Social Engineering
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 12,911
Rating: M / R
Summary: He'd be a fool not to draw on her strengths, but even more of a fool to forget how easily her lofty plans range out of her control.
Disclaimer: Much more fun than playing with dolls, though at the end of the day they still aren't mine.
Notes: Inspired by the Twit Relief auctions a bit. Er. More than a bit.
"Have a question for you, darling."
As he said this, he stroked her silky blonde hair with his fingers where it rested upon the pillows. She turned her head and opened her eyes to meet his gaze. "You're funny."
Her statement took him a little by surprise. "Why am I funny?"
She chuckled, raising her hand to trace a fingertip over the arch of his brow. "Well, prefacing your question with a statement to let me know you have a question… you have to admit it's sort of silly. Just ask your question."
He laughed at the absurdity of just such a practice. Despite announcing his intention of asking her a question, he didn't really know how to ask what he wanted to ask. They were back together, they were engaged… and after a lovely month or so of honeymoon-type bliss, the reality of their relationship, of her place in his world, was starting to weigh on his mind.
All careful consideration was thrown to the wind and he just blurted: "There's a luncheon I'd like you to attend with me."
"A luncheon?"
The look of absolute horror on her face caused him to smirk. "I'm not throwing you to the wolves."
She stared at him. "I really expected you to say 'like last time' there at the end."
"Bridget," he said; it was not going at all as he wanted. "I never intended to throw you to the wolves then, either. If we're going to be husband and wife—"
"Why is it always 'husband and wife'?" she asked.
"If we're going to be married," he amended, "then there are certain things that you'll be expected to do as my wife, and the sooner you start the better."
"'Expected'?" she bristled. "What, like cook dinner and mix you a martini?"
"It's not Stepford Wife territory, don't worry. I just want you to be involved with what I do."
She pouted. "They hate me."
"They don't," he said. "They just don't know you as I do, and to be fair, you haven't given them much of a chance."
She offered a sheepish expression. "You're right," she said. "I'm sorry. I'll go. When is it?"
"Monday."
"Monday?" She propped herself up on her elbow, suddenly panicked. "That's two days from now! What am I going to wear?"
"Don't worry. It's a meeting of sorts, but informal, a workday lunch. No ball gowns or corsets required," he said.
"Oh," she said. "You're sure?"
He nodded.
"Oh," she said again. After a thoughtful moment, she added, "It doesn't sound right."
"Do you think you should wear a gown to an informal workday luncheon?" he asked with bemusement.
"No, not that," she said, as if scolding him for not following her train of thought; as if he ever had a hope to. "'Wife and husband' doesn't. It's like… I don't know. Like how 'Elaine and Malcolm' sounds all wrong, how it must always be 'Malcolm and Elaine'."
"What?"
"And of course 'Una and Geoffrey', never 'Geoffrey and Una'."
He laughed, pushing her back against the pillow and kissing her. "You're absolutely mad, you know." After a thoughtful moment he asked, "So which is it with you and me?"
She blinked. "I haven't given it any thought at all," she said nervously.
He laughed out loud, kissing her again. "You little liar," he teased. "Is it 'Mark and Bridget'?"
"Ugh, no," she said automatically, then pulled her lips tight.
This only made him laugh harder. He kissed her cheek then nuzzled into her neck. "No thought, indeed."
After some more time canoodling they reluctantly parted in order to shower; Mark knew they could not spend the entirety of Saturday in bed as they had done for several weekends running. As he washed the small of her back with a soapy hand, his resolution began to falter.
"What are you doing?" she asked.
"Washing your back."
"I think it's clean now," she said, turning to smile at him with some satisfaction.
"All right," he said. "If you must know, I was admiring your returning curves."
She actually blushed at that, some feat considering they were under steaming hot water.
He stepped out and began to dry himself when the water switched off and she stepped out. He had just slung his towel around his waist when she said, voice laden with regret and sorrow, "Oh no! Mark, I'm so sorry! I've just remembered I can't do it."
"Can't? Can't what? Dry yourself off? Here, I'll do it," he teased, reaching for her bath towel.
She took her own towel and wrapped it around herself, tucking it in just over her breast then running her fingers through her tousled wet locks. "No, on Monday."
His demeanour changed instantly. "Bridget," he said, his hands coming to rest on his hips. "What can you possibly have scheduled that's so important that you can't go, but you have only just now remembered?"
"It's… for work. Big, big meeting."
"And what's the topic of this big, big meeting?" he asked.
"Well, you know," she said. "Usual beginning-of-week discussion. We always have those on Monday."
"Your meetings are on Monday mornings," he said with authority, gazing at her unblinkingly.
"This one's… very long."
He raised a brow.
"Well, it could be," she said, faltering.
"Bridget," he said. "Stop trying to make excuses when you've already agreed."
She sighed, turning her head away, before looking up at him through her lashes. "You are such a barrister," she said with pursed lips that gave the barest hint of a smile at the corner. As her eyes flitted down she added, "Even when your towel's about to slip off."
He grabbed the towel where it was fixed at his hip just as she burst out in a laugh. He laughed too, reaching for her clad in the dampened towel, slipping his arm around her waist and pecking a kiss on her lips; that she was incapable of sustaining the tiniest of lies brought a lightness to his heart and soul, because despite her ability to drive him crazy, he would not need to worry about Bridget trying to deceive him once they were married.
The thing about towels after showers… they tended to slip off very easily, or as was the case here, came off easily when tugged.
…
Mark insisted on taking her out for dinner, if for no other reason to escape temptation of further staying in bed. She was pleased at the treat, though confided as they ate that she suspected the restaurant trip was to provide the exact distraction he had intended. She laughed as she said it, though, and reached across the table to take his hand.
He knew she'd be brilliant on Monday for lunch.
As Sunday night drew to a close, he reminded her about the lunch meeting, the time and the place, and she dutifully put the information into her mobile. "You see, I won't forget."
He smiled and nodded, though he would have bet a ten pound note that she'd be late, even if the time he'd provided was thirty minutes sooner than the actual slated time of half past noon. It would have been a sucker's bet had he found anyone to take it, as she ended up appearing at precisely twelve-forty. Her appearance, however, prevented him from commenting on her tardiness.
She was wearing exactly the sort of thing she normally wore to work, and for that she could not be blamed. She was clad in a tight-fitting blouse, a short skirt made of light cotton with red tulips printed on it, and high-heeled sandals with red ribbons that wound up her calf and tied just below the knee. His mind went unbidden to the last time he'd seen her in those sandals, when he'd had her pinned against the sofa, her skirt lifted up, beribboned calves encircling his waist.
The appreciative looks from the other, older men around the table did not go unnoticed by Mark, particularly because the other wives present were dressed in sedate pastel two-pieces; he felt a sort of pride as he went to stand to greet her, then thought better of it given his recollection of a moment before.
She smirked as if she knew exactly what was going through his mind. "Hello, Mark," she said, kissing him on the cheek then taking the seat beside him. "Hello, all. So sorry I'm late."
Mark then proceeded to introduce her to each of those at the table that she did not know of their party, fourteen in total; besides Giles and Nigel, there were the Georges (senior and junior), Alastair, William and their respective spouses. Bridget beamed particularly brightly at his referring to her as his fiancée, and it pleased him to say it.
"So what did I miss? Ooh." She reached and plucked an olive from his plate.
As she did this he noticed old George looking quite pointedly at her chest; it was then he realised with a dawning horror that the other men might be having as equally unchaste thoughts as his own. "We've only just ordered," he said brusquely, then cleared his throat. "Antipasto as an appetiser." He smiled. "I know you like olives. And grilled chicken."
"Thanks." Bridget picked up another and with a smirk popped it into her mouth. "And wine?" she asked, the pitted olive bulging her cheek like a squirrel's nut.
Mark pursed his lips and narrowed his eyes. She winked. He heard someone across the table stifle a chuckle. He looked over to see if he could surreptitiously discover who had done it, and as he did he realised Giles still had a grin on his face and he felt relieved. Giles at least was fond of Bridget.
"How are you, Bridget?" asked Giles kindly.
Bridget chewed then swallowed. "Mm, very well indeed," she said, then smiled. "And you?"
Mark tried very hard not to groan audibly. Giles had been having trouble with his wife, and after looking like a reconciliation might occur, they'd hit another bump in the road and now the reconciliation seemed to be off. However, instead of launching into the whole detailed story, Giles merely nodded a little and offered her a smile. "Best as can be expected."
Bridget smiled sympathetically and surprised Mark by saying, "We'll talk another time, all right?" Mark could not hear the response for the arrival of the server, at which Bridget piped up and with an angelic smile ordered herself some white wine. "So," she continued brightly—giving Mark the impression that not only did she want to be here, but that she might actually be running the meeting—"what shall we discuss, then?"
Polite laughter ebbed around the table, and it occurred to Mark it might have behoved him to actually have given her a heads-up as to what the meeting was about. Mark did so now: "We're here to discuss how to raise money for the legal assistance fund."
"Oh, that's exciting!" Bridget said, sounding a bit too much like her mother; no, on second thought, she was channelling Richard Finch, her boss at Sit Up Britain. It sounded like she was overcompensating a bit. Then again, this was just the sort of thing that might appeal very much to her…
"Still think what we've done in the past would work just fine," sniffed young George, old George's son with at least a decade on Mark even still and who sat next to his sour-faced, aptly named wife Prunella.
"And what have you done in the past?" Bridget asked, genuine curiosity in her voice.
"Charity ball," said young George. "Smashing good time."
"But it's the same old thing, is the point," said Giles. "That's why we're here."
"If it continues to bring in money," countered young George, "then why bother finding something new?"
"That's just it," said Mark. "The last three years show a sharp decline in actual donations drawn in beyond the cost of the plate at the table."
"It's the economy," said William. "Everyone's holding on to their funds."
"Yes, yes," blustered old George. Murmurs of assent went around.
"No, I don't think that's it."
All heads turned to stare at Bridget, whose quiet voice made this lone dissent.
"What's your economic assessment, then?" asked Alastair with a haughty sniff.
"People know exactly what they're getting when they pay for a seat at the table, and what they're getting is bored," she said with a glint in her eye. "They make the bare-minimum donation to get in; they eat, drink and schmooze; they get to look good and the smallest possible dent's been made to their wallet. No, indeed; why would they give more for the same old night? I think people want something new. Something a little more unpredictable. Something they're willing to gamble a bit more money on."
Giles cocked a brow. "Like what?" Mark noticed the interest of the others, particularly the other wives, pique.
"Like the promise of something new and exciting," she said, "hyped up in advance using social networking."
Just like that the excitement she'd been building collapsed in on itself. Old George snorted. "'Social networking'," he said derisively. "That's just a silly way for young people to waste their time. You can't seriously believe something like that could actually work."
"It can and it does," she said. "Build up suspense, then actually offer them something new and exciting."
"It's a great idea," Mark said supportively, wishing to encourage her even if he was not actually sure it had a chance of working with this particular group, who tended towards the conservative in more ways than one. "And heaven knows we can use all the extra help we can get for promoting this."
"But Mark," piped up William, "you were saying only just the other day that you thought social networking would just lead to brain rot."
His gaze shot to William as he scrambled for a sufficiently apologetic response. "Yes, I think it can, just like anything else," he said coolly. "But it's clear that there is a potential for much more." When he turned back to Bridget he got the impression her narrowed-eye dirty look was a downgrade from a murderous one.
"So how can this… social networking thing actually work for our cause?" asked Prunella.
"Well," Bridget began, recovering her composure, "as I've only just learnt of this project, I obviously haven't thought it all the way through. But you know, it can be used just like any public relations tool."
"Bridget used to work in publicity for Pemberley Press," offered Mark with loads of pride in his voice, turning to look at her, hoping to restore himself to her good graces, "and she works in television now." He appeared to have scored a hit with this when an impressed murmur went around the table simultaneous to the smile playing on her lips. He looked around the table to meet the gaze of each and every other person there. "There's no harm in pursuing this in addition to our usual charity ball. If it can drum up extra interest, support and donations… I am all for it."
It was at this moment that their lunch dishes arrived, and as they began to tuck in to their food, conversation dropped to nearly nothing. As Mark ate his pasta dish he felt Bridget's hand come to rest on his knee; he glanced over to her and saw her smiling at him. She squeezed gently then released it, her smile sustained.
The rest of the lunch meeting was not spent much on the topic of fundraising; Mark thought it a good sign that the other had apparently accepted this path with little resistance. After leaving the restaurant, as they went to part, Bridget got up onto her toes and pecked a kiss on his lips.
"I'm glad you have such faith in me," she said in a low tone.
"I'm glad you're so enthusiastic about helping," he replied. "It really is a good cause."
She smiled. "Right up my street," she said. "See you later?"
"Of course." He paused a moment, then grinned a little. "By the way, what did you think this meeting was going to be about, anyway?"
He watched her cheeks turn fetchingly pink, but she demurred answering. "I'm going to be late. Go on, I'll see you tonight."
Returning to the office revealed to Mark the extent of the latent doubt and scepticism that remained amongst his colleagues. "She seems a sweet girl," Mark overheard William comment, "and it's really nice of her to try to help, but…" William needed to say no more; the emphasis on 'try' said it all. Mark opted not to respond, but rather, would let the results speak for themselves. He knew his feelings on modern media stemmed from his unfamiliarity with them, but he believed that Bridget, with a far greater grasp on them, really could use them to help.
His confidence lasted as long as it took for him to see her later that evening.
"I don't know what I was thinking," she said sorrowfully as she clutched him in her arms. "I'm never going to be able to pull this off for you. God."
"Nonsense, darling," he said with drummed-up conviction. "Of the lot of us, you are the only one with any experience in publicity or in the media. We're just barristers doing best we can. You on the other hand… we could really use your… well, let's face it, you have a fresh perspective we stodgy old men need."
She chuckled and he was glad to see and hear it. "You're not old. Well. Not as old as the Georges, anyway." She met his gaze with her own as her mouth settled into a smile. "I'll make you proud, I swear."
"I know you will, darling," he murmured. "You never did answer my question."
"Hmm?" she asked in that playing-innocent tone he knew too well.
"About what you thought the meeting was going to be."
"Not important, is it?" she asked, attempting to distract him with fingernails combing through his hair. It did unfortunately work.
…
On Friday, a scant few days later, Mark opened his email to find a baffling missive from Bridget. Everyone who had attended the meeting was included in distribution. What made it baffling was the terminology she used—Twitter this, Facebook that, eBay, Foursquare and e-vites—and suddenly he felt inordinately more gracious towards those who continually expressed confusion at legal terminology. Shortly after he saw replies come back in response, and from the look of it everyone seemed equally baffled by what she was referencing, but sounding supportive of her efforts so far.
When he replied he was very direct in his appreciation and pride in her hard work, and that she should please carry on in the same vein, a job well done. After a few minutes, she replied directly to him alone:
"No one has the faintest as to what I'm talking of, do they? Have the Georges' brains melted yet? V. concerned about the elder, you know. :}"
At this he could not contain a chuckle.
Bridget burbled effusively about progress, throwing names of authors and other minor celebrities at him. It seemed she had been arranging some kind of auction, coordinating with the administrative contact for the charitable foundation set up to handle the funds. Though he didn't really understand everything that she was doing, he had to admit he was impressed with the lengths to which she had gone; even if it only brought a tenth of what the charity ball typically brought in, it would be an impressive increase in donations.
Mostly, however, they did not discuss the charity project during their evenings together. He thought his time was far better spent, and he had the impenetrable email messages to keep him up to date, after all.
…
A couple of weeks after Bridget had taken on the project, Mark ran into an unfamiliar man striding very quickly through the corridors where he worked, and ran into him quite literally. "Oh, I'm so sorry," said the man—shorter than Mark, handsome, blond hair and angular features—as recognition lit his eyes. "You're Mark Darcy. Sir. Great pleasure to meet you."
Mark accepted the handshake and said, "You have me at a disadvantage."
"Derek Little," he said, shaking Mark's hand as if he were priming a pump. "Great pleasure. Was just coming to see you. Won't take much of your time."
He had a recollection of an appointment with a Mr Little that had been made for him by Rebecca, but had assumed he was a new client. "Oh, terrific. Shall we…?" Mark indicated his office door.
Once inside, Derek began to speak, and what he said surprised Mark. "It was easier for me to come and see you than to try to get all the way over to Bridget directly."
"Oh," Mark said, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "Was there something I could do for you… I mean, for her?"
"Oh, no, Bridget's done quite enough," said Derek with a rather moony expression. "I just have something for her. I didn't want to send such sensitive information through email." He handed Mark a brown paper envelope. "So that she could set up the auctions to feed directly into the foundation's bank account."
"Oh," said Mark again, accepting it and tucking it into his suit jacket's inner pocket. "I'll be sure to give this to her tonight."
"So impressed with what she's done so far," he said. "Have you had a look at the auctions?"
Mark had indeed looked at the auctions, but that had been right after she'd set them up a couple of nights before. "Yes, quite nice," he said noncommittally.
"Nice?" returned Derek. "Bidding is already through the roof! Watching the countdown to the end of auctions… well, the atmosphere in our office is rather like New Year's Eve approaching midnight. They've already made what last year's ball did… and then some!"
"That's…" began Mark, a bit at a loss for words.
"I think the word you're looking for is 'incredible'," Derek supplied with a grin. "It was so nice of her to put herself in the pot too," he added, rather cryptically to Mark's ear. "With all the maniacs out there, I'm not sure I'd want my wife to do it."
"In the pot?" Mark asked. As he asked it, he parsed what Derek had added, and asked further, "Do you mean to say that she is up for auction?"
At this Derek had the good sense to look penitent. "You mean you didn't know?"
Mark's teeth clenched, and he willed his jaw to relax; after all, nothing about this was Derek's fault. "I didn't, no." Mark went around to face his laptop's screen, then sat at the desk. "The address again?"
Derek read out the URL of the charity fund's website, which prominently featured a link to the hosted auctions. Mark clicked through and it took every ounce of will he possessed not to react. There, at the top of the list—clearly the most recently added auction—was essentially an auction to have drinks with Bridget… and the photo of her accompanying the auction was professional, but also undeniably sexy.
"Thank you," Mark said, his voice betraying no irritation; in fact, he willed himself to sound genial, and he stood from his chair with a smile. "It was very nice to meet you indeed. I'll make sure she gets this information."
Belatedly he realised that the expression on his face when he'd seen the auction coupled with such a quick turnaround probably made him seem like he was a smiley-faced maniac. This was confirmed, at least in part, by the uncertain quality of Derek's voice as he said, "Nice to meet you too, sir. Thank you."
Mark smiled again. "It's really all right," he said. "Just took me by surprise."
"Not going to shoot the messenger, then?" Derek asked, joking weakly.
"Not at all."
Derek seemed a little less ill at ease as he left Mark's office; however, Mark's attention was not long on the subject because his gazed fixed on the screen again. Out of curiosity he clicked on Bridget's auction item—the one in which she was offering herself, essentially—in order to read the description. Even in his annoyance—no, anger—with the dropping of this bombshell, he found the text there sweet:
"What you'll get is a limited edition coffee table book of gorgeous photos taken at the various locales the Smooth Guide has covered. It's signed by the Smooth Guide himself as well as by me. To show our gratitude for bidding on this auction, I'd like to thank you in person over a bottle of chardonnay, perhaps a cocktail. Your choice."
At that moment a small bit of information clicked in his head: the identity of the Smooth Guide. Daniel Cleaver. For some reason this made him even angrier, even though Daniel had nothing to do with any of this, or at least Mark didn't think he had.
"Cannot believe this," he muttered to no one in particular, standing and pacing around. How dare she be so foolish as to offer to meet the winner of her auction, and not tell him of her plan to do so? Anyone could have been bidding on her auction without a care in the world for the book, just to have a chance to get near to a television presenter, one who was vivacious and attractive. This caused his dark thoughts to multiply exponentially; what if the bidder was secretly fixated on her, obsessed with her, used this auction for legitimate access to her…
There was nothing to be done about it, he decided. She could not meet a stranger in this way for an intimate drink, even if it was for charity. He picked up his attaché and headed out the door, intending on going straightaway for her flat.
Arriving to find an empty flat rather took the wind out of his sails.
He thought the time spent might help him to calm his temper, when in fact it only served to rile him more; the more he considered it the angrier he got. She had purposely left adding that final auction until after he'd looked over the listings for the sole purpose of hiding it from him, to keep him from asking questions and especially so that he would not insist she not do it.
When the key turned in the door again not more than fifteen minutes later, he was well on his way to wearing a path on the floor. He spun around in time to see her surprised expression as she came up to the flat proper. "Mark!" she said. "I thought you were working late."
"I thought I was too, but I did not anticipate being blindsided with news of an auction you clearly felt I did not need to know about."
"Oh."
"Yes, 'oh'."
She set down her carrier bag and hung her keys on their hook in what to Mark was an obvious attempt to stall for time. This was further confirmed by the action of running her tongue over her upper teeth in subconscious habit.
"It was a last minute addition," she said at last.
"I saw the date stamp, Bridget," he said. "It was added after you showed me the list of all the other auctions. How could you be so reckless as to risk your safety in this way?"
She rolled her eyes and looked away. "This is exactly why I didn't want to mention it," she said.
"Bridget, I must insist upon being involved in decisions which have the potential to put you into harm's way," he scolded. "And since we did not discuss this I must insist you withdraw the auction at once."
"Mark," she said patiently, "as the only legal expert I know, you are the one person I thought would've understood that auctions are legally binding contracts."
At this he was momentarily rendered speechless; she smirked at the palpable hit. His retort flailed with, "Then remove your offer—"
She shook her head. "Can't change the terms per the auction house."
"Then I'm going with you."
She laughed, short and sharp like a snap of a twig. "You most certainly are not, Mark. I do not need a chaperone. Besides, it could be a woman that bids! Don't be so bloody paranoid. It'll be a public place besides, not like we'd be in some cul-de-sac or abandoned warehouse. Plus, you know… backing out, even if I could, would make me look like a total hypocrite. Asking everyone else to pitch in then not pitching in too would be sort of pathetic."
"You attract trouble," he said matter-of-factly.
"I've manage to get myself to this age without—" She stopped suddenly.
He bristled. "Without me, you mean?"
"I mean, without you hovering over me and shielding me from the evils of the world."
He thought about Thailand, but decided not to mention how his intervention had literally changed the course of her life. He sensed it would not make a difference, anyway, and his mind was already haring off to devising more tactical manoeuvres. He sighed. "I don't want to fight."
She pursed her lips. "You were the one who threw the first punch, figuratively speaking."
"You're right," he conceded. "I'm sorry."
She regarded him for a few moments, then went over to him and put her arms around him. "One of the things I love about you," she murmured, "is that you do apologise when you're in the wrong."
He knew he wasn't in the wrong about her doing the auction; then again, that was not for what he was apologising. Instead of saying anything, he offered a smile and pecked a kiss in the centre of her forehead; his mind was already strategizing the situation, making the next move.
"Well, come on," she said, giving him a brief kiss on the lips then releasing her embrace. "I picked up some takeaway thinking I wouldn't see you tonight. Lucky for you I got enough to have leftovers."
Any residual hard feelings from the fight had already dissipated. Together they sat upon her sofa and ate the takeaway—a pleasantly spicy tikka chicken masala that Mark enjoyed very much—before they curled into one another to ease away the pressures of the day. This invariably turned into sweet, reverent kisses, which further morphed into Bridget rising from the sofa and holding her hand out. He took it; she tugged; he rose too, then she led him towards the bedroom.
Mark always stayed the night with her and this would not be a habit he changed any time soon, though once they had made love and lay entwined in the afterglow, he was a little more preoccupied than usual, preventing him from falling asleep as quickly as he usually did with thoughts of what he could do about Bridget's auction.
By morning he had his answer.
They had a breakfast of coffee and croissants together before he dressed once more in yesterday's suit, gathered up his attaché, dug the envelope with the banking information from out of his pocket, gave it to her, then kissed her and left to go home for a shower, shave and a fresh set of clothing. He told himself that the auction was not due to end for a few days yet, so it was not imperative for him to act immediately. However, he wanted to do so all the same.
Mark was able to hold off on his impulse to act until eating lunch. He did so while at his desk as he finished up reviewing a brief. As he set the paper aside, his eye moved instinctively to his laptop.
He pulled it closer, went to the auction site via the browser history, then located the specific auction. After a brief delay (during which he had to sign up for an account with the auction house, keeping it as publicly anonymous as possible), he returned to the auction page to put in a bid for the auction, displacing the current high bid of £100 by more than doubling it.
He smiled smugly and sat back in his chair, picking up the remainder of his sandwich and taking a bite. Won't she be surprised, he thought, when I turn up for that drink? After an moment, he chuckled then amended his thought: Not surprised, perhaps, so much as murderous.
…
In the next day and a half, Mark monitored the auction; he remained the high bid on it with no serious challenges at all: there was a mini-bidding war with, of all people, Daniel, who had made no effort to hide his identity and who apparently dropped out when bidding got to £3000.
In fact, once the bidding reached £5000, no other bids were forthcoming at all.
Mark felt quite proud of his secret rebellion; by the same token, she was quite pleased by the fact that someone had bid so much for what was essentially a date for drinks with her.
"I never imagined a silly auction of drinks with me would get so much attention," she said proudly.
"Of course it would," he said. "I had every confidence."
Mark made excuses, telling Bridget he was working, to stay in front of his laptop to keep an eye on the auction and to assure no one else made a bid before it ended. After arriving home, he immediately went online to find the auction unchanged. He warmed up his dinner—a Chinese takeaway he picked up on the way home—then read a book while waiting for the tell-tale sound of an email alert advising he had been outbid.
One did not come. As the minutes ticked away, he was confident he had won the auction. In his confidence though came complacence, and with thirty seconds to go the end of the auction, by the clock on the site itself, Mark heard the chime advising him an email had arrived. He read it and was amazed by what it said.
"You have been outbid: the current bid is now £7500. Minimum increment is £20. To place a bid of £7520, click here—"
£7500?
He stopped reading; frantically he clicked to load the bidding page and…
Nothing came up.
The icon indicated that a connection was being attempted simply turned and turned until finally, what seemed an interminable time later, the page loaded.
"We're sorry, but this auction has ended."
A cold chill ran down his spine as he slumped back into his chair. His head was spinning. Lost? He'd lost the auction? To whom?
Spurred in his need to know who had bested him, he clicked on the username of the person who had placed the bid. Unfortunately, whomever this mystery bidder was had chosen to mask his (…or her, thought Mark, though deep in his heart he knew it was a man) identity much as he had done to his own. His gaze roamed over the page, and his eyes once again found Bridget's photo. I just know it's a man, he thought, one with not completely altruistic intentions.
…
"Seventy-five-hundred pounds!" squealed Bridget into his ear the next morning via telephone. "Can you believe it, Mark? I think I brought in the most money of any single auction!"
"That's amazing," he said, trying to bring some enthusiasm to his voice. He should have been more thrilled that her efforts to help the fund had been so wildly successful, that use of modern social networks had proven so beneficial, but it came down to his girlfriend, his fiancée, having a date with another man for money.
"You could sound a bit more happy," she said. He could hear the pout in her voice. "You aren't still hung up on this 'scary meeting with stranger' thing, are you?"
"Of course not," he said a little too quickly, then added to allay any suspicion, "I am very proud of you."
"You mean it?"
"Of course I mean it, darling," he said, and he did. "Many, many people will benefit from what you've done."
"You're so sweet," she said.
"See what you can accomplish when you put your mind to it?"
Although his intentions were good, the moment he said it, he knew it was a mistake. The silence was resounding. "You are lucky, Mark Darcy," she said slowly and portentously at long last, "that I know you as well as I do, because if I didn't and I were there I might be tempted to sock you in the arm."
He chuckled in his relief. "Or worse."
"How well you know me," she said.
She went on to tell him that as soon as the auction details had been settled and the financial transaction had been finalised, that the meeting for drinks would occur. "Think Electric would be the best place, all around. Good atmosphere, and best of all good drinks. What do you think?"
"It's perfect," he said, thinking, I won't get lost trying to find it.
After fixing plans to meet that evening for dinner, Mark disconnected the call and turned back to his work. He had been staring at the same paragraph of the same brief for some minutes, thinking about not only his call with Bridget but about all of the continued comments from his partners in chambers on the success of her idea, when his telephone rang again.
"Mark Darcy here," he said in his usual crisp tone.
"Darce," came the reply; Mark could not immediately place the male voice. "Glad I caught you."
Mark sat up straight. "Who's this?"
"Come now, Darce," drawled the voice, and in an instant Mark knew.
"Cleaver," he said. "What on earth do you want?"
"Wanted to congratulate you," he said, "though it seems a rather large chunk of change for something you get for free on any given night."
"What?" he snapped; he had no idea of what Daniel Cleaver was speaking.
"The auction," Daniel said patiently. "It was you." After a pause during which neither spoke, Daniel added, his tone more tentative, "Wasn't it? God, I hope it was you that won."
"It wasn't me, I was 'Blackstone'," Mark said, referring to his auction sign-in name. "And by the way—"
"You weren't 'PerryMason'?" interrupted Daniel. "Thought for sure… surprised you didn't win. That must really—"
"By the way," Mark barrelled on, "what on earth possessed you to bid? I don't want you seeing her—"
"I see her every day," Daniel quipped.
"—and she doesn't want to see you."
"Oh, Darce, you wound me," he said, feigning deep offence. "I wasn't doing it to make you mental, if you must know, so don't flatter yourself. No, I was doing it because I was worried for Bridge."
Mark opened his mouth to speak, but didn't quite know what to say.
Daniel continued. "Being a bit of a perv myself—"
"A bit?"
"All right, let's call a spade a spade: more than a bit. Anyway. I can easily imagine what other nuts are capable of doing. And here I thought I could relax in the knowledge that she'd be furious with you and not me. You'll go to this drinks thing, then?"
"Of course."
Daniel laughed. "So she'll still get to be furious with you. Well done. Though if you like I could show up too and maybe we could get in a round of fisticuffs for old times' sake."
It was so absurd that Mark actually laughed a little. "Goodbye, Cleaver."
"Goodbye."
Mark hung the phone up once again, sat back in his chair and sighed as he ran his hand over his face. He just wanted this whole auction-drinks thing to be over.
…
Nearly a week after the end of the auction Mark heard rumblings of the firming of plans for the drinks. If she suspected he was planning on crashing this little date of sorts, she didn't let it stop her from blurting out all manner of detail. In fact, it seemed to him that she was more excited about said drinks than she was about the fancy charity ball.
Then she told him it was to be that Friday at nine in the evening at Electric.
"You'll be fine on your own, won't you?" she said as they spoke by phone on Friday afternoon.
"Of course," he assured, then joked, "I'll wait by the phone for your call to validate my existence…"
She laughed. "I will call so you don't worry. I promise. In fact, I can come over after if you like."
"I would love it if you came over," he said. She was always adorable when squiffy.
"Great!" she said perkily. "Good. I'll see you then."
He said, "Until then, darling. I love you."
She paused, and when she spoke she sounded very sentimental: "Oh, Mark. I love you too."
After work, Mark went home and had a simple dinner of pasta with tomato sauce and a side salad of greens; he passed on the wine because he wanted to have his wits about him during this meeting.
Date, he amended.
Mark did not go so far as to don a hat, wig and false nose for the meeting, but he did wear the most casual clothes he had, a knit shirt that at a glance could possibly be mistaken for a tee as well as a pair of denims. Feeling the spirit of his endeavour, he had also picked up a pair of heavy black frames with non-corrective lenses to further disguise himself, then combed his hair down with a bit of styling gel from a jar of the stuff he'd nicked from Bridget's.
He arrived just before nine. He knew she'd be late because she usually was. This gave him the chance to take a perch in a corner, one that afforded a view of the entrance while allowing him to remain mostly unseen, obscured by other patrons and by the shadows where the cones of light did not intersect.
In order to blend in a little bit better, Mark ordered a glass of wine but nursed it very slowly. At approximately half-past the hour he saw Bridget arrive with a large, thin glossy book under one arm. In her sweep of the room she looked directly at Mark, which panicked him until he realised his identity did not register with her. She was more interested in finding her drinks partner.
At least she was wearing something not too outrageous, considering the options from which she had to choose: a white, V-necked cotton blouse over a pink camisole top, a relatively sedate black miniskirt, tights and her high-heeled boots. She had her hair done up in a messy twist, one he knew had probably taken her twenty minutes to perfect. He grinned at the thought; he knew this from experience.
He then saw a shadow play over her just as she turned to see what had caused it. She smiled brightly up at an older gentleman, a very handsome, distinguished-looking fellow with dark hair mostly shot through with silver, an aquiline nose and well-defined features that reminded him a little of, but not exactly like, Sean Connery. He certainly was tall—that much Mark could tell as she rose to welcome him to the table—and was wearing a finely tailored shirt and trousers. After what appeared to an exchanged confirmation of identity (well, confirmation on her part; he obviously had easily recognised her), Bridget held out her hand for presumably a friendly handshake, but the man instead took her hand in his and gallantly kissed the back of it.
From the way she moved and acted, assuming a demure position and smiling shyly, Mark knew that she was blushing madly. Connery (for lack of a name for the man) held out his hand to indicate she sit again, and when she did, he pushed her chair forward for her.
This action, undoubtedly meant as a courtesy, nonetheless caused a flare of jealousy in Mark. He did nothing, though; he merely sat and continued to watch, even if the grip on his wineglass did tighten imperceptibly.
A server came by then to enquire after their drink orders; Mark could see Connery take the reins and order for the two of them. Bridget was beaming a smile, and as the server walked away, she handed him the book, ostensibly his prize auction purchase and was clearly talking about it in animated terms. Connery opened the cover and gave a perfunctory glance at the signatures, but quickly closed it and set it to his side then turned to face her once more. With a smile he began to speak; at least his smile seemed tender and sincere, not leering or salacious.
His heart leapt to this throat, though because whatever it was that Connery said seemed to frighten her; she brought her fingertips to her lips her eyes got wider. In another instant, before he had the chance to rush out of his chair though, he realised her reaction was not in fact one of fear, but of deep emotion. Even in the low light in that place he could see her eyes were welling with unshed tears, then she surprised Mark by reaching out and placing her hand on where Connery's rested on the table, patting reassuringly before drawing it away.
At that moment the server returned with a bottle of sparkling wine. Bridget sat up, drew in a breath, then watched as the bottle was uncorked and two flutes poured. She actually began to giggle as she picked up the glass and raised it in toast.
Mark continued to observe. It became apparent that Connery was not about to kidnap her by gunpoint, but he wasn't convinced the man, though probably old enough to be her father, wasn't trying to pursue her romantically—and that Bridget wasn't enjoying it. She clearly liked the attention very much. Feeling a bit more relaxed about her personal safety, though, he sipped his wine a bit more liberally and relaxed into his chair. He didn't even panic when Bridget's gaze swept past his table again… at least until it returned and quite decidedly fixed on him.
He tensed as he saw her cheeks flare red, as her brows drew together. Connery leaned in, clearly to ask if she was all right, because she nodded but politely made excuses to rise from her chair.
She was then on a bee-line to his table. There was no point in trying to run away or to be anything but honest, but she was clearly angry.
"What the hell are you doing here, Mark?" she hissed as she drew close. "I thought I told you that you were not welcome to tag along. You are equally unwelcome to spy on me."
"Bridget," he began. "You can't fault me for—"
"I can and I will," she said coolly; her eyes were sad and her expression even more so. "You don't trust that I can handle meeting a stranger like an adult, Mark."
"I was only worried that something would occur beyond your control and planning," he said. "Doesn't it mean anything to you that you have me to watch out for you?"
"Watch out for me? 'Overprotective', more like," she said.
He said nothing more, and in silence she stood there glowering over him.
"Is everything quite all right here?"
Mark realised that his attention had been so focused on her that he hadn't noticed Connery approaching from the table. Mark rose to his feet and met the man's gaze. "Hello," the man continued genially. "I'd wager you're her beau, Mark Darcy. I'm Jasper Connors." Jasper held out his hand and Mark automatically accepted the handshake, even before he rationally thought about it, privately amused at how close his real name was to Mark's invented one. "Can't blame you, sir, for wanting to make sure your lady was safe. I might have been a madman, for all you knew." As the finished, he chuckled amiably.
"Nice to meet you, Mr Connors," Mark said.
"Please call me Jasper, Mr Darcy."
"Please. It's Mark."
"Jasper was telling me before," Bridget said archly, "that he was keen to win the bid because I reminded him of his daughter Jenny, who passed on in her early twenties."
This was an unexpected development, and Mark said, "Oh, I'm so sorry for your loss."
"It's been a while," said Jasper, "but I miss her every day, and I like to think she could have further bloomed into a lady as lovely and talented as your Bridget." He smiled, but the wistfulness in his tone was unmistakable. "So, Mark, why don't you join us at our table rather than sit alone here in the corner?"
He looked from Jasper to Bridget then back again, and made his decision in the blink of an eye. "Thank you for the invite," Mark said, "but I must decline. I don't wish to further intrude upon your evening." To Bridget he said quietly, contritely, reaching to place a kiss on her cheek, "Sorry to muck things up again. Call me later if you want to."
She blinked then nodded. "Okay," she said, then smiled, and although she said "I love you" before he departed, he knew the conversation about the evening was not yet over.
Mark took a taxi home. By the time he arrived it was nearing half-past eleven, so he decided to just go to bed and bring the mobile with him should Bridget call it. As he stood at the sink in his loo, looking into the mirror, he was reminded that he was still wearing the plain-lens specs and he chuckled. He removed them, washed up then undressed before he slipped between the sheets of his bed.
It was not the mobile ringing that caused him to stir, but rather, the weight of the bed sinking beside him. He lurched up and reached for the lamp to switch it on.
"Bridget?" he asked, blinking in his confusion.
"Sorry," she said; she was sitting there on the edge of the bed dressed in one of his undershirts. "Didn't mean to wake you." She seemed tired but also still a bit angry. He wondered if she'd come with the opposite purpose, to wake him to hash out her feelings on his bit of espionage.
He began, "You could have called if you wanted—"
"Mark, just… just don't say a thing."
The snappish retort took him aback, but no more so than her shoving back the sheets and climbing roughly in beside him.
"What's wrong?" he asked, because he honestly did not know. He had been sure she was still angry over his going to Electric, but if she were why would she come all the way to his house to climb into bed beside him?
She suddenly bounced and flipped over to turn away from him, then wiggled herself so that she was spooned up against him. "Nothing," she said. "Switch that light off."
"Bridget," he said testily. "Tell me what's going on, because if you're going to thrash about like a petulant child all night because you're upset with what I did this evening—"
She turned over to face him again, interrupting his sentence. "Jasper made a move on me," she blurted.
"He what?" Mark's head was spinning, but his shock quickly turned to fury.
"He tried to pull me into his arms. I pushed him away and slapped at his hand. He apologised immediately, but… I'm so pissed off. At myself," she clarified, "because I shouldn't have been fooled by a silly sympathetic story." She blinked rapidly. "And if it's not just a story, that's even creepier and as weird as hell. And don't you dare say 'I told you so.'"
He'd had no intention of doing so, even if he might have been thinking it deep down; there was also the matter of equal self-blame at not having seen through Jasper's story, either. Instead, he merely pulled her into his arms and held her close. "You were able to handle it on your own," he said quietly.
She didn't say anything at first, but she did eventually speak, and her mood sounded much improved when she did. "I was, wasn't I?" she asked, then looked up with soulful eyes. "I just didn't want to sleep alone tonight. Wanted to be held by you."
"My pleasure, darling," he said softly, then leaned forward and gave her a kiss. She then turned over again and he moved up against her, slipping an arm around her waist, his hand resting lightly over her breast; she placed her own arm and hand over his; he nuzzled into her hair and placed light kisses on the tip of her ear. "I love you," he whispered.
He was just on the cusp of returning to sleep when he heard her say his name.
"Yes, love?" he murmured.
"You looked really sexy wearing specs tonight."
With a tightening of his embrace and a chuckle deep in his throat he fell off to sleep.
…
The final numbers for the auction were staggering; Bridget's publicity and promotional ideas made three times the amount of the highest yielding fundraising efforts they'd ever done. Though Mark's support had never failed, the end tally surprised him a little, and he was embarrassed to admit that this was so. The Georges, young and old, were suggesting they give her special recognition at the charity ball to honour her efforts.
He thought news of this special esteem by his colleagues would make her smile and smile broadly, and when he saw her that afternoon she looked particularly like she could use cheering. As she came to a stop in front of him, though, he knew it was more than just a low mood. Her fists were planted on her hips, her lower lip was set in a scowl, and her fine brows were drawn together.
She said only one word:
"Blackstone."
"What?" he asked, perplexed, before he could really think of what it was she was speaking.
"Don't play stupid with me, Mark Darcy," she said in a low, almost threatening voice, at least as threatening as Bridget's voice ever got. "You bid on the bloody auction."
"Where did you hear that name?" he asked, but knew it instantly: Cleaver, the only person to whom he'd made mention of it.
"So you admit it!"
"Yes, Bridget, it was me," he said in exasperation. "I was just trying to—well, you know." He trailed off because he couldn't bring himself to say 'to protect you' once again. It sounded trite even in his head.
She only stared fixedly at him; she'd known exactly what he was going to say… but then slowly her pursed lips spread into a smile. "I'm not sure whether to bollock you or kiss you for bidding for me."
He did not at all know how to respond to that, so gobsmacked was he, that the first thing to pop into his head fell out of his mouth in much the same manner that it might have done out of Bridget's, in perfect deadpan: "I'd prefer the latter, truth be told."
At this, she could not suppress a laugh. "I'd prefer the latter too," she said. It relieved him to see her smiling. "Lesson is learned, Mark," she went on, "and I hope it is for you, too."
"I'll never not want to protect you," he said, coming closer to her, "but I promise to try to have a little more perspective in future."
"Good," she said, then reached up to give him the promised kiss.
They went to lunch together as planned and it wasn't until he was halfway through his pasty that he remembered the final fundraising report, and asked her if she'd seen it.
"Actually, not yet," she said after swallowing the bit of salad on which she'd been chewing. "Good news?"
He grinned, savouring the moment before telling her and waiting for her eyes to shine, for the smile to light up her face, then told her what he had learned. Her reaction was exactly as he'd expected, after a few moments of covering her mouth with her hands in shock.
"You aren't kidding me, are you?"
He shook his head. "I would never be so cruel, Bridget."
"Of course you wouldn't."
Bridget looked so incredibly shell-shocked that he didn't dare mention the suggestion of the honours his colleagues were considering for her at the ball; she might well have passed out from shock. He also thought it might be nice to have something with which to surprise her. She, however, brought up the subject herself: "But the ball is still on?"
"Indeed," he said, "and I will be the proudest man there to attend with you."
"When it is again?"
"Sunday."
"Next Sunday?"
"No, three days from now." He frowned at her dramatic gasp and traumatised expression. "What?"
"I still need a dress!"
He thought about the amount of money he had been prepared to drop on bidding for her, then he smiled. "I will buy you whichever dress you like."
"It isn't a question of affording it, Mark, it's a sheer lack of time!"
"You have two days," he said.
She sighed and rolled her eyes. "Two days is nothing." She looked to him sceptically. "Any dress?"
"After your hard work you deserve a little something special."
At this she smiled so impishly he began to wonder if he had enough in the bank to cover paying for whatever it was she had in mind. Just as quickly, though, her happy features faded into something far more sad and thoughtful, and he chastised himself that his thoughts were a bit too obvious on his face.
"I can afford to treat you," he said reassuringly.
"It isn't that," she said. "I just wonder if the sort of thing I'm likely to want will be appropriate for such an event."
"I'll let you know if it isn't," he replied.
"But the thing is," she said, "I'm always second-guessing myself when it comes to your friends and colleagues. We haven't been to a ball before. I'm going to embarrass you."
That was, he realised, the nut of it right there. "Bridget, darling, you have so thoroughly impressed everyone in the office due to your hard work that the only thing they might find fault with is that you don't actually walk on water."
This at least elicited a smile. "All right," she said. "It's Friday, I could duck out from work…"
"Oh, I meant—" He stopped himself from saying 'tonight' when she gave him a devastatingly adorable pout. "Well, sure. Why not? I haven't any appointments."
"It may well take all evening," she said, nodding her head. "Best to get a good head start. After all, we haven't much time."
They went directly to Bond Street for shopping, parking at one end of the fashionable street and deciding to stroll up and down, choosing stores to patronise by the displays in the windows. Given the number of stores from which to choose, they only went into a pitiful few. Even Bridget, usually an avid shopper, was getting discouraged.
Unusually enough, it was Mark's eye which was attracted by a window display across the street from where they presently stood. The pale blue-grey shimmer of the fabric struck him as something that would greatly complement Bridget's colouring, and the strapless design would flatter her shoulders very well indeed. Upon second thought he decided to be honest with himself: it was her cleavage that would be best flattered with such a design.
"Come, darling. Let's go there."
"Where?"
He pointed across the street.
"Are you mad?" she asked. "That's way out of my budget."
"You're not buying it."
"Mark, I'm not a kept woman," she said. "Everyone will know you bought it for me."
"And do you think that no one will guess I'm proud of you enough to want to buy you something nice?"
She pursed her lips, murmured a reluctant, "I suppose."
Honestly, he had no idea that it would be so difficult to persuade her to allow him to buy her something. Affecting a serious expression, he said, "Is there something wrong with you? I don't hear the end of it from my colleagues who complain their wives spend a fortune on clothes."
She cracked a small smile. "Not married yet."
They went into the store together; immediately he went to enquire to the availability of the dress in her size, which she demurred actually providing to the saleswoman, a tall, thin platinum blonde woman called Clarice, at first. While they were left to wait for the return she said to him in a confidential tone, "There's no price tag, Mark."
He blinked, trying to understand.
"You may have to mortgage your house for this."
He chuckled.
"I'll probably never wear it again," she said. "Seems a bit much for something I'll only wear once."
"I'll remind you of that," he teased, "when we begin shopping in earnest for the wedding."
At this she laughed out loud. "Well, then. If you insist," she said.
Just then Clarice appeared with the dress over her forearm. "If you would like to come with me, miss, we can ensure no alterations are required…."
Bridget cocked an eyebrow and looked to Mark. Under her breath she said, "'Miss,' eh? I might like this stick insect yet."
She went to where Clarice stood with the dress then followed her back to try it on, leaving him to smile and glance around the store. His mind wandered, and he was lost in thought about the ball, their wedding yet to plan, when the two of them returned in what seemed like no time at all. Bridget looked like she was utterly pleased though trying very hard not to show it; the saleswoman, however, looked in her glory as she carried the dress (or what he presumed was the dress, now sheathed in a garment bag).
"So?" he asked, though he was sure he already knew the answer.
"Oh, she looks divine, absolutely divine, sir," said Clarice. Offering a smile to Mark, she continued, "Now of course she'll just need a little something more to round out the ensemble."
At first Mark had no idea of what this woman was speaking, until he noticed Bridget had gone crimson and said, "I think I have pants enough to cover one night in this dress."
"Nonsense," said Mark crisply and firmly. "We must take Clarice's advice." Clarice beamed and indicated they should follow her. Mark reached and patted encouragingly on Bridget's backside to spur her to motion. "Go on, follow her," he said.
"Mean old bossy-pants," she said under her breath to him. He chuckled.
He swore she remained perpetually pink as they went through the undergarments. He was praised for his taste when he made his opinions known, but Clarice politely suggested the garments ought to match, and pointed out others that were more suitable. It amused him to see Bridget nodding along. He did not understand the idea of matching smalls when no one would see them—no one but him, at least—and feared he never would.
They went on to choose an appropriate strapless bra, stockings and even shoes which were then packaged up for them to take away, all the while Clarice plied him with kind words and small compliments.
After they left with packages in hand, he turned to see Bridget looking at him with obvious amusement. "What?"
She laughed. "She was just buttering up your chequebook, you know."
"I know," Mark said. "I don't mind. It's not like she talked me into something I wasn't already intending on buying."
They returned to her flat to hang the dress up properly in her closet. "This really ups the ante, you know," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, can't just whip on makeup and throw my hair into a pony tail wearing that."
"Like you would have done," he said. "Stop fretting. You'll look wonderful." He took her hand and pulled her into his embrace. "How about some dinner?" he asked quietly into her ear.
"Hmm, yes," she said. "Perhaps after a little more of this."
…
Belle of the ball.
That was all Mark could think when she emerged from the back of the flat when he went to get her that Sunday night. The dress was as if it were made for her, flattering her more than he could ever have dreamed. She looked gorgeous and glamourous; she had done her hair up, done her eyes in a similar shade of silvery blue and there was a warm blush upon her cheek. As usual the jewellery was at a minimum; she was only wearing her favourite necklace. As she walked, the tips of the toes of her shoes peeked out from beneath the hem of the dress.
"That bad, is it?" she asked timidly.
It was only then he realised he had not spoken. "Oh, Bridget," he said. "You look like an angel."
Her expression was one of disbelief. "Taking the piss," she muttered.
"No. Would not dream of it, not on a night like tonight." He strode forward, reached out his hand. "Absolutely beautiful. All of the other women—and men—will be green with envy."
She smiled, hinting for the first time that she might believe he was not just plying her with unwarranted praise. "You look quite lovely too. Love you in a tux. Fwoah."
At this he smiled, then began to laugh. "Come on, darling."
They arrived to the site of the ball and made their entrance, Mark with Bridget on his arm, though he might not have existed for all of the proud looks and warm smiles bestowed upon her. "I feel a bit like royalty," she said. "Maybe a movie star, even."
"You're a star amongst this crowd," Mark said. "You've helped a lot of people with your efforts, help they would not have ordinarily been able to afford."
She smiled, then chuckled, thought she could not hide the emotional expression on her face. "Enough on that," she said. "I'll ruin my makeup. Get me a drink?"
An impeccably timed server presented a tray of champagne flutes, from which Mark plucked two. "Ask and ye shall receive," he said, handing one to her.
"Thank you, sir," she said with a little curtsey, which set her glass at an odd angle.
"Be careful," he said. "Don't want to spill your champagne."
"Oo, would hate to get any on this dress," she said, taking a long draw. "It's practically an investment." He chuckled; she grinned. She leaned in close to him and said in a confidential tone, "I think the pants cost more than I make in a week, but blimey… they're like having nothing on at all."
He wanted to smile, chuckle, anything; what he didn't want in that moment was to be overtaken by a great rush of love and lust, fuelled by thoughts of the incredible things she had accomplished as well as the image in his mind of her pants clinging to her like a second skin. It happened all the same. His eyes flitted down to appraise her silently. She definitely noticed and smiled slyly. "And to think you have barely even had alcohol."
Her confidence thus boosted, she was a perfect social butterfly; he felt only the need to stay by her side to show his support, his hand hovering near her waist, touching her every once in a while because resisting was beyond his capability, particularly once he did get a couple of flutes of champagne in him.
Dinner was a culinary delight as usual, and it was in the middle of the main course that the elder of the two Georges stood, took a microphone in hand and thanked all those who supported their cause and attended that evening, much like he did every year. Due to their involvement with the charity event, Bridget and he sat at a table slightly in front of and elevated from the rest of the attendants; it did not escape his notice that it was very similar in setup to the layout of a wedding reception and that they happened to be in the middle of the head table.
"Now before we commence to dancing," said George, "while this evening has been as wildly successful as any other before it, I would be remiss not to give special mention and appreciation to a certain someone who is responsible for infusing new life into our fundraising efforts." He turned and looked pointedly towards them. "I must admit I did not know the power of what this young woman was suggesting, this 'social media' as a means of getting out the word," he went on as Bridget's eyes went wide in the realisation that George was referring to her, "I was a naysayer along with most of the rest of our planning committee." He smiled. "Miss Jones, however, knew better, and Mr Darcy had the great foresight to trust in her by embracing it fully. Miss Jones, please stand so we may duly recognise you."
She looked rather stunned, and Mark had to squeeze her knee to spur her to stand up. As she did the polite applause increased in volume, accompanied by a surprising amount of vocal appreciation. Her smile was broad and sincere, if a little fixed in a sort of shock and terror.
"In commemoration of your outstanding efforts, Miss Jones," George said, "the partners in chambers decided upon this plaque for you." He turned to his seat at the table, then went over to where she stood and handed it to her. Mark once more had to nudge her into action, this time by placing his gently hand upon her hip.
"Thank you," she said shakily, reaching forward to take the little golden shield-shaped plaque into her hand as well as the microphone. He already knew what her award said: To Bridget Jones in recognition for service to the Azadî Legal Defence Fund, along with the date followed by the partners' names in small type. "I… don't know quite what to say. I didn't think I would make that much of a difference… but I guess one person is really all it takes, isn't it?" A round of quiet laughter echoed through the room. She smiled, looked a bit more confident. "I'm so pleased to have made a difference, but you know, it's the donors who deserve the most praise. So, my hat's off to you." She did an awkward little clap before she set her plaque down, handed the microphone back to George and applauded properly; the rest of the room followed her lead.
"And now," said George as the applause died down, "we'll have the dancing. I'd like nothing more than these to lead the first dance. Miss Jones? Darcy? What do you say?"
Mark rose from his seat and extended his elbow towards her. "I would be honoured," he said, looking to her with admiration.
The string quartet struck up a beautiful number and he took her hand before taking her in his arms and leading her through a slow dance. He closed his eyes and was easily able to forget where he was, indeed his very surroundings, and held her in his arms as he turned her around the floor.
"Mark," she murmured in a tone that was part amusement, part embarrassment; "while normally I wouldn't complain… your hands are on my arse."
He tried not to jerk them away too quickly which would only serve to draw attention to them; instead he slowly slid them back up to settle on the small of her back. He opened his eyes and saw that they were alone on the floor; this must have elicited a look of surprise, for she laughed lightly, then, as their dance wound to a close, leaned to kiss his cheek lightly, sending up a murmur throughout the crowd.
"Think everyone was more interested in watching us dance than dancing themselves," she said, then added in a teasing tone: "Maybe they were waiting to see whether you'd start undressing me in the middle of the dance floor."
He felt his face flood with heat, but said, "Nonsense." This only made her giggle.
Immediately following he excused himself for the loo; he was approached by Giles as he washed his hands. "Your Bridget is looking magnificent tonight," he said with a wink, meeting his friend's eye in the mirror. "It's very clear to everyone you think so."
A faint tinge of horror started to wash over him as he asked, "What do you mean?"
"It's sweet, really," he said. "Veronica said you looked a little like a pup waiting for a chance to jump in her lap." He winked. "It's nice, the reminder."
"Reminder of what?" he asked despite his better judgment.
"That you've got a life outside of chambers and a lady at last who keeps you, shall we say, active."
Mark willed himself not to flush in his mortification. For all the times she had voiced fears of embarrassing him at these formal affairs, he had never considered he might be the one to embarrass her.
Mark's thoughts must have been plain, because Giles chuckled and gave him a friendly pat on the shoulder. "Surely it would be odd, Mark, if you didn't show such attraction to her. She's your fiancée, after all."
He turned to face his friend with a sheepish smile. "She does look great tonight."
"Yes, she does," Giles said. "Better than that bloody ex of yours ever did, and it shows."
Mark was not sure how much more of this he could take. "I should…" he began, looking towards the door.
"Right, boss," he said, winking again. "Have a good night, and tell her thanks again for the help with Veronica and me."
Mark agreed that he would, then navigated through the crowd in search of Bridget, which was not a difficult task at all. She was holding a veritable court before the trays of sweets and biscuits, chatting to the ladies and men around her. When she spotted Mark her smile grew ever wider, and the crowd parted to allow him to join her at her side.
"Shall I get you some coffee?" he asked, moving to slide his arm around her waist before realising he had already embarrassed her enough. "An after dinner cocktail?"
"Coffee would be nice, thanks."
He turned to the table for two cups, fixed hers as she liked it, then was back at her side in no time at all. He remained near her but did not touch her again, and spoke very little for the rest of the evening. He was quite content to let her have the spotlight and did not want to cause further humiliation to either of them.
"Tonight was wonderful," she sighed as they left together at the end of the gala, her arm linked through his. "So stunned with the plaque! I was not expecting it. And dancing with your colleagues—what fun, but oh, thank goodness none of them tried to feel me up." She winked and chuckled, but he did not respond. Her voice grew concerned. "Mark, what's wrong? Did I do something to ruin your night?"
"Oh, darling," he said quietly. "Quite the opposite."
"You didn't ruin my night," she said, furrowing her brows. "I mean, if that's what you're getting at."
"I embarrassed myself and you," he said.
"Oh, you didn't," she said. "You merely had fun. Now stop being so gloomy and maybe I'll let you shag me in this dress."
"I don't know, Bridget," he said in perfect deadpan, then looked to her. "I don't think it'll fit."
At this unexpected teasing of her sentence structure she burst out into a laugh, then put her arm around his waist. He in turn placed his arm around her shoulders and pressed a kiss into her hair as they reached the car at last.
"Tell you what, Mark," she said, turning to put her arms around his neck. "How about we just leave the dress out of it?"
He laughed low in his throat, his hands covering her hips as he stepped close, pressing her against the car then kissing her languorously as he'd wanted to do all night.
"Mm," she said breathlessly as he drew back. "Is that an awards plaque in your pocket or are you just happy to see me?"
He laughed then placed a kiss in the middle of her forehead. "Your place or mine?"
"Let's go to your house," she said. "Can't shag in my little flat after a glamourous night like this."
"Language, darling," he said quietly. After running his fingertips along her hips, he murmured, "Now let's go home and fuck like bunnies."
At this it was her turn to laugh aloud; she kissed him again, then allowed him to take her to his Holland Park home and enthusiastically proceed with his plan.
The end.
Note:
'Azadî' is the Kurdish word for 'freedom' (Via Kurdish English dictionary).