked at him, and her hands immediately went to work rubbing away the kinks in his back. He felt the heat of her fingertips beneath his shirt and barely suppressed a moan of pleasure.
"You look like you've had a rough day," murmured Bridget, her hands sliding up to kneed Mark's shoulders.
"You have no idea," he answered. "I'm just glad to see the end of it. What about you? How goes the work of my favorite face of British current affairs?"
"Exceedingly uninteresting at the moment, actually. I think I need a hot human rights story to liven things up a bit." Mark laughed.
"I might be able to put you in touch with a source," he said. "You should know, however, that he requires compensation for his tips." Bridget slid closer and wrapped her arms around his back, leaning in to trail her lips along the line of his jaw.
"That could be arranged," she whispered. Mark twisted round to face her and tilted his head until his mouth hovered just inches above hers.
"I also happen to know that he prefers to be paid in regular installments." He slid into Bridget's embrace with the familiarity born of years of knowing the intimate language of one another's bodies. As he kissed her, he savored the delicious mixture on her lips—the crisp bite of the chardonnay's lingering aftertaste mingled with that undercurrent of sweetness that was Bridget's distinctive flavor. Just as Bridget raised her arms around his neck and strained him closer to deepen the kiss, they heard a rustle at the top of the stairs. Mark mumbled a curse and hastily dragged his mouth away from Bridget's before glancing toward the source of the noise. Their seven year-old daughter, Emma, stood leaning over the banister, gazing inquisitively down at her parents.
"Emma," Bridget said sternly as she and Mark broke apart. "What are you doing out of bed? It's late."
"I heard Daddy come in, and I couldn't sleep," explained Emma. Mark smiled.
"Have you had another bad dream?" he asked.
"Sort of," said Emma.
"Hmm, you know what? I think 'sort of' just means someone didn't want to go to sleep. Am I right?"
Emma shrugged her small shoulders. "Maybe," she admitted.
"What's going on?" demanded another voice. "I'm trying to read." A door down the hall opened, and twelve year-old Anne came to stand behind her sister, a paperback novel tucked beneath her arm. Husband and wife exchanged a half-longing, half-exasperated look.
"Well, isn't this a lovely little welcoming committee," said Mark, discretely disentangling himself from Bridget. "What are you two waiting for, then? Come down and give your father a hug." Two pairs of bare feet sped down the stairs, and Mark felt a warm glow that he saw reflected in Bridget's eyes as she watched their daughters running into his outstretched arms. The girls were their mother in miniature—blonde-haired and blue-eyed. Yet while Emma's incessant chatter and lack of an internal editor mirrored Bridget's personality, Anne had inherited Mark's quiet composure, his keen mind, and eyes that, however much they resembled her mother's in color, held her father's piercing gaze that saw all and spoke more than words. Emma crawled into Mark's lap as he resettled on the sofa, and Anne took her favorite position at her father's feet, resting her head against his knee. Mark reached down and laced his fingers through hers while his free hand stroked Emma's curls.
"So, what kept my Emma awake?" he asked.
"I wanted to know something," replied Emma. Mark pinched her dimpled cheek and exchanged a knowing look with Bridget. Emma's bedtime questions had become a familiar stalling ritual ever since she'd learned to talk.
"I'm sure. What is it this time?"
"What would happen if there wasn't any gravity?"
"Hmm, I like that question." Mark rested his chin on the top of her head as he considered his answer. "You see, gravity is a force, a bit like an invisible wall round the planet, that keeps us and everything around us in place, so," he paused dramatically, "if there were no gravity, I wouldn't be able to hold you. You'd just float away." He tickled Emma's ribs, eliciting a fit of giggles that warmed his heart far more than the scotch had done. Attracted by the commotion, the family's cat, Bertie, wandered into the room and fixed Mark with a reproachful stare before leaping into Bridget's lap. The cat had been a Christmas gift for the children several years earlier—a decision Mark still claimed to have made under a serious lapse of judgment.
"Dad, why don't you like Bertie?" asked Anne, freeing her hand from her father's and reaching over to ruffle the cat's ears.
"Because he's a nuisance," said Mark.
"He isn't, Daddy," protested Anne, kissing Bertie on the nose.
"Easy for you to say. He hasn't decided he prefers sleeping on your chest to every other available spot in the house."
"I think it's sweet," said Bridget.
"You would," Mark grumbled.
To change the subject, he bent and retrieved the book that lay in Anne's lap.
"Interesting choice," he observed, turning over the cover of what turned out to be Jane Eyre. "For school?"
"Annie's teacher sent it home with her as a summer holiday recommendation," explained Bridget. "She says Annie's reading level is quite advanced."
Mark gently combed his fingers through his daughter's hair. "That's my girl, taking after your father."
"Excuse me," interrupted Bridget huffily.
With a chuckle, Mark reached over to pat his wife's knee. "My apologies, love. Didn't mean to offend you."
"Daddy, if you and Mummy love each other so much, why are you always teasing her?" asked Emma, tilting her head up to gaze at Mark with her inquisitive blue eyes.
"I've been wondering the same thing for years, Em," said Bridget. Mark smiled.
"Teasing is just one of the ways mums and dads show affection," he explained. Bridget rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that Mark suspected wasn't fit for the children's ears.
"I don't think Mum agrees with you," commented Anne, reaching up to tug her book from her father's grasp.
"I should think not," said Bridget.
"Well," said Mark, glancing down at Anne as she reopened her novel, "You've certainly come a long way from the days of little Miss Whoops." Anne smiled at the recollection of the accident-prone storybook character she'd loved when she was younger.
"Which you only read to her as a cautionary tale against turning into her mother," chimed in Bridget.
Mark manufactured an injured expression. "I've never called you anything less than graceful and coordinated, darling." Bridget scowled. Unable to resist, Mark bent and chastely touched his lips to his wife's, triggering another round of giggles from Emma while Anne discretely averted her gaze.
"Daddy," suddenly piped up Emma, "Have you told Mummy yet?"
Tensing at the radical shift in the conversation, Mark endeavored to maintain an expression of composure. "Told Mummy what?" he asked, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Bridget.
"You know," whispered Emma conspiratorially. "The surprise." Bridget's gaze snapped onto her husband.
"Mark? What's Emma talking about? What surprise?"
'Shit,' thought Mark. Desperate to divert Emma's attention, he cast a pleading look at his eldest daughter. Anne reached up and poked her sister in the ribs.
"Shut it, Em," she said exasperatedly. Emma yelped.
"Annie, stop that," Bridget scolded, her eyes still fixed on Mark's inscrutable expression.
"You said you were going to tell her!" persisted Emma, bouncing up and down on her father's lap.
"I think it's time you were in bed," Mark said quickly.
"But you said—" began Emma.
Fighting a smile, Mark placed a finger over her lips. "Hush, child. You talk entirely too much. Straight upstairs now and into bed, both of you."
"But—"
"No 'buts'. Annie, take your sister upstairs, and this nuisance of a cat too, please." Mark pressed a kiss to Emma's brow before she slid sulkily from his lap. Anne leaned in to hug her parents; then shepherded her sister upstairs with Bertie in toe, winking at Mark as she left the room.
Alone again, Mark pulled Bridget into his arms and bent to kiss her, but Bridget placed a hand against his chest.
"Not so fast, Mr. Darcy. What's this surprise I know nothing about?"
"Good God, Bridget. You're as bad as Emma," Mark admonished, but his eyes were twinkling. "All right, I was going to tell you tonight anyway. The summer holiday starts for the girls next week, and I know you always like to arrange to have a bit of time home with them during the first few days." Bridget narrowed her eyes at him.
"Yeeees?" she said suspiciously.
"Well, I thought, perhaps, I've not taken my family on a real vacation in—"
"Ever," interrupted Bridget.
"Well, yes, something like that. Anyway, I thought perhaps we might—" the rest of Mark's sentence was swallowed by Bridget's kiss as she launched herself at him, hugging him fiercely.
"Mark! Do you really mean it?"
Mark reached up to play with the ends of Bridget's hair. "Well, if I didn't, I'd feel bound to deliver now after that rather exuberant display of gratitude."
"Can you really afford to take the time away from work?" Bridget asked seriously.
"Not exactly. That's partly why I've been working so late this past week," Mark confessed. "It'll all be worth it though," he added gently, reaching for Bridget's hand. She smiled, giving his fingers a brief squeeze.
"How did you manage to keep it a secret from me?" she asked.
"By not telling Emma about it until the last possible moment," admitted Mark. "But I did tell Anne; she gets most of the credit for the idea, actually."
"That child has you wrapped around her finger," laughed Bridget. Mark drew her close again, resting his chin on the top of her head.
"A trait she inherited from her mother, I think."
"So, what exotic locale are you whisking your family off to then?" asked Bridget as she toyed with the buttons on Mark's shirt.
"My my, we are inquisitive," returned Mark. "I'd planned to keep you in the dark a bit longer," he said, smiling as Bridget's mouth twisted into a predictable pout.
"How shall I know what to pack if you don't tell me where I'm going?" she protested.
"Hush, love." Mark placed a finger over her lips. "If you must know, how does Monte Carlo suit you?" He allowed himself a moment to savor the expression of wide-eyed delight that lit Bridget's face. "Anne had her heart set on visiting the seaside. Naturally I insisted on someplace that offered educational attractions as well. In the end, we found a fair compromise."
Bridget leaned in to brush her lips over the hollow of his throat. "It sounds wonderful," she whispered. "I can't wait."
"In fact," said Mark, "I think I can arrange immediate transport to our first guided tour." Getting swiftly to his feet, he scooped Bridget up in his arms and bounded up the stairs, depositing her gently on their bed a moment later. Fetching his laptop, he slipped one arm around her to cradle her against him as he accessed the websites featuring descriptions of the hotel and local points of interest.
"The Hotel Metropole?" asked Bridget, squinting at the computer screen.
"Five stars," added Mark, kissing the top of her head. "Only the best for my family." He turned back to his laptop. "Let's see, now. There's the Grimaldi Forum, of course—well worth a visit—and I'm sure the girls would love to see the Palais Princier."
"Hang on," interrupted Bridget, snatching the laptop from Mark and scrutinizing the page more closely. "A private beach and a poolside bar open for drinks?"
Mark chuckled. "Well, yes, I noted that in my research as a point of interest."
"You anticipate all my wants," murmured Bridget, tilting her head up to peck him on the lips.
"I do seem to have developed quite a knack for that," he agreed. He reached up to switch off the bedside lamp, and Bridget snuggled beneath his arm.
"I love you," she whispered.
Mark pressed a kiss to her brow. "I don't blame you," he answered, and, with one arm still curled around her, he drifted off to sleep.
