Garden Party
(Or: Sometimes It's Good To Break The Rules)
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 1,840
Rating: M / R
Summary: Filling in the gaps, the ambience, the emotions. Column universe.
Disclaimer: The specific scenario and most of the dialogue is verbatim from the columns, which of course was written by Ms Fielding. The slightly drunk partygoer and the extraneous bits are mine.
Notes: This is based on three individual 1996 columns: 29 May (the call), 5 June (the party, pt 1), and 12 June (the party, pt 2). However, if you haven't read these, it's not really necessary to. You'll get the gist.
(For all of the columns—highly recommended—contact me and I'll get you a link.)
It's funny how much more spontaneous Mark Darcy is in the columns, how much more willing he is to show and express his so-called baser human wants (to wit: "I suppose a fuck would be out of the question?" (24 July 1996)). He's a little bit more restrained in the books, and by the time it gets to the movie, he's positively Fitzwilliam-ish.
Tuesday, 4 June
It feels like it could be the first day of summer due to the sudden upturn in temperature and though he's not usually inclined to go to parties, something compels him to attend. It could be his recent baffling but intriguing encounters (which he suspects were triggered by the best-selling book, The Rules, based on chatter he's heard between women in the office) with a woman he's known for years but only recently became reacquainted with that have set him into a more sociable mood; he hopes against hope that she might be at the party. He's not sure what exactly it is about her that attracts him so; she has habits that normally he'd find abhorrent, she has absolutely no internal editor, and yet… he can't stop thinking about her, about her smile, her eyes, her gorgeous curves. He has frequently imagined those curves bending to the will of his fingers. It drives him to distraction more than he likes to admit.
He dresses casually—casual for him, anyway, leaving his top two shirt buttons undone—and runs his fingers through his hair to give it a bit more of a relaxed look.
He arrives early in the evening; minutes after he enters the house, a drink's pressed into his hand. It's frothy and looks like it has fruit juice in it, and when he drinks it he finds it's delicious and sweet, and hardly tastes alcoholic at all. Which he knows is dangerous. He has a second one.
His eyes flit lightly over the room and that's when he sees her striding in, dressed in a stunning floaty knee-length sun dress, vibrant with colours that set off her shining golden-blonde hair, blue eyes and even the slight browning of her skin. She's a vision of everything lovely and fun as she continues on to engage in small talk with her friends, smiling and bubbling with enthusiasm over some subject he's too far away to have the privilege of hearing. She suddenly looks directly at him, almost like she feels his gaze upon her. He wonders about the intensity of his gaze as he watches her smile slowly fade, watches her expression change as she looks down, then gazes up at him through her lashes, not blinking. It looks almost like she's in a trance state, and it's bloody sexy.
He raises his brows and nods his head towards the patio doors, indicating the garden in the back. Though it's after suppertime, it's still very sunny, the temperature's still a little on the hot side, so most people are staying indoors, but if it's the only place he can see her, talk to her alone, then he'll go there. He starts walking towards the door, watches her to see if she's heading that way too. She is. He reaches the door first, holds it open for her, then walks to a slightly shady spot. When he turns around it's to see her approaching him, her eyes glittering as they meet his again.
He doesn't speak at all, not a word, not because he doesn't want to but because he's overwhelmed with desire for her, with the urge to kiss her, so he reaches up, cups her face in his hand, strokes her cheek with his thumb as he ducks his head down and presses his lips to hers. God, he thinks, a thrill, a shiver, a lightning bolt running down his spine as she returns the kiss, they're as soft as they look. Within moments he wants more, needs more, and covers her mouth with his, pulling her against him around her waist, devouring her with kisses, exploring every bit of her mouth and still feeling like he can't get enough.
They break apart simultaneously, both desperate for air.
"Stop," she gasps.
Something—her breathiness, the heaviness of her lids, the way her moist pink lips are parted—compels him to draw her to him once more. She in no way resists. His hands span her back, rising to touch the bare skin of her shoulders, running his fingers down the thin straps of her dress until they meet her hips. His fingers then slide down over the gently angled slope of her backside just as he moves his lips over her cheek, to her jaw, until he finds her bare lobe and grazes it gently with his teeth.
He knows at once that he has to have more.
"The car's outside," he murmurs hotly into her ear; "See you in five minutes."
He moves his hand to her thigh, pressing her into him.
"But…" she manages, feeling unsteady in his arms.
"It's all right, Bridget," he continues, remembering her bizarre behaviour the previous week when he called her, with the silence on the phone and the timer going off when he rang her back after disconnecting what he thought was a dead line. "You need to read More Advanced Rules: The Rules Volume II, £6.99, Harper Collins."
She asks, her tone sceptical, her voice tremulous, "What does it say?"
He brushes his lips on her cheek again. "It says," he whispers, "if you're young and gorgeous, it's the first day of summer and you've just had the snog of the century, it's absolutely imperative—" He pauses to kiss her cheek. "—to get in his car, go back home with him immediately—" Another light kiss. "—and fall into bed."
She takes in a few deep breaths, releasing the forceful grasp she has on his shirtsleeves. "I… Um… loo." She points to the door back into the house before backing away from him like he might pounce forward and strike again. He realises he probably looks like he might.
She goes back into the house and he stays in the garden, because in a manner of speaking he needs to collect himself. His head is still spinning a little, but it has far more to do with said snog of the century than the two mixed drinks he's had. He hasn't ever wanted a woman so badly, and he's afraid it's skewed his judgement; after all, he practically commanded her to come home with him. She has a power over him that is both exhilarating and terrifying, all the more mysterious and troubling because he just can't quite define it.
He closes his eyes, pinching the corners, trying to will away the thought of her naked and luscious beneath him, because it's not helping his efforts. He turns his thoughts instead to what's taking her so long, if the loo wasn't just an excuse to get away from him, though judging by her eager participation in that kiss, he thinks that unlikely.
Re-entering the house, he scans the crowds looking for her, but doesn't see her. She's not waiting outside, either. He thinks maybe she really is in the loo. He heads towards it, sees the door is closed. He knocks.
He hears her voice; it's much firmer, more combative. "Who is it?"
"What are you doing?" he asks gently, his voice a low growl. "You're not slipping into a little negligee, are you? We've got to drive home in the car."
No response. He's sure she heard him.
"Open the door," he says authoritatively.
The door opens a crack, and he can see one luminous blue eye staring up at him; the half of her lips visible to him are perfect and pouting. He pushes his way into the bathroom and kicks the door closed behind him, his desire overwhelming him anew. "Oh God," he breathes, "you little…" He doesn't finish because his mouth is possessively on hers once more, and she's in his arms again; he's pressing her up against the porcelain sink, growing harder with the friction of their bodies as they move. She's definitely participating willingly, judging by the way she's nipping on his lower lip, the way she threads her fingers into his hair, the soft inarticulate sounds emanating from her as they kiss.
In short order he moves to focus attention on her throat, loves the feel of her pulse against his lips. He's got her pinned against the sink, one of her legs on either side of his. He runs his hands down over her thighs, feels the hem of her dress under his fingertips. The skin of her legs is smooth and his fingers slide easily on it as they raise the hem up.
"No," he hears, feels her say, and not very convincingly, "no, it is too soon."
Into her ear he asks, pausing his ministrations, "What?"
"It is too forward," she says feebly.
He chuckles low in his throat. "Bridget," he begins, pulling away to look at her; she's ravishing, radiant, glowing; "I first saw you naked in a paddling pool when you were three."
He watches as a scarlet stain floods her cheeks. It's beautiful; he can't remember the last time he saw a girl really blush. His blunt fingernails rake higher and her lids flutter closed. He moves to kiss her again but hesitates as reason finally kicks in. This is no way to treat a lady, he thinks, especially one who seems so uncertain. He smoothes down her dress, takes a step back. She looks up at him.
He opens his mouth to say something, but the moment's shattered by a loud pound on the door. "Open up, fer Chrissake," comes a slurred female voice. "Gotta piss like a fuckin' racehorse."
Bridget's still heaving for air. He is too.
"Offer still stands."
She swallows hard. Her voice cracks when she speaks. "How—how about…"
The drunk woman shouts outside the door: "Come the fuck on!"
"…dinner?" she finishes meekly, bringing a trembling hand up to rub her thumb along her lower lip. "Sometime?" she adds uncertainly; "Friday?"
He'll take whatever she's offering. He nods.
As if snapping out of a dream Bridget moves away from him and heads for the door, glancing back to him for a moment before heading out. As the drunk woman dashes in, he leans on the sink to let her by then turns on the cold tap and splashes water on his face. The drunk's practically got her shorts down over her hips, screaming at him to leave before he gets a chance to actually do so.
He hardly feels presentable enough to appear in public, but he has to find her, hopes that maybe she's waiting to see him again in the party, or maybe even by his car, but she's not. She's surrounded herself with her girlfriends and is pointedly not looking in the direction of the loo, where he is. He, however, cannot stop looking at her, imagining how she'd look without that dress on, how she'd react to the touch of his hand on her breast, how she'd moan when he—
He decides he can no longer stand being there at the party, having her there within sight, within reach, and not being able to touch her, kiss her again. He leaves. He hasn't given up all hope, though.
Anything—anyone—worth having is worth waiting for.
The end.