A Wee Bit of Fiction
By S. Faith, © 2007
Words: 7,065
Rating: T / PG13
Summary: It's not nice to fool Mother Nature. Or, for that matter, Mark Darcy.
Disclaimer: These characters belong to the fabulous Helen Fielding. The words in the order that they're in are all mine. As much as I always say I hate to do it, I'm still in my own little world here, so in this story, they're married and living at Mark's, the same universe as her post-Thai disease. A sibling also makes an appearance.
Notes: Just a bit of fun. Mark in devilish mode is darn fun to write.
Mark cleared his throat, knew there would be no easy way to say it, so he just came out with it, addressing her back as if somehow it would be easier to deliver the news.
"Bridget. We've been invited to a dinner party on Saturday. At Derek's. There's no way around it."
She paused in what she was doing and turned to him as he sat on the bed. Instead of the pouting, petulant reaction he anticipated—he knew how much she detested these sorts of things with his work colleagues/friends—she smiled brightly. "On Saturday? Sounds lovely."
He felt himself blinking rapidly, trying to process what he'd just heard. "Really?"
Eyes wide, still smiling, she nodded. "Of course! I've been looking for an excuse to buy that lovely little dress I saw."
He relaxed into a smile of his own. He'd been so prepared to fight about this he'd lined up a good list of arguments in favour of attending, even though he wasn't very keen on it himself. Bloody social obligations. At least it would be bearable if she were going too, and going willingly.
………
A slight groan captured his attention. He looked up to see Bridget with a slightly distressed look on her face in the passenger seat of his car. He'd gone to pick her up after work that day, to surprise her and take her to buy the dress she'd wanted for the dinner that upcoming Saturday, which he had insisted on paying for.
"Are you all right?" he asked, turning his eyes back to the road.
She nodded. "Mmm. Yeah. Just a bit of a stomach upset."
He thought nothing more of it.
………
"You're what?"
He had come home that following day from work to discover Bridget already home and curled up on the sofa, dressed in distinctly non-work-like clothes.
"I said I'm not hungry."
He sat beside her on the sofa. The room was dimly lit, but he thought there was a distinct pallor to her skin, and he was worried about her unusual lack of appetite. "Are you feeling all right?"
"I'm fine," she said, closing her eyes. "Just really tired."
He raised his hand to her forehead. She didn't feel warm.
"Is it your stomach?"
"I said I'm fine. Mm." She slipped an arm over her own abdomen, squeezing her eyes more tightly shut for a second. "I just need a little nap."
With so much attention focused on her midsection, a thought bubbled up in his head and before he could stop to think about it, he asked, "You're not, you know… pregnant, are you?"
A ghost of a laugh escaped her. "How short your memory is sometimes. Remember last night when we didn't shag?"
Right. "Maybe you should go upstairs to bed if you want to nap."
"Mark, I'm fine where I am. Let me be."
He didn't leave her side just yet, stroking her hair as she fell asleep, studying her peaceful countenance. It probably did just have to do with his least favourite time of the month, and lest he be accused of staring at her while she slept, he left her to her nap.
………
Finding Bridget curled up in a tight little knot and completely invisible under the duvet when she should have been halfway dressed for work at first made him extremely annoyed. "Bridget. For the third time. You'll be late for work."
Her face emerged from under the covers, and his annoyance faded quickly. She looked bleary and still tired, sweat sheened on her skin, yet her teeth were visibly chattering. "Mark, I'm freezing. Bring me another blanket, will you?"
He strode to her, sitting beside her, placing the backs of his fingers against her cheek. She felt extremely warm. "Bridget, maybe I should—" He stopped short. There was no way he could take her to see a physician. He was due in court in an hour and a half. "Maybe you should stay home today," he amended. He would finish as soon as he could, and if she was still sick later, he would then take her to see a doctor.
Slowly she nodded. "Could you bring me my phone? I'll call in."
Her mobile was sitting on the bureau, so he stood and fetched it for her. She took it gratefully and nestled it between her palms. He then fetched an aspirin tablet and a glass of water from the bathroom, and watched while she swallowed it.
"Make your call before you fall back asleep," he said as he returned from the linen closet with another blanket for her, draping it over her. He then bent, brushed the sweaty tendrils of hair away from her face, and placed a lingering, affectionate kiss in the center of her forehead. "Rest up, love."
………
The proceedings of the day went far more quickly than Mark was anticipating, and he was extremely pleased to be going home early to see how Bridget was feeling. He'd even cleared the following day, Friday, should he need to stay home to take her to see a doctor. After a quick trip to the store to buy some orange juice, he thought it might be nice to bring her a little present to cheer her up, so he took a detour to Hamleys on the way home.
Wandering into the seven-floor shop, he felt a bit out of his element. He couldn't recall the last time he'd been in a toy shop and he had no idea where the plush animals were. Fortunately he didn't have to look far and located them on the ground floor, though the choice available threatened to overwhelm him.
After some moments of scanning the dizzying number of soft toys, his eye was caught by the label "Shaggy Bear" and even though it was not even remotely referring to that sort of shag, he grinned very broadly. This was undoubtedly the one for Bridget. He reached for the largest one they had, 24 inches long. Even he had to do a bit of a double take when he saw the price tag, but there was no question of buying it if it helped to comfort his poor, sick darling Bridget.
When he took it to a register to pay for it, the perky blonde operating the till smiled and fixed Mark with a rather gooey look. "Awww, is that for your little girl?"
"In a matter of speaking, yes," he said with a smile.
………
Upon his arrival home, he came in using great caution to be as quiet as possible, shedding his suit jacket, loosening then removing his tie and heading straight for the stairs to the bedroom. As he was about to ascend he heard her voice coming from below. She must have been in the kitchen; perhaps she felt well enough to have something to eat or wanted some tea. Curious, he instead set his bags down in the foyer, then crept to the stairs down, descending as quietly as possible, to hear her speaking but as yet unable quite to make out the words.
As he neared the bottom her words became intelligible.
"No, no, Shaz, I'm fine, really," he heard her say, obviously downplaying her illness to her friend on the telephone, or so he thought until she kept speaking. "I just could not bear the thought of another bloody boring dinner party with those stuffed shirts and I couldn't very well suddenly get sick." She paused; he heard obvious sounds of chewing, then the gulp of a swallow. "I'm sorry for eating in your ear but I got up and was famished and I felt like I could murder for a chocolate croissant." She then chuckled. "Yeah. Really suspicious. And at least if I'm sick Mark can still go and put his appearance in."
For a moment Mark spiked with a flash of anger as he realised she had worried him for nothing and was faking being sick just to get out of a dinner engagement like some lower sixth child, assisted by the superb heat-retaining power of the duvet. Thankfully, before he let his temper get the better of him and he burst forth from the staircase shouting at her, he was gripped with a cunning idea: to give her a taste of her own medicine, as it were.
He listened to her continue her conversation. The telly came on and he could hear the sounds of daytime programming (along with complaints about the quality of said programming). She wrapped up her call and he waited a few minutes before he descended the rest of the way, calling as he strode into the kitchen, "Bridget? What are you doing down here?"
She looked up with obvious surprise, a chocolate smudge on her lower lip, her diary on her lap, pen in hand, and a nearly empty cup of coffee at her side. She bit on the smudge in a probable effort to obliterate the evidence, then smiled faintly. "I was getting so bored upstairs," she said in a weak voice.
"You belong in bed," he said sternly, reaching down and plucking the diary and pen from her grasp and the phone from beside her, closing the book and setting it to the side along with the pen and phone, well out of reach. "You look terrible. You're going back upstairs. Have you been able to eat anything?"
She paused for a moment, then shook her head, glancing down to the coffee cup. "Still too, um, queasy. It was… all I could do to get the coffee down."
Such a little liar. "You're going upstairs," he said again for emphasis, "and I'll make you some herbal tea and some chicken broth."
She tried to keep the disgust off of her face, only meekly saying, "Okay."
"I can't believe that you came all the way down here on your own," he continued in a scolding tone as he pulled her to her feet. "What if you'd had a dizzy spell, fallen down the stairs? Put your arms around my neck."
"Mark, I think I can walk by myself—"
"Put your arms around my neck," he repeated a little more forcefully. If she wanted to be a helpless sick child, by God, he was going to treat her like one.
He lifted her up into his arms, secretly wondering where she had ever gotten the idea that she was too heavy, and proceeded to march up the stairs to the bedroom, carrying her all the way. He set her to her feet beside the bed, then went over to the bureau, digging into one of the drawers.
"What are you doing, Mark?"
"You still feel a little warm to me," he lied. "I know there's a pair of—ha." Triumphantly his fingers curled around what he knew to be a pair of flannel pyjamas that his mother had gifted her with for her last birthday: bright pink and frilly, with satin pillow-stitched hearts and bunnies along the waist of the top and the ankles of the bottom, and an abundance of ribbon bows on both halves. He knew she thought them appalling, but she'd kept them out of consideration for his mother. They were perfect. He held them up for her. She was unable to contain a look of horror.
"Oh please, no. Don't make me wear those."
"Put them on. It isn't as if anyone's going to see you. And you were so cold this morning." He stripped her out of the cotton night shirt and slipped the horrifying pink nightmare over her head, then pulled back the sheets and had her sit down on the bed to allow her to step into the bottoms.
"Now lie back," he said, and as she did he covered her with sheets and duvet. "I'll be back with your tea and broth."
"Mark," she said pitifully, sitting up again, "I really don't want any broth. Or tea."
"Nonsense," he said. "You're sick, you'll have it. It's just what you need to get well. You have to have something to eat. Feed a fever, as the old saying goes," he said, even if the old wives' tale was in actual fact the other way around. "Lie back," he said again, pointing towards the pillow. She complied, and he pulled the covers up to her chin.
He prepared the broth and waited for the water in the kettle to boil for the tea, a sticks-and-berries cold remedy that Bridget had gone and picked up the last time he'd felt a little under the weather, and she'd insisted he try it per Shaz's recommendation. He had sucked down the horrible concoction, which hadn't made him feel any better, only made him feel like he needed to brush his teeth to rid himself of the taste. But he'd never been one to get sick easily, and when he'd bounced back the following day, she proclaimed it to be the tea, and fought all attempts of his to pitch the stuff in the dustbin.
He realised he was no longer angry, but instead was now smirkingly glad she'd succeeded in preventing him from throwing it away. What fun he could have with this, smothering her with attention and forcing long hours of boredom upon her in the name of recuperation—which she would either have to endure or admit she'd lied.
He must have gotten this devilish streak directly from her.
………
When he returned with the tea and the broth, she appeared to be fast asleep, but he could tell from the way she was breathing that it was a show. "Bridget, your tea." He set it on the bedside table.
She made a soft grumbling sound, said pitifully, "I'm sleeping."
If he hadn't overheard the conversation with Shaz, he might have been swayed to bring it back later. As it was… "Come on, get up long enough to have this and your broth."
He then realised he ought to take her temperature even though he was certain there was no actual fever. He knew just how to use that best to his advantage.
"I'll be right back."
He went to the loo and straight for the medicine cabinet, making a lot of noise as he looked for the thermometer. He poked his head back into the room. "Found the thermometer and am using white spirit on it to disinfect. Get up so I can take your temperature."
She didn't move.
"I hear the reading's more accurate if it's done rectally." He watched for her reaction. He expected her to sit up in stark terror in bed then flee the premises, but bless her little heart, she feigned sleep on par with the best award-winning actresses, then stirred artfully to sit up.
"I'm up, all right?" she said grumpily.
As he ducked back into the bathroom, he heard the distinct sound of the spoon against the inside of the bowl. When he exited from the bathroom the bowl was back in place though and the level of broth decidedly lower. He stifled a laugh, knew exactly what she was trying to do: raise the temperature inside her mouth. He got near and held out the thermometer. She immediately swallowed as surreptitiously as possible, then opened wide to receive the thermometer.
"Mouth it is then," he said popping it into place.
He waited the required three minutes, counting each revolution of the sweeping second hand on his watch, then pulled the thermometer from her mouth. It wasn't but a hair above normal, probably even normal for her, but he drew his brows together, the better to make her think her little ruse had worked. "Oh dear. Still have a fever." He swore she looked surprised. "You could probably do with another aspirin." He went for another tablet and when he returned he handed it to her, looking expectantly.
"What?" she asked at last.
"Aren't you going to take that?"
"Are you going to bring some water?"
"Why? The tea's cool enough now."
For a moment there was a battle of wills, eyes locked and unblinking, before she sighed and picked up the teacup, popped the aspirin in her mouth, then took a big, choking swallow. Try to stare down a trial lawyer used to grilling Indonesians and Chechens, he thought, and you will not win.
"That's a good girl," he said with deliberate condescension. "Now drink up and eat your broth and in a little while I'll get you some orange juice."
"That'd be nice," she said, the look of distaste from the horrid tea still upon her countenance.
"I'll be right back," he said suddenly. In his irritation he'd completely forgotten about the gift he'd brought for her. "When I come back I'd better see that broth completely gone."
"And the tea?" she said softly.
"And the tea." He leaned forward and kissed her on the top of her head. "I want you to get well."
He had taken three steps out of the room when he paused and waited, listening for the sound he knew would come: the rustle of the bed sheets, the spoon riding along the edge of the bowl as she picked it up. Quietly he backed up and waited until he saw her carrying her mug and bowl towards the bathroom. He cleared his throat, startling her.
"I should have known," he said darkly. "Get in bed. You're drinking that tea and having your broth."
She sighed. "The tea's really horrible, and I don't like plain broth."
"But the tea works, remember? And the broth is good for you."
She visibly deflated. "Yes, Mark." She said it in such a pathetic, resigned way it almost made him burst out with a laugh. She set the bowl and cup down on the bedside table before climbing back into bed, sitting up against the headboard with pillows at her back. He drew the duvet to her waist, then took the bowl in hand, took up a generous portion of the thin, oily broth with the spoon, and held it up in front of her mouth.
"Be serious, Mark. I can feed myself."
He only kept his gazed fixed upon her before saying seriously, "Open your mouth."
"Mark."
"Do I have to start playing airplanes or choo-choos with your soup?"
She complied, making a face as the spoon emptied into her mouth. She shuddered as she swallowed; he immediately thought of the first, initial mouthful she'd taken in order to try to fake the fever. Bridget was really dedicated to this cause—but he could match her, move for move.
The soup went down with no further incident, and he handed her the mug of cooling tea. "Drink."
"Can't I have orange juice instead?"
"Later. Now come on, before it gets cold."
Giving him a dirty look, she raised the cup and proceeded to drink the whole mug's worth, being sure to dramatically shudder again as she swallowed. She lowered it, then with a piercing look handed him the empty cup.
"Get comfortable," he said. "I'll be back up with some work so I can keep you company."
"And some orange juice?"
"Yes."
She sighed, sinking down into the bed and pulling the duvet to her shoulders.
He went back to the kitchen with his grocery sack, pouring a generous glass of juice for her, then went back up to the bedroom with it, his attaché, and the Hamleys bag. He set the bag containing the bear just outside the bedroom door, then went in to find she hadn't moved, hadn't even closed her eyes, which she turned to him. She was trying to keep up the façade of weak and feeble, but her annoyance with being force-fed horrible broth and disgusting tea was still very evident.
After resting the attaché near the end of the bed, he sat by her side, setting the orange juice down on the bedside table. "Feeling better?"
"Kind of queasy, actually," she said. "Tea on top of broth. Yuck."
He stroked her cheek. "I have something else that might make you feel better."
"Oh?" she asked, trying not to look too hopeful.
He simply grinned. "Let me get it for you. Close your eyes."
Mark ducked back out to get the bag containing the soft bear, taking care to keep the shop's logo from being visible because he was sure she would be tempted to peek. "Eyes closed?" he asked. She nodded. "Not peeking?" She shook her head. "Good. Keep 'em closed."
He pulled the bear out and sat by her side once more, setting the bear on her stomach. "Okay. Surprise."
She opened her eyes and when she saw the bear her entire face lit up. She dropped the sick act altogether as she sat again to embrace the bear. "Oh, he's marvelous!" she said, holding him tightly to her chest. "So soft and squishy and…. Thank you, Mark. I love him."
He grinned. "You're welcome."
She leaned forward to kiss him, but he pulled back. "Oh no. I don't want what you have. Even if you're still bedridden, I have to attend the dinner party on Saturday." At her disappointed reaction he conceded a little, turning his head slightly and pointing to the exact spot he knew dimpled when he smiled. "There instead."
She smiled wanly, plainly remembering she was supposed to be sick, and leaned forward to plant a kiss on his cheek. "Now lie back, get comfortable, and go back to sleep. If you need anything I'll be right here."
She settled back and once again he drew the covers her up to her shoulders. He gave her a parting smile, then walked away to take a seat on the small sofa just beyond the foot of the bed, picking up his attaché on the way. He began to read through the case documents he'd brought with him and out of the corner of his eye he could see her tossing and turning. She stopped eventually, but then he heard her sit up and say in a rather whiny voice, "Mark, I'd really like to come and sit with you on the sofa. I'm not really that sleepy right now."
Not looking up, he said, "Bridget, you need your rest. Try a little harder."
She made a grumbling sound then settled back in. It was many moments before she actually fell to sleep, judging by the change in her breathing and the way she turned over with the bear under her chest.
Mark was not sure how long he'd been sitting and reading but he realised he was very thirsty and had not actually brought anything up for himself to drink. He momentarily considered drinking the juice he'd brought for her, but knew it wouldn't look good for him if she got up to have a sip to find he'd drunk it; she'd know in an instant he knew she was faking. He set his papers to the side then stood. She didn't budge. He left the bedroom and closed the door behind him then descended the stairs only to hear a firm knock at the front door, followed by the doorbell.
Perplexed, he went to the door to find his brother Peter standing there. "Hey," began Peter cautiously, "everything all right?"
"Why wouldn't it be?" replied Mark.
"You didn't show for our lunch date then you didn't answer your phone."
He smacked himself hard on the forehead. "Peter, I'm so sorry. Bridget fell ill and I didn't think to give you a call."
"Is she all right?" he asked with an obvious, building concern.
Mark laughed. "Let me amend that. I thought Bridget had fallen ill but when I came home early today I discovered her chatting with her friend that it was an act perpetrated to get out of a dinner engagement this weekend."
"Oh. Trouble in paradise, then?"
"No. I haven't let on that I know she's faking." A grin spread across his face as he continued: "So far I've had her put on those horrible flannels from Mother and stay in bed under the extremely warm duvet; drink both foul-tasting herbal tea and plain broth; and threaten her with a rectal temperature reading."
Peter snorted a laugh. "Well, while more accurate, that can be rather unpleasant. How long will this torture act go on?"
"Well," Mark said conspiratorially. "Until she admits she's not sick or she figures out I know, and I have no intention of slipping up that I know."
Peter chuckled again. "You really have changed, Mark. So, what else is in store to try to get the suspect to break?"
"I'm not sure besides more of that disgusting herbal tea. I'm certainly not going to make her take expectorant or have a cool bath. Any suggestions?"
He watched as a devilish grin invaded Peter's mouth. "If you trust me, I'd be willing to make a house call."
Mark raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"I'll come back in the morning with… props." Peter mimed a syringe injection; surely he was thinking of the story Bridget's ordeal post-Thailand, the numerous shots required for her recovery—and her vocal dislike of same.
Mark grinned, feeling slightly more evil than Beelzebub himself. "You're on."
………
"Bridget? I have something for you."
She stirred and opened her eyes, then focused her gaze on him. "Oh?" she asked, her tone hopeful.
"Some soup."
"Oh," she said with far less enthusiasm.
"It's not the plain broth."
"Oh!" She sat up, setting the bear off to the side.
He explained: "I ordered curry for myself, had it delivered. But since you've had no appetite I asked them what would be good to help you get over your illness. They thought a nice bowl of their pepper rasam soup would be perfect. The spicy red pepper is good for the immune system. They recommend you eat the whole thing."
Bridget looked both intrigued and horrified. "It smells rather nice," she admitted, as she took the bowl into her hands and removed the lid from the container container. "If they gave you some naan, I'd like a little. It's nice and plain," she added quickly.
He allowed her half of the piece of naan.
He sat with her and ate his curry while she spooned up the soup. After about three-quarters of the bowl was gone, her enthusiasm for eating it had waned dramatically.
"What is it?" Mark asked, eating more of his curry. He noticed her eyes were profusely watering.
"The spice. It's… been building. I'm not sure I can go on." She set her bowl down into her lap.
"Bridget, for your health it's imperative you finish all of it. You've barely eaten today. Here, have some more naan if it helps cut the spice."
She gratefully took it and shoved a big piece into her mouth, but she did not continue with the soup. He set his own dinner aside.
"Here, give that bowl to me." She handed it to him, and he ladled up a spoonful. "Open your mouth."
"Christ, Mark, not this again," she groaned.
"Do you or don't you want to get well?" he asked, fixing her with a piercing stare.
There was a moment when he thought for certain she would break down and tearily reveal she hadn't been sick at all, but then she swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her mouth to receive the spoon.
She was a tough nut to crack.
………
Bridget had drifted off to sleep again, most certainly a result of post-dinner boredom. Mark decided to head down to refill her orange juice. As he climbed down off of the lowest step, he heard the unmistakable shrill tone of Bridget's mobile. He detoured into the sitting area, picking up her phone to see (via incoming caller display) it was Sharon.
Perfect.
He cleared his throat, flipped open the phone, and said, "Hello, Sharon."
For quite possibly the first time in their acquaintance Sharon did not know what to say. She made a weird sputtering noise then said, "Mark?"
"Sharon," he said. He waited for her to speak.
"Is, um, Bridget around?" she asked at long last.
"She's upstairs."
More silence. Clearly she was gauging his tone, trying to decide what he knew, if anything. "Can I speak with her?"
"She's not available." Surely she would least pretend to remember her own friend had phoned in sick to work.
"Is everything… all right?" she asked tentatively.
"She's sleeping. Sick in bed," he said.
"Oh," she said; he swore he heard her jaw click shut. "Right. Was just hoping she was… feeling better. Tell her I called?"
"Absolutely."
He closed the phone, smirking, and set the mobile back down.
………
After sleeping practically all day, Mark thought Bridget would surely be up all night, but strangely she slept like a rock. It was Mark himself who found himself unable to nod off. He wondered if it was some sort of divine retribution.
As he watched her slumber he was gripped with a sudden sense of guilt for keeping up the pretense of believing she was actually ill, subjecting her to his coddling and keeping her under his very watchful eye. It was fleeting though; he reminded himself that if she had gotten away with it this time, she'd try it again any time she felt like it. As paternal as it sounded, it was best to just teach her a lesson now and nip future thoughts of feigned illness in the bud.
As diabolical as she could be while awake, she did look quite angelic while asleep, and he could not help gazing upon her. He probably could have made excuses to spend the night in a guest room under pretense of keeping away from contagions, but even he was not that cruel, either to her or to himself. He could hardly bear the thought of sleeping apart from her. His continued presence had therefore been explained by wanting to be near should she need anything.
As he watched her turn over, the shaggy teddy bear remained firm in her grip, clutched to her chest as if her very life depended upon it. Idly he wondered if he would forevermore have to share his bed with a stuffed animal. As it stood right now, that appeared to be the case, and he wasn't sure he liked that idea at all.
………
When morning came Mark felt like he'd been hit by a ton of bricks, a very large lorry, or similar. He forced himself out of bed and into the loo for a bracing shower to wake him up. He wasn't sure when his brother would show but he said he'd call or otherwise let Mark know first, and Mark wanted to be ready.
He was slipping into his trousers when his mobile started to vibrate. He glanced to the display and it indicated a text message from his brother. "On way" was all it said. A quick look to Bridget confirmed she was still fast asleep. He slipped downstairs to await his brother's arrival.
Not five minutes later there was a quiet rap at the door. "Not too early, is it?" asked Peter, carrying in a small leather bag undoubtedly filled with medical paraphernalia.
"Not too early for me, but pretty perfect timing for a doctor's house call," Mark said with a grin. "Bridget's still asleep, but I don't mind waking her. She's slept so much it almost seems like she really is sick."
Peter grinned. "Lead on."
The two men trudged up the stairs and quietly entered the master bedroom. She was still asleep, the pale brown fuzzy bear nestled so sweetly under her chin he almost regretted waking her. Even Peter made a sort of mock-cooing sound. "She looks so sweet and innocent," he whispered.
"Don't be fooled," Mark joked in reply, then leaned forward to shake her shoulder. "Bridget. Bridget. Wake up."
She opened her eyes slowly, then blinked the sleep out. "Mark? Why's Peter here?"
Peter spoke up. "Mark was concerned about your being sick, asked me to stop by. Said he took your temperature during the night and you still had a fever."
She looked extremely confused. "He did?"
Mark nodded, immediately confirming the lie. "Twice."
She blinked in disbelief.
"So. I'm here to give you a quick look-over, make sure there's nothing really wrong."
"Ohhhhkay." She looked distinctly nervous, as well she should, being the big faker that she was. "I don't feel quite so cold anymore. Maybe the fever's broken?" she asked, sounding pathetically hopeful.
"That's possible. Let's find out." He reached in for a thermometer, popped it into her mouth, then, in an exact miming of his brother, held up his watch to count the minutes. His face expressed an appropriate amount of worry as he squinted his eyes to focus on the result. "Hm, Bridget, I'm afraid you're not out of the woods yet regarding your fever."
"Oh." Her tone was a mixture of confusion and concern, impressive for one small syllable.
Peter next did his usual examination, checking heartbeat, blood pressure, breathing, ears and nose. At the end he folded up his stethoscope and sighed. "Well. I'm afraid there's no getting around it."
"What?" she asked.
"You have vervalsing flu."
Mark fought the urge to laugh; he had no idea his brother was well-versed enough in the Dutch language to know the word for 'fake'.
"Is that serious?"
Peter looked very grave, nodded his head ever so slightly. "From Mark's description, I had my suspicions. I'm sorry to have been correct. There's only one course of treatment, I'm afraid."
That was when Peter reached down and from out of his bag pulled the largest medical syringe Mark had ever seen. Bridget went absolutely ashen as he pulled the cap off, pointed it to the ceiling, tapped the side and squirted a small amount out to get the air bubbles cleared of the needle. He pulled out an alcohol swab and tore it open.
"Turn over and hitch your drawers down."
There was a moment when she was completely still. Mark didn't even think she dared to draw breath.
All at once he heard it, the distinct sound of the façade cracking:
"Wait."
"What?" asked Peter. "Shot works best in the arse."
She tore her gaze from the giant needle to Peter and then to Mark, swallowing hard. "I'm… I was… faking."
"Faking?"
"I'm not really sick."
Peter was not willing to give up his charade that easily. "Bridget, you most certainly are. Mark, turn her over."
"No, no, I am faking. Mark, it was all a big fib to get out of that bloody dinner party tomorrow night. I'm sorry. Please don't stick me with that needle. Please."
Peter looked from Bridget to Mark. Mark twitched one eyebrow imperceptibly.
In unison they both turned to her and smiled.
"Gotcha," said Mark.
"Wha—" She couldn't even finish her exclamation.
"Got. You," Mark said again, this time enunciating the two words precisely.
Bridget's mouth hung open. "You mean—are you saying—you knew?"
He felt his smile turn smug. "The whole time."
"What? How?"
"I overheard your conversation with Sharon," he said simply.
She narrowed her eyes. "You dirty little eavesdropper!"
"Look at you, calling the kettle black," piped up Peter.
"And you, co-conspirator," continued Bridge, turning to Peter.
"And you," said Mark, mimicking her tone, a grin still firmly in place, "you filthy little liar. What have you to say for yourself?"
"I hate those bloody boring-arse dinner parties. Any jury would side with me," she said defiantly, though he could plainly see contrition on her face.
Peter rose, recapping the syringe and picking up his bag. "She has a point."
"See?" Bridget said, unable to suppress a laugh.
"Peter, your services are no longer needed. I'll call you later. Thank you."
With a bow at the waist, Peter waved then left the room. A few moments later they heard the slam of the front door.
"I can't believe you," said Bridget at last. "Feeding me that horrid tea and vomit-inducing broth… and the mouth-burning Indian soup…"
"And the pyjamas. Don't forget the beribboned pyjamas," he added saucily.
"What if I really were sick? Would you have been that mean to me?"
"As a certain previous bout of illness can attest, I would be as mean as I had to be, and certainly as mean you were when you bought that god-awful tea to begin with."
They gazed upon one another for many moments before he sat beside her on the bed. "You know, it took some serious delegation of my caseload, but I arranged to have the day off just to take care of you." He reached forward and took one of the ribbons between his fingers.
She lightly slapped at his fingers. "I haven't decided if I've forgiven you," she said with a pout.
He snorted a laugh. "Oh, I see, you have to forgive me."
"These pyjamas are horrible, you know."
"True. Very well. I apologise, especially for the horrible pyjamas." He began to finger a ribbon again and this time she did not smack him. "As an aside, I don't suppose you need to keep the flannels on if you're not really sick."
She pursed her lips. "I guess you're right." He reached up and undid the buttons on the pyjama top. She looked at him through her lashes, then sighed. "I should not have tried to fake-sick my way out of Derek's horrible party. I'm sorry."
"Accepted." He pushed her hair back over her shoulders, then followed suit with the pyjama top. "As punishment, you're coming with me."
"Yes. I suppose I must."
"And since I stayed home to take care of you," he continued, moving his hands to cup her face, "I intend on doing that as well."
"Oh, what a thing to suffer," she said, and then he kissed her—but surprisingly, she pulled away. "But I might remind you of another specific condition which precludes that sort of taking care of. Sadly, that bit I wasn't faking."
Mark pulled back, sighing.
"How much longer?"
"Another day or so."
This was an interminable wait in his opinion; it wasn't as if it bothered him overly much to sleep with her during this time, but this month, apparently, she would not be swayed. He would have to content himself with spending the entire day on Friday being cosy but not intimate, which would never be anything he would ever turn down… but what he couldn't have was what he really wanted most.
………
It wasn't until dinner the following night that Mark realised what an evil genius she really was.
She looked absolutely stunning in the dress purchased earlier that week. It was crimson silk with half-sleeves and a demure vee front, fitting her snugly to the hips then flaring prettily down just past her knees. Her hair was upswept with loose tendrils brushing against her neck, and she wore black dress pumps with slightly higher heels than she usually wore, accentuating the curve of her calves even more so than usual.
They arrived in time for pre-dinner drinks, and she was a perfect angel, both in appearance and in behaviour. He was frankly surprised and proud considering the things she'd done to try to avoid coming. Dinner was announced, and Mark was seated across from her at the long, narrow dinner table, not beside her as that would have been improper for a dinner party. She smiled beatifically at him from her side of the table, her face lit by candles as the wine was poured and the first course was served.
He felt the toe of his shoe bumped by something. He heard her apologise from across the table, and he looked up to meet her smiling eyes before she turned them back to her bowl of soup.
As he swallowed a mouthful of wine during a pause in the story he was telling to the woman seated beside him, he felt something brush back over the top of his foot, something that felt suspiciously like stocking toes. His eyes flew to Bridget, who paused in bringing a spoonful to her lips, giving him a querulous look.
"Yes, Mark?"
"Nothing, sorry."
There was no mistaking the hint of a smirk on the corner of her mouth as her eyes returned to look at her bowl.
He had just pulled his own spoon away from his mouth when felt her toes move up along his ankle then rise with maddening slowness up under the cuff of his trouser. He cleared his throat and swallowed hard, smiling somewhat nervously to his neighbours at the table.
"Enjoying that?" asked Bridget innocently.
"No—yes—What?" he stammered.
"The soup, Mark. Do you like it?"
He felt her toes brushing lightly against his shin as she continued to smile at him, her eyes bright, her own spoon poised to deliver another mouthful of soup.
The woman beside him piped up with a declaration of it being the best watercress soup she'd ever had, thereby saving him from having to answer. He would have found it difficult to do so anyhow, particularly as she'd chosen to linger along the side of his calf with her big toe.
Evil genius indeed. He suddenly realised what she had already come to know: that revenge was not best served cold; rather, it was best served during the first course, after a period of enforced celibacy.
Epilogue
"Mark."
"Yes?"
"I need your help."
"What?"
"Tell me I'm not imagining things. Open your newspaper to the classifieds, page twelve, lower right corner."
"Okay, I'm there, what do you—"
Mark stopped short. In letters a half an inch high was an advertisement for "Peter Vervalsing, Medium to the Stars" and below that was the announcement that he was now taking on clients.
Below that was Peter's mobile number.
Mark couldn't help it. He began to laugh.
"What's so funny? I got a call at work from someone begging me to help them find their missing miniature poodle."
"I think Bridget figured out whose idea it was to try to give her a shot."
Silence, then, with the barest hint of a laugh in his voice: "You're paying to have my number changed."
"Fair enough."
The end.
Notes
Bridget's bear is the Hamleys 24" Shaggy Bear. (Go see their website.)
"Vervalsing" is Dutch for "fake" according to Babelfish.