If Only…
By S. Faith, © 2014
Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary: The most seemingly insignificant decisions can be the pivot point upon which a life turns… and what might have otherwise been can still affect you deeply.
Disclaimer: Last I checked, still isn't mine.
Notes: Because I think he might have waited to make that call, and so I choose to believe that he did.
Also takes place before and during the events of Mad About the Boy.
Chapter 1: A Close Call
Like a million little doorways
All the choices we made
All the stages we passed through
All the roles we played
For so many different directions
Our separate paths might have turned
With every door that we opened
Every bridge that we burned
—Rush, "Ghost of a Chance"
…
2008
He thought about her a lot. He wanted to see her again soon.
Not going to happen, though, he thought. Not until this business is done.
He glanced at his watch; with the time difference, he would have to give it at least a couple of more hours before he tried to call. If he could even get a connection, which could be notoriously bad.
"Hey, we've got to get on the road within the hour. You going to be ready to go then?"
He thought about it, thought about the call he wanted to make; no harm in getting the long journey going. He probably wouldn't even be able to get a call out, and he might have better luck in Khartoum upon their arrival. Then again…
"Actually," he said to his colleague Anton, "I think I'll stay behind here. At least for a little bit longer."
"Stay?" Anton asked. "Why?"
"This may seem a bit silly," he said, "but… well. Let's just say there's a very important phone call I want to try to make before I hit the road."
"It can't wait until we get there?"
"It's one of those things… the earlier in the day in London… the better."
Anton grinned. "Oh, her. Well. I bet the foreign press chaps could get you to Khartoum."
When he finally did get that phone call made, much later than he'd anticipated, the first thing out of his mouth was, "She saved my life."
…
The aftermath, the scrapping of his remaining duties in favour of abruptly arranged (and inordinately rough) air travel out of the country from Khartoum to Cairo, had not afforded him much time to think about the events surrounding his departure from Darfur. Now, in the comfort of first class on the plane back to London, it was a bit easier to sit and reflect on what had occurred over the last few days. Still so fresh in mind, still so deeply unsettling. If only it had been any other day… if only he had left with Anton as originally planned…
He took another long draw off of his gin and tonic. It does no good to dwell on the 'if onlys', he thought. He was deeply grieved, but he felt grateful, and (perhaps not surprisingly) a little guilty.
Earlier that day, when he'd tried to place his call, he had been unable to secure a connection, and so resigned himself to trying again in Khartoum, then joined up for the transport with the foreign press crew as he'd previously arranged. On the advice of a local man that these folks had known for years and trusted, they had taken a slightly different route into Khartoum, one that this man had assured was cleared and was safe. As they got closer to their destination, scattered, almost panicked fragments of information began to come across the radio, the barest hints of what had happened parcelled greedily to them due to the terrible reception, the rapid language; the mention of landmines had sent the first icy tendrils into the pit of his stomach. When he reached Khartoum to find that Anton had never made the rendezvous, he became genuinely afraid.
Shortly after their arrival, the full report reached them. A thick black plume of smoke rising up from the desert landscape had drawn the attention of locals, which brought in investigators, who radioed it in to the authorities.
Landmine. The armoured vehicle had been no match for it. The vehicle's number plate, Anton's number plate, had been recovered a distance away; so far away, in fact, that the officials considered themselves lucky to have found it. The press were tentatively claiming two fatalities—Anton and himself—which made contacting her that much more urgent. No one knew that he hadn't been in the armoured vehicle. Authorities would reach out to her as next of kin. He had to get through to her first.
His first words to her had been—
Stop thinking about it, he thought, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. He raised his tumbler again, only to find he'd drained the glass dry. He rang for the attendant.
"Yes, sir?" The same courteous young woman who had served the cabin for the whole flight; Amani (read her name tag), with her kind, dark eyes and gentle smile.
"I was wondering if I might have another," he said, indicating his empty glass.
"I'm sorry, sir, but we are preparing for the descent shortly," she said.
Even though he knew taking solace in a cocktail wasn't the way to go, he felt deflated.
"Are you all right, sir?"
He chuckled mirthlessly. "Narrowly escaped being blown to bits by a landmine," he said, "but otherwise, I'm just fine."
She frowned a little, and then, after a beat, she leaned down. "If ever a rule needed bending…" she began, then smiled sympathetically. "I'll return presently."
Amani was as good as her word. He tried not to knock back the proffered drink too quickly, but he could only think how very grateful he would be to be back in London, with—
The chime of the announcement interrupted his thoughts. The surge of adrenaline brought about a near-instantaneous sobriety.
He was almost home.
…
It was well past midnight when he turned the key in the lock, swung open the door of his house, the home he shared with her; the sound of the creaky hinge seemed ten times louder than it probably was. I'll have to see about fixing that, he thought, setting his bag down on the floor, and feeling unexpectedly happy that he could actually do it. He closed the door to let the silence of the dark house engulf him.
He reached for the little lamp on the table in the foyer, which sent out a meagre amber light. Due to unforeseen delays in arrivals, it was much later than he had originally expected to arrive home, and he'd had no way to reach her en route, so he had just decided to come directly home and hope she'd been monitoring the flight status online. He looked down at the silver tray next to the lamp, her keys next to his, and he smiled.
"Oh my God," came the awed whisper from down the hall. "Oh my God."
Then out of the darkness she came, her dressing gown fluttering out behind her as she ran; as her body met his, she threw her arms around him, her tears dampening his skin, her sobbing racking her entire body. He too began to weep, holding her close to him, stroking her hair, kissing her head, assuring her that he really was home.
"You are never, ever to leave us again, Mark Darcy," she said throatily between great, hiccoughing sobs. "Do you understand me?"
"Perfectly," he said, then pulled back enough to kiss her full on the lips. "Bridget. You are…" A sight for sore eyes; a balm for the soul… he didn't finish his sentence, but it didn't seem he needed to. She reached up, placed one hand on each side of his face, and kissed him again before burying herself into the side of his neck.
"I love you," she said to him, "but…"
"But?" he prompted.
"But…" She chuckled, then began to laugh a little in an almost hysterical fashion, as often occurs after disaster is averted and danger has passed. "But you could really use a bath," she finished; he pulled away, saw her crying and smiling at the same time.
This made him laugh too, but he then drew her close once more. "This is a little more important."
"Mm," she said, kissed him again. "I'll wash your back."
He was in no position to argue. "One thing I need to do, first."
"Oh," she said, understanding instantly. "Of course."
Together they went upstairs, where he found his little boy fast asleep in his room, and his little girl waking to greet him with a smile as he leaned over the bassinette in their bedroom.
"Mabel. My dearest princess," he said to greet her, "my life-saver…"
"And all at the tender age of three months old," Bridget said from beside him. "That's a tough act to follow in the years to come." He could not afford to bog himself down in the 'if onlys', but he could not help being extraordinarily grateful that he had chosen to delay departure to try to call to commemorate Mabel's third month on this planet.
He slipped his arm around his wife's waist, then allowed her to lead him into the en suite.
She drew for him a bath chock full of one of her bubbly concoctions—fortunately one that smelled more like vanilla than tea rose—and then did as promised, working tender circles into his back with a soapy flannel while he leaned forward, head in hands.
"I'm sorry about Anton," she said quietly. "I only chatted with him once or twice, but he seemed a nice fellow."
"Yes," he replied.
He felt her press a kiss into his damp hair. "I feel terrible for his family," she said. "And equally terrible for feeling so elated it wasn't you, too." She sighed. "If you hadn't gotten through to me first, I don't know what I would have done if someone had called to tell me you'd been killed."
He said nothing, because he couldn't find his voice; emotion choked his throat as the reality of it hit him once more. So close, he thought. So close to death.
Her arms went around him. "Sorry," she said. "Sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."
He was about to ask what she meant, but realised he had begun to weep again. "It's all right," he managed. And it was.
…
As the sun rose and began to fill the room with pale light, Mark felt fortunate that he was not inundated with the discombobulating sensation of not knowing where he was. Home, in his own bed, with his wife of ten years beside him. What caused him to open his eyes, though, was the unnerving feeling that he was being watched.
He expected to see Bridget staring down at him with a smile playing upon her lips; instead, two inquisitive dark brown eyes were about three inches from his own face.
"Dada?" his small son asked.
He chuckled, bringing his arms up to take the boy into his embrace and pull him into a big hug. "It's me," he said, then kissed him in the head, curls tickling his nose.
He heard her voice echo down the hall in a harsh whisper as she approached. "Billy, I told you not to wake—oh, you're up."
"Yep," he said.
"He didn't—"
"He did, but I don't mind," he said, raising his gaze to her; she was holding a dozing Mabel. "One of the best ways to wake up, in my opinion. Seems to have inherited your special thought-vibe superpower." He then offered a wink.
He swore she blushed. "I've put the coffee on, and am more than happy to do a fry up for you."
The thought made his stomach loudly growl with hunger, which caused Billy to laugh raucously. This in turn startled the baby and set her off crying.
"Oh dear," said Bridget, looking down and attempting to tame the prodigious shock of baby-fine hair—as light a blonde as he'd ever seen—with her fingertips. She began to calm almost immediately. "Maybe Daddy would like to say hi?" she said, looking up to Mark.
He smiled broadly; he hadn't held her in nearly three weeks, since just before leaving for Africa. "Daddy would love that."
He held out his arms to take her from Bridget, and immediately could not resist smoothing down her wild hair. "Hello, Mabel," he said tenderly; she smiled and made a happy, cooing sound. "Ah," he said. "Music to my ears."
"You won't say that at two in the morning when she's shrieking for a nappy change."
"You're probably right," he said, "but you know what? Still thankful to be here to hear it."
At this, she shivered visibly. "Ooh," she said. "That was weird."
He stopped himself short of saying: Someone's walking over my grave.
…
Once the initial euphoria of Mark's safe return subsided, life returned to what it had been before his departure, if a little subdued. Bridget seemed to worry a bit more when he had to travel out of town for a day at a time. He assured her he would not be taking any more high-risk cases, at least ones for which he would have to travel to places issuing travel cautions.
And everything seemed fine, at least when he didn't think about it too much. More than one person, including Bridget, suggested he try counselling, so he did, but he didn't feel he got much out of it, and both he and the psychologist agreed it didn't seem to be a good use of his time. As the months went on, though, he felt a slowly building anxiety, one he was reluctant to share with anyone. One that caused him on several occasions to lock himself in the loo at work to calm his pulse, settle his breathing, avert a panic attack.
Totally irrational, he thought. Controlling it was merely a matter of willpower and reason; he would conquer it.
On the day of Mabel's first birthday, he felt a paralysis he hadn't known before, had to force himself out of bed (though her smiling face was ample reward). He realised it was because it was just before Mabel's birth that he'd been recruited to take the job in Sudan. That knowledge worked like a feedback loop, and in many ways actually seemed to help—the next episode wasn't for months afterwards, and few and far between after that.
When it happened he would think about ringing the psychologist again, but he would bargain with himself, telling himself that if it happened again within two or three days, he would definitely call. When it didn't, he felt relief.
He knew rationally that it wasn't true that it was a sign of weakness to admit you needed help, but he couldn't escape the feeling it was true, that it was a weakness, all the same.
…
2009
Time really seemed to fly. It seemed like just yesterday that they were signing Billy, then Mabel, up for school placement. Even Bridget expressed surprise that the day was approaching so quickly: "Can it really be he's starting Infant Branch already?"
"It's hard to believe," murmured Mark as, from his seat on the sofa, he looked at where Billy sat on the floor, stacking one block on top of another. He'd grown so much in the last year, Mark realised. He'd objected at first to the haircut Billy was sporting now—longer hair at the crown than before—but the length allowed the curls to spiral out a little more, and he found them quite endearing.
He then looked back to Bridget where she stood off to the side, and though she was trying hard to be cheery, he could see tears welling in her eyes. "We all knew the day would come, sooner rather than later," he said.
"But he's only three," she said.
"It's not like we're…" he began, left sending him away unspoken.
She nodded, though. She understood. "I'll just miss him being here during the day."
Mark smiled, held his hand out to beckon her closer. "You say that now," he said, slipping his arm around her waist and grabbing her hip to pull her close to him. "But when you have peace and quiet writing your copy with no police siren imitations…"
She chuckled. "No, I'll just have Mabel's crazy babble to contend with."
"There is that," he said, chuckling too. He turned his head, nuzzling his cheek into her hip.
Just then he heard it: the slight wail that became louder and louder as their youngest child, aged twenty months, thundered closer. Bridget pulled away just as Mabel entered the room. Mabel's little cheeks were pink; she was out of breath, her brows drawn, her blonde hair wild about her head.
"Thaliva!" she said, startling Billy from his block-stacking.
Mark brought his hand to cover his mouth and laughter.
"I can't find her!" Mabel went on, her fists balled in frustration; Saliva was her favourite toy, a sweet little cloth doll that went with her everywhere, and one which was fortunately machine washable.
"Sweetheart," said Bridget, crouching down to her level. "I had to give Saliva a bath. She was frightfully dirty, but it's almost done, and you can have her back, okay?"
"Now?"
"Well, she has to dry first."
"Like Mummy with the dryer?"
At this Mark did laugh aloud. Occasionally when Bridget went to the office for a meeting, she would wrangle with her trusty old Salon Selectives (not the same one from all those years ago, of course) to give herself a blow dry. The last time she'd done this was under Mabel's careful eye.
"Sort of, yes," said Bridget. "So you'll just need a bit of patience. Are we understood?"
After a moment, Mabel nodded enthusiastically, her hair flopping about. She then said, very sombrely, "Yeth, Mummy. I'll play with you instead."
"Well," she said, a smirk on her lips, her eyes wide with surprise, looking to Mark with a 'can you believe this kid?' expression. "What shall we play, then?"
"Well, duh," Mabel said. "You be Thaliva."
"Mabel," Mark said, trying again to rein in his laugh and failing, "please don't say 'duh' to your mummy."
"Yes, Father," Mabel said solemnly, then looked back to Bridget. "Will you, Mummy? Be Thaliva?"
"I will endeavour to be the best Saliva I can be," Bridget said.
"Yay!" she exclaimed as she raised her arms to the sky, then ran back out of the room.
Bridget sighed. Billy looked to his father and grinned.
"So. You as Saliva," Mark said.
"Don't you smirk at me," said Bridget, pursing her lips. "Now, I must take on the role of a lifetime with my dear girl child." She then followed where Mabel had gone out of the room.
"Well," Mark said to Billy. "What shall you and I do?"
Billy thought a moment, then said brightly, "Can we go and watch Mummy be a dolly?"
"Yes," said Mark. "In fact, I think it is our duty."
They could not watch overtly, of course, so they stood outside the cracked-open door as Mabel did Bridget's hair into several sloppy plaits all over her head, and wrapped a variety of silk scarves from Bridget's closet around her neck and head. Just as the last one was draped over her head, she looked up and spotted Mark and Billy peering into the room.
Silently, he lifted his mobile and used the camera on it to snap a picture.
She mouthed the words, "I'll get you for that."
He mouthed back, "Looking forward."
…
2012
In March, almost four years after his brush with death, Bridget turned fifty. She'd insisted on not making a big deal of it—"Please, for the love of God, no big party," she'd said—but he had wanted to commemorate the landmark birthday with something special.
So he had arranged for Chloe, their part-time babysitter/nanny, to stay the weekend in the house to care for the children. He packed Bridget a bag of necessities, snuck them down to the car on Friday morning, told her they were going for a trip to the shops, and then just kept driving.
"Mark," she said with a laugh, "where are we going?"
He said nothing, just threw a glance and a sly smile to where she sat in the passenger seat. Eventually he just said, "Not Tesco."
"So mysterious," she said with a big grin, then settled back for the ride. She trusted him enough to not question further; she had no reason to be uneasy or unsettled, to worry that he hadn't arranged things at home for the children.
When she realised the route was familiar to her, she began to laugh with tears of utter joy in her eyes as she guessed where they were going: Hintlesham Hall, where they had spent their very first night together. He'd even managed to secure the very same suite.
He carried her over the threshold. She giggled the entire time. But then he kissed her, kept kissing her, carried her straight to the bed to ravish her just as he had all those years ago.
Sixteen years, three months, he thought. Heading on to seventeen years together, and he still wanted her as much as ever. Perhaps he saw her more idealised than she was, but he thought it unlikely; he prided himself on how objective he'd remained about how well she had aged or how beautiful she still was. He was also not oblivious to the appreciative looks that she still drew from the men that passed her by.
They ate breakfast for dinner, lounged in bed some more, then took advantage of upgraded en suite—specifically, the large jet spa bathtub—before returning to the four-poster. It harkened back to the days of romantic pre-children (even pre-wedding) minibreaks, and while he wouldn't exchange his present life for anything in the world, he did like the seclusion, the time alone with her that he couldn't always get with the kids around.
Then, the morning, a long lie-in, lingering touches, gentle kisses and caresses. There was no schedule to the day. It had taken him a very long while to appreciate an unstructured period of time of rest and relaxation after the rigorous adherence to the structure of everything from boarding schools to practising law, but during the course of their relationship and marriage, she had turned his anxiety over this uncertainty into something to which he would look forward, a respite from the stress and seriousness of his profession.
That evening he did have a little chocolate torte with raspberry glazing on top sent up to the room after dinner; he sang a happy birthday song to her, did a little dance around the room with her, and then, after enjoying said cake with her, took her up into his arms again and said, "Best chance I ever took, bringing you here on Christmas Day."
She giggled then kissed him, but then he broke away.
"Oh, you don't get away that easily," he said with a grin. "Didn't really think I was going to let the day slip by without marking it in some way, did you?"
She gave him a sidelong glance, narrowing her gaze. "What do you mean by that, Mark Darcy?"
She always still used his full name when she was being serious; he offered only an enigmatic smile. He then held up his finger in a one-moment gesture, went over to his overnight bag, dug in until his fingers brushed against the crushed velvet box, then pulled it up, palmed it then stood upright, handed it to her.
"For you," he said.
"What?"
"Your birthday present."
"What? I thought the weekend away was my birthday present."
He shook his head. "I told you. Something to mark the occasion."
"No pun intended," she said wryly.
"If you say so," he said. She held out her hand, and he placed the box into it.
Her mouth dropped open. "Oh, Mark. This wasn't necessary."
"Of course it was. Open the box."
Her eyes settled on the ring in the box, the solitary sapphire the exact shade of her eyes; it had a white gold band, sized to the wedding ring he'd pilfered for a day or two in the hopes that the size of the her right fingers would sufficiently match the left. She slipped it out of its box, slipped it onto her right ring finger.
"It's perfect and gorgeous and…," she breathed, holding it up to the light, examining it until she turned her eyes away to look at him again. "Thank you."
"Oh, that isn't all."
"What? No."
He affected a sepulchral tone. "I'm afraid I have another gift for you, yes."
He reached into the bag a second time, pulled out a small box. Her eyes widened; she recognised the packaging even before she saw the name emblazoned on the top: La Perla. This was a brand he knew she loved but thought was too extravagant for her. He was confident this would fit too; he knew her shape and size well enough. She looked up at him with a smile. "I'll try it on, shall I?"
He teased, "I think I'd be offended if you didn't."
He doubted it would remain on long. Or maybe it would. There was something quite sexy to that, after all; the lingerie was almost really more a gift for himself, anyway.
She came out of the en suite with the nightie on, and the sight of her in it took his breath away. No way he was viewing her with rose-coloured glasses. She was—
"Perfect," he murmured.
She blew air through his lips. "Bah. You are perfect."
He felt a blush stain his skin; he walked closer, lifting his hand to cup her face. "Let us agree to disagree."
Pretty much a perfect weekend, all around.
…
Late August, 2012
Soon enough it was Mabel's turn for Infants and Billy's impending move to the Junior Branch, and Mark could not help thinking it would be no time at all before they were all grown up, off to university…
"What's on your mind?"
He smiled, looking to her over the breakfast table. "Was just thinking about how it seemed like yesterday we were bringing Billy to Infants for the first time. Now, in just a few days—"
"Ugh, don't remind me," she groaned. "As if leaving my forties wasn't bad enough… Time's flying by. I'm starting to feel ancient."
He thought back to her fiftieth birthday weekend in March and raised a brow. "You are joking, right? Or do I need to dig the La Perla out?"
She blushed a fetching shade of pink, but pursed her lips. "You know what I mean."
"I'm afraid that I do." He was, after all, six years her senior.
He saw a shadow pass over her features just then, and he asked what it was. "I was just thinking…" She hesitated. "At least I'm not doing this all alone."
It was the first time in some time she had referred to what had happened in Sudan. He stood, took her into his arms, and held her tightly to him.