Substance & Style
By S. Faith, © 2016
Words: 25,937
Rating: M / R
Summary: Mark had a choice to make, and he chose… poorly. Now he's paying the price.
Disclaimer: Really not mine. Except maybe for Kevin.
Notes: Based mostly in column universe, inspired by the column from 23 May 1998. Trigger warning for an angry temper and a punch.
Chapter 1: Regrets
Late June – mid-July
He supposed he had it coming.
'Fuckwit' was a term Mark had learned from her, which was fairly ironic considering that he had been just that when it came to her. He had backed the wrong horse, such as it was. His decision had been hugely short-sighted, and he regretted it deeply. Now he was paying the price. And he deserved it.
It was almost as if he sensed her arrival before he actually saw her. She had just come in to the same restaurant to which he had come, and his gaze lingered a little too long in her direction. He looked away before his date could notice. But then he glanced up again. He couldn't help it. It was hard to keep your eyes off of the woman you loved, a woman you no longer deserved.
She looked beautiful, though. Bridget always did. Her hair was down, loose on her shoulders, slightly wind-blown. She was smiling, he realised, at the man that accompanied her, a towering figure with a clearly athletic physique and model-good looks: chiselled features, blond hair, blue eyes. Peevishly, Mark wondered if she had picked the man for looking as opposite to himself in almost every way possible.
Quickly Mark looked away once more to the table before him, before he was noticed. It would not do to draw that kind of attention towards himself, or worse luck, towards her. Towards them. His date would not have approved. He could not let Bridget's presence be noticed, not by her. He didn't want a scene. And Bridget didn't deserve one.
But all through dinner his eyes drifted Bridget's way; he was pretty sure she hadn't spotted him. She looked happy, and he was glad for that, but not glad that this unknown man was the reason for that luminous smile.
"You're very quiet tonight," came the voice, Rebecca's, shattering his thoughts; she had a way of speaking that made him never sure of her intent, calm yet shrill at the same time, somehow. Of course, the nuance was not something he had picked up on initially. He had learned, eventually. Learned too late. But he'd made this bed. No choice but to lie in it.
"Did you hear me?"
He wished he had a newspaper to read, to pretend to be engrossed in it. He met her gaze. "Yes, sorry, was thinking about a new case just come in this week."
She looked dubious, but he was always beginning a new case, as in-demand as he was. "You'd think you could spare a thought for me during our date, Mark," she said icily, but then smiled. "What did you think of the veal?" she asked, then said, not waiting for his answer, "A bit too dry, if you ask me, but the rice was very nice."
"I agree," he said. It was often so much easier to just say that he agreed.
"Oh, Mark, just offer an honest opinion on something for a change," she barked, startling him. Not loud enough to cause a scene, but loud enough.
"I was agreeing," he said tersely; he didn't actually agree, but he wasn't going to give her the satisfaction.
She glared at him. "Ten minutes ago I said the veal was good and the rice was dry. You're not even listening to me. What is going on? Where is your head tonight? What keeps distracting—"
She stopped cold, then swivelled around to look behind her, stopping when she obviously spotted Bridget. Slowly Rebecca turned to face him, clearly fuming, nostrils flaring, but saying nothing about it. Not immediately, anyway.
"We're leaving now," she said, then rose and swept out. He also rose, briefly glancing to the table at which Bridget and her date was sitting. He didn't expect to see her looking directly at him—he supposed Rebecca's exit was something of a scene, though—with an almost sympathetic expression on her face. So like her. He merely kept his own expression neutral, nodding to her in acknowledgement, then left.
"So I guess that's the new boyfriend," Rebecca said, almost flippantly, as they approached his car. "Something like a doctor or a surgeon or whatever. He's far handsomer than I'd heard, but…" She made a dismissive sound, spinning to face him as they reached the vehicle, brows furrowed, finger pointed at him accusingly. "I won't have you gawking at them, Mark. It's disrespectful to me."
Not them, he thought. Her. But, he realised, it was at the very least rude, and he said he was sorry.
With fences suitably mended, he then found an excuse to drop her off and return to his own home alone. Always having his phone on vibrate meant urgent calls were easy to fake.
As he washed up and prepared to bed, he realised he didn't know which torment was worse: to remain in this farce of a relationship with a woman he didn't love simply because it would be too damaging to his social currency to leave; or to watch Bridget moving on without him, looking happy, with someone who clearly was happy with her.
It wasn't until he was reaching to switch of the bedside lamp that he wondered how he hadn't heard about the new boyfriend. Doctor, surgeon… a respectable, intelligent man to get that far in his career. Mark couldn't even get the twisted satisfaction of seeing her end up with someone far beneath her.
This torment had to end. He couldn't take it anymore.
Before he knew it he had his phone in his hand, and he heard it ringing on the other end.
"Mark, what is it? Something wrong?"
He should have just called Bridget directly, but he wasn't that brave. "Mother. No, nothing is wrong. I just had a question."
"At half eleven at night?"
He glanced to the clock, felt immediately terrible. "I'm very sorry to have bothered you at this hour."
"Well, now that you have," she said, a bit testily, "what is your question?"
"I saw Bridget out tonight," he said. "With a man I didn't recognise. Do you know anything more about him?"
"Oh, Mark, for pity's sake," she said. "Just call her."
"I can't do that," he said. "I'm not going to call and disrupt her life if she's… if she's happy with this fellow. I just want to know more about him."
His mother sighed. "I heard all about him from Pam. His name's Kevin McKenzie. He's a apparently very successful surgeon from Scotland. Just came down, apparently; met Bridget during his first week here."
"Don't tell me, in A&E."
"As a matter of fact, yes, it was," she said. "Nothing serious. Something to do with work." Dropping her down more firemen's poles? he thought as she went on. "But he was doing a shift and he helped her."
"Helped her?" he said, wondering how ethical it would be for a doctor to date one of their patients.
"I don't know the details, Mark," she said impatiently. "I've told you what I know."
"And he's decent?"
"As best as I know, based on a very brief meeting with him as I brought her back her cake pan… and from what Pam's said," said his mother, "but we all know she's a bit biased, and I think she enjoys telling me these things knowing what I do."
"Knowing what?"
"Knowing that you still love Bridget," she said. "You're as transparent as a pane of glass."
He offered a feeble goodbye, then disconnected the call. He shouldn't have been surprised that his mother could read him like a book, but he was. But even more shocking to him was that Pam Jones had already met this new boyfriend, in the Jones family home.
How serious was this relationship, anyway?
July
Rebecca had gone for the weekend with a group of friends—a pang of pain, recalling who was once part of that group—down to Paris. He supposed it was meant to punish him for the scene at the restaurant, but in all honesty he was grateful for the peace and quiet, and the lack of stress.
He decided to head to his gym for the first time in at least a month, maybe longer; there was always someone around that was interested in picking up a round or two of squash, and the physical exertion was something he needed.
He had just finished donning his gym kit, was just tying his court shoes, when he heard the rattle of a nearby storage locker opening. Mark glanced up, momentarily stunned into silence, looking at the newcomer a lot longer than he should have looked.
It was the good doctor, himself.
Mark looked back to his laces, then up again just as the doctor looked to him. "Cheers," he said with a smile, at once warm, friendly, and approachable.
"Hello," Mark said.
"Pretty new here myself, but haven't seen you around before," he said. Mark could hear the accent; not heavy, but definitely there. He then reached forward, his hand outstretched. "I'm Kevin McKenzie."
Mark accepted; far more extroverted than himself. Far more jovial, indeed, but who could blame him? Firm handshake. "Mark Darcy," he said. "Pleased to meet you."
If Bridget had ever mentioned him by name, Kevin showed no sign at all of recognition. "Likewise," said Kevin. "Just popping in for a round of squash."
The coincidence was almost too much, but he was careful not to let it show. "Was looking for a match, myself," said Mark, grasping his racket and holding it up.
"If you don't mind a bit of a wait, I'll take you up on that," Kevin said. That grin again, disarming.
"Sure," said Mark. "Great. I'll go and grab a free court."
"I think I saw three was available," Kevin said. "See you down there."
Court three was, indeed, free. After slipping on his protective goggles, Mark took the ball, bounced it against the wall with the racket to get in a little practise before Kevin showed up. It was hard not to picture Kevin's face on the ball, but better to do it now than do it once the man was in the court with him. He had to do an interrogation so subtle that Kevin McKenzie couldn't have the slightest idea it was being done.
"Sorry to have taken so long."
Mark reached to still the ball as it bounced directly into his palm. "It's all right," he said. "Just warming up. Shall we?"
Kevin slipped his own goggles down over his eyes. "Let's."
The match was on, the ball in play, and they'd found their groove when Kevin asked the first question. "Been in London long?"
Mark grinned. "Since law school," he said, lobbing the ball. "You?"
"Just three months," he said. "A lawyer, eh?"
"Yes," he said. "And you?"
"Surgeon," he said. "Orthopaedic, specialising in paediatrics."
"What brought you all the way down to London?"
"Needed a change of scenery," he said. "All the way down. Is it that obvious, where I'm from?"
"The accent comes through, yes," Mark said. "Any reason in particular you chose London?"
"Had a feeling I'd find something special here," he said. "Or someone."
This statement caught him so off-guard that Kevin scored the point—the stroke—on him.
"Go ahead and serve," Kevin said, tossing the ball to Mark.
Mark did just that, then picked up the thread of the conversation by asking, "Any luck so far?"
"I'm managing," Kevin said. He was smiling, though. Broadly. "Okay, more than managing."
Mark got the impression Kevin wanted to talk about it, but hesitated for some reason. Mark wanted nothing more to hear him talk about her, and so encouraged him with, "Oh? How do you mean?"
"In my second week here, I actually did meet someone special," he said. "She's warm, smart, funny, sharp as a—Oh, good shot. Stroke is yours."
Returning the lob, Mark had swung a little harder than he'd intended, resulting in the point.
Once the ball was in play again, Mark prompted, "You were saying?"
"Ah, right, yeah," he said. "I was telling you about Bree."
"Bree?" Now Mark was confused.
"My gal. Well, her name's actually Bridget, but Bree is closer to the Scots Gaelic." Kevin lobbed the ball with a backhand, then went on, "Sharp as a whip and gorgeous to boot."
"Sounds like you're very lucky."
"I am beyond lucky," he said. "She's a gift. Truly. That last chap of hers was a damned fool, but I can't be sorry—or I wouldn't be with her."
Mark didn't say much more than necessary for the rest of the match. In the end, Kevin bested him. Again, apparently. And the worst part? Kevin seemed to be a decent fellow. Mark actually liked him.
…
"Mark Darcy, what are you playing at?"
He had been surprised beyond reason to see Bridget's number pop up on his mobile that next morning; he should have guessed the reason for her call. "I don't know what you mean."
"Kevin," she said. "My new boyfriend. He came over for dinner last night after stopping at the gym hoping to pick up a round of squash. Told me he'd played against someone who sounded suspiciously like you, and when I asked for the name—"
"Bridget, it was a total coincidence," he said. He quickly realised he had a level of plausible deniability. It certainly hadn't been planned; the fact that he'd already seen Kevin McKenzie before was immaterial. "I was just tying my shoes when he came in, and we struck up a conversation. During the match, as he talked about his 'Bree', I realised who he was talking about." He paused. "I didn't pry." Though I wanted to, he added in thought only.
"Hmm," she said. Her temper seemed to have cooled. "Terribly coincidental that you both ended up at the same gym."
"That's all it is. Coincidence," Mark said. After a beat, he said, "If you're happy, that's all that matters. You deserve to be happy."
She didn't say anything immediately. It was so quiet he couldn't begin to gauge what her response would be. When she spoke, he was no closer to guessing. "Thank you," she said. "Look, I… have to go."
"All right," Mark said. "Nice to hear from you. I mean it."
"Goodbye."
And then she disconnected the call.
End of August
Momentum being what it was, Mark's relationship with Rebecca stayed in its own unique limbo throughout July and August; at the end of that month, he was surprised at her talk of leaving early the Friday morning. He didn't want to ask for details. He realised he must have agreed to something without registering what it was. Whatever the weekend held would be his penance for not listening.
She told him she was driving, which she often did. He supposed it was indicative of their relationship in general. He didn't care. He spent most of the drive reading through the newest volume of one of his professional journals, the sound of classical strings pleasantly humming around the cabin of the automobile.
He glanced up once just as they passed a sign for a turnoff. It brought him no closer to understanding where they were going. He assumed it was to spend the weekend at a hotel, or more probable still, at the country home of one of her very well-off friends.
"Here we are!" Rebecca announced in a sing-song trill, causing him to look up as she pulled into a crescent-shaped drive and rolling to a stop directly in front of a stately home. He took in the tall colonnaded portico, just as a woman emerged from the front door, a hand raised in greeting.
It was only then that a dawning dread overcame him. He recognised the woman as Magda. Rebecca's friend… and Bridget's. He wondered if Bridget would be there. He didn't know if he hoped she would be, or wouldn't. As they emerged from the vehicle, Magda's expression changed, her cheery expression faltering… but only briefly.
"Hi!" said Magda. "Just in time for some lunch." She looked to Mark with a tight smile. "Mark, hello. Nice to see you again. How are you?"
"I'm well, thanks," he said. "You?"
"Very well, thanks," she said. "Well. Come on in. I'll show you to your room, and then you can come down for food."
"You're always so lovely, so accommodating, Magda darling," Rebecca said. Overcompensating already.
One to their room, Magda left, and Rebecca closed the door behind her. She turned to Mark with a grin. "What do you say," she said, reaching for his hand, placing it on her hip, "if we're a bit late to lunch?"
Sex? Was she actually alluding to sex? After not seeming to be interested for a week or more, why now? He had his suspicions. He withdrew his hand from her, stepping back. "I'm actually quite hungry, Rebecca. Let's go down."
There was a moment, fleeting but unmistakeable, when her features exposed how she really felt before she recovered. She was pissed off. "Of course," she said gaily. "Just thought it might help work out the stiff joints from the drive."
"We can take a walk around the garden after we eat," he said.
"Fine," she said, her tone as stiff as Magda's smile had been. "That sounds fine."
Dinner was a spread of antipasto and a pitcher of what turned out to be sangria. He helped himself to a plate of food, poured himself and Rebecca a glass of the wine. "Oh, Mark dear, will you get me something?" she called from where she'd taken a seat at the table. "You know what I like."
"Of course," he said, picking through the meats and cheeses, making a selection for her. Balancing the two plates and two glasses in his hands, he brought them to where she sat.
"Oh, you're a love," she cooed, then took her plate.
There were others there, too; aside from Jude and Sharon, there were three more vaguely familiar women he was sure he'd met before, though introductions were made all the same. Mark noticed something, however; they were exchanging glances in a peculiar way. He wondered what was going on.
He didn't see Bridget, though. It was early, though, and Bridget was many things, but early was rarely one of them. He smirked at the thought.
"We didn't expect you here, Rebecca," said Sharon in her characteristically brazen way, with an extra sneer directed at Mark.
Magda muttered, "Neither did I."
Simultaneously, Rebecca said, "Well, of course I was going to come! I haven't seen any of you in far too long… and it's about time to mend fences, I think."
Mark was sure he wasn't meant to hear what Magda had said, but he did. If Rebecca heard it, she pretended she hadn't, but she was so wrapped up in delivering her grand response that he suspected she hadn't.
He realised, though, that Rebecca had invited herself to this weekend in the country, bringing himself with her. He was completely mortified. As Rebecca nattered on to Jude, asking how her boyfriend was, Mark rose and said quietly to Magda, "I'm sorry. I didn't know. We can leave if you'd rather—"
Magda looked mortified, too; mortified that he had heard her. "No, really, it'll be fine," she said. "The room's free because Woney cancelled, and… well, Bridget's bringing her new beau, so seeing you and Rebecca here shouldn't be too awkward, should it?"
"It'll be fine," he said, though if he were to be honest, hearing the words 'Bridget' and 'her new beau' did send a pang of pain through him. "We're all adults."
She smiled, and it was genuine; maybe she was relieved to learn he wasn't remotely as inconsiderate as Rebecca was.
When they were finished eating, Mark asked Rebecca if she wanted to take that walk. She beamed a smile. "Oh, I know I said we could, but I think I'll pass for now," she said. "I'm far too eager to chat with the girls."
He could take the hint. He decided to take that walk on his own.
The weather had been oppressively hot in the city, but out here in the country, while it was still warm, the cool breeze and the tree shade was enough to make it bearable, even pleasant. He took in a deep breath. It was nice, the peace and quiet; the clean air, the sound of birdsong. Beyond the back patio, beyond the herbaceous borders, was countryside as far as the eye could see. Mark followed the path around, to the meticulously tended koi pond, to the gently bubbling fountain. Really pushed out the boat on the country home, he thought. But it was beautiful and the perfect antidote for hectic city life in the high-pressure job that both he and Jeremy, Magda's husband, did.
On the gravel behind him, he heard footsteps approaching. He assumed it would be Rebecca, but when he turned, to his surprise, it was Kevin.
"Fancy meeting you here," he said. The man had his hands shoved down into the front pockets of his jeans.
"Hello," Mark said. "Look, I feel like I should explain—"
"It's not necessary," Kevin interrupted. "It's a small world, as the saying goes."
"It really was a coincidence."
"No worries," he said. He looked around at the broad expanse of blue sky, the rustling green leaves. "It's really beautiful out here."
"It really is." After a moment more of silence, Mark realised he should continue making small talk. It might allow him to find out more. "Trust you had a good drive up?"
"Not bad," he said. "You?"
"Same," said Mark, who found himself mirroring Kevin, shoving his hands into his own trouser pockets. It had been more than a month since his encounter in the gym with the man. Clearly things were still quite on track, going well enough to spend a weekend in the country together. Mark didn't know what else to say, and apparently, neither did Kevin.
Another set of footfalls approached, this time rapidly; it was Bridget skipping down the path towards them. She was looking at Kevin, smiling, and then threw her arms around his neck from behind, hanging slightly from his tall form… before spotting Mark standing further down the lane. Immediately, her smile fell, and she let go of Kevin, stepping away. "Oh," she said. "Hello, Mark."
"Hello, Bridget," he said, not taking his eyes from her. "I'll, um, leave you to your walk." He headed past them and back towards the house; as he walked away, he decided to risk a backwards glance. He wished he hadn't. Kevin had her hand in his, was bent down low, saying something quietly before giving her a kiss.
Upon entering the house again, he was met with a scowl by Rebecca. "You were out there an awfully long time," she said.
"I was enjoying the fresh air," he said, then kept right on walking past her in search of a quiet room in which he could read. He wanted to be alone. He found a library, and after browsing for a few minutes, he found something to read that looked intriguing. Something called Cold Mountain. In fact, he became so engrossed that he was truly startled to hear Magda's voice interrupting his thoughts what turned out to be a few hours later.
"There you are!" she said, smiling. "Just wanted to let you know that dinner's at nine. Going to do a barbecue in the back garden. It'll be the perfect night for it."
"Great," he said. "Thank you."
She paused; honestly, it looked like she was about to say something more, but she didn't. She just smiled then retreated.
With a sigh, he set the book aside. He supposed he should go find Rebecca, go back to the room and ensure he was presentable for dinner.
Rebecca was already in the room, examining her makeup in the mirror. "Where've you been?" she asked, turning her gaze towards him.
"Reading," he said. "Magda says we're doing a barbecue for dinner."
"Well, that sounds fun," she said. He couldn't tell if she was being sincere or sarcastic. She turned to Mark, a devilish grin playing upon her lips. "We do have a little time before dinner," she said.
He knew what she was suggesting. He was utterly disinterested, and far too distracted by Bridget's proximity to be able to perform in any way, shape, or form. "Ah, yes, thanks for that," he said. "I had wanted to touch up shaving beforehand." He passed her by to grab his shaving kit.
She tried to hide her annoyance by switching immediately to bitchy mode. "I've been introduced at last to Bridget's new boyfriend," she said. "Quite charming."
"Seems to be," he muttered.
"Very handsome."
"Hmm," Mark said noncommittally. "Pardon me." He paused, then added, "Feel free to head down without me if I'm not done in time."
She said nothing. He left.
As he judiciously shaved the minuscule stubble, he could only think again and again, Break up with her, for God's sake. Break up with her.
No social fallout could be worse than continuing this flimsy pretence of a relationship.
…
When Mark had finished shaving, he found that indeed, Rebecca had headed downstairs for dinner without him. Upon appearing in the back garden, a bottle of bitter was pressed into his hand by Magda, who offered a smile. "Food's very nearly done," she said. "Go sit down and relax."
He wondered what about his expression had prompted this comment.
Magda had really gone to town on the whole 'cookout' theme, with grilled burgers and chicken; tending to the grill was Jeremy, who looked eminently pleased to be in charge of it all. There were salads, chilled wine, beer; fairy lights strung up on the patio; a roaring fire in the copper pit.
He still hadn't seen Rebecca, but he did spot an empty chair and headed towards it. As he got closer, he realised that within very close proximity sat Kevin, and across his lap sat Bridget. They were too concentrated on what they were doing to pay Mark any mind; that was to say, they were in a tight embrace, indulging in a snog. Mark pivoted on the ball of his foot and decided to find another seat to settle in.
The garden area for dinner was not so large that he could escape the sight of them from his new seat, but it would have to do. He took a long draw off of his beer, then rested his head back. This weekend was going to be a living hell. It already was.
He didn't know how much time had passed, but he was brought from his ponderings by motion in his peripheral vision; it was Bridget, heading back into the house, probably to get herself chilled wine, if he were to guess. Where on earth was Rebecca, anyway? He was irritated at having been persuaded to come to the country, but he didn't actually wish for her to go missing.
"So, you're a surgeon?"
There she was. Mark turned slowly to see that Rebecca had perched herself on the arm of the chair where Kevin McKenzie was sat. He looked up at her, vaguely annoyed, but wishing to be polite. Rebecca didn't seem to notice that Mark was so near, or if she did, she didn't care. But he suspected that she was fully aware. "Yes," Kevin said. "I am."
"That must be thrilling!" said Rebecca. "And you're from Scotland."
"A regular Sherlock Holmes, you are," he said. Mark recognised the thinning edge of patience in his tone; it was one he used often enough, and one she never recognised. "And what about you?"
"I just have the highest respect for doctors, especially surgeons," she said, totally deflecting his question of her. "The power of life and death in your hands! I can't imagine what that'd even be like." She struck a dramatic pose as she said this. "So how are you liking London? Getting all settled in?"
"Settling quite well, indeed," he said.
"Well, if there's anything I can do, anything at all, don't hesitate to come to me," she said.
"Thanks, but if it's all the same to you, no thanks."
"Pardon?"
"Well, Rebecca," he said, "even if I were tempted—which I certainly am not—I've heard enough about you from Bree to serve as a sodden wet blanket. I know what you're up to."
She sat up rigidly. "I don't know what you mean."
"Don't you?" Kevin asked. He looked like he was enjoying himself. "So you don't enjoy stealing your girlfriends' men from them?" Kevin's gaze flicked in Mark's direction, surprising Mark; he'd had no idea Kevin had spotted him. "I hear you've done that before."
She brought her hand to her chest in a gesture of innocence.
"Now, my doll is returning," Kevin went on, looking to where Bridget was exiting the house. "So kindly fuck off."
She leapt to her feet, looking scandalised. "What did you say to me?"
"I think you heard me well enough," Kevin said. "In case not, though…" Now he rose to his own feet, towering over her slender form with his imposing muscular one. "Fuck. Off."
Her skin paled even further in the twilight.
"Dinner's ready!" announced Jeremy in a most poorly-timed interruption.
None of the other guests budged, however. Bridget, just returned, looked utterly perplexed; she had apparently not heard the exchange.
Rebecca stalked off towards where Mark sat, proving his suspicions correct. "You're just going to sit there and let that man talk to me like that?"
He continued to just sit there. "As a matter of fact, yes," he said at last. "You are perfectly capable of defending yourself. I've heard you do it."
"Mark," she hissed.
"I, too, know what you were up to," he said, challenging her with his gaze.
She looked like the top of her head might just explode into flame. "I won't be treated like this," she said. "We're leaving."
"Oh," said Magda, stepping in from near the grill, and placed her hand on Mark's shoulder. "Please don't feel you have to leave, Mark." She looked to Rebecca stonily. "Have a safe drive. We'll be sure to get Mark home safely."
He wasn't sure he wanted to spend the rest of the weekend in the close proximity of Bridget and her beau, but he wanted even less to spend the next two hours in the car with her. Thank goodness she'd insisted on driving.
"Is that it, then?" Rebecca said, hands on her hips, glaring at Mark. "Nothing more to say?"
At last, Mark rose to his feet, looking down at her. He offered a smile, not at her, but with relish at what he was about to say: "Fuck off."
With these words her face went bright red. She looked around herself, seemingly belatedly realising that she had an audience. Ordinarily she would have revelled in it. Right now, she clearly did not.
She stormed off.
He only hoped she would not be so spiteful as to take his own things away with her. But then Magda spoke again.
"I'll see her out," she said quietly. "Have something to eat. I'll make sure she doesn't take your bag."
For a man who regularly grilled intimidating individuals as a matter of course in court, somehow this exchange had completely worn Mark out. Aware of all eyes on him, at least until it became clear that the excitement was over, he went to get a plate of food. A piece of chicken, some salad. He found he didn't have much of an appetite; despite feeling a sense of relief that he had finally found it in himself to chuck her, it was still difficult to admit failure yet again. Particularly with evidence of his past failure on the other side of the garden.
He managed to eat all of the food he'd taken, though, and did so without being interrogated about how he was doing or how he felt. When Magda returned, she looked his way and gave him a thumbs-up to let him know that Rebecca had been successfully escorted out.
He drank his beer, turning to gaze into the fire in the fire pit. He had to admit, it was a lovely evening.
"Hey."
He looked to the side. Bridget was sat there with her own glass of wine.
"Hello," he said.
"Are you doing all right?"
"I'm fine." Deep down, he was. Or he would be. As fine as he could be, anyway.
"I don't think I've ever heard anyone speak to her like that before." A smirk played on her lips. "Well done."
"I only followed your boyfriend's lead," Mark said. She furrowed her brow. "She'd flirted with him. He told her the same thing I ended up telling her."
Mark looked to the fire again, then to the sky. It was ever closer to full dark; he could see the first of the stars making an appearance. To his surprise, she stayed there with him.
"Where's Kevin?" Mark asked.
"He decided to turn in," she said. "He's one of those 'early to bed, early to rise' types."
He chuckled. He couldn't help himself.
"I know exactly what you're thinking," she said. She was laughing a little, too. "It came as a great shock to me, I'll tell you."
The fire crackled and the wood shifted; he sat back in his seat, took in a deep breath. The day had been warm but the evening was pleasantly cool, and the stars were in abundance overhead. The next thing he knew, Bridget was touching his forearm. He'd dozed. Little wonder—it was probably the first time in a month he'd felt relaxed.
"You may want to turn in, too."
He sat forward, running his hand over his face. She was right. Being constantly on edge with Rebecca had taken its toll. "Good idea." He got to his feet, looked back down to her. "Goodnight, Bridget."
"Goodnight."
Mark slept soundly that night. He dreamt of Bridget, dreamt that they were walking on London Bridge, she from the south, and he from the north. However, no matter how long he walked towards her, and she, towards him, they never met.
