The Language of Roses
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 8,722
Rating: M / R (Adult situations, language)
Summary: What if Bridget had phoned ahead?
Disclaimer: Never claimed this was my universe. Think of it as a parallel one.
Notes: It's been a while since I posted something here, because I've had some real life stresses, then wrote... some things not appropriate for fanfic dot net.
Oh, God. I realized only after the fact that certain portions of this story were Abba-inspired. Damn you, mind virus. Also, let me just stress in advance: lots of wine. That is all.
Worst day ever.
En route from Grafton Underwood, Bridget Jones pushed aside the bunny headband and pressed her mobile phone to her ear. Feeling on the verge of tears, all she wanted to hear was a friendly voice; she would have preferred more, but she knew Daniel Cleaver was so up to his neck in preparing for a meeting the next day that seeing him was unlikely—though if he suggested it, she'd ask the driver to reroute to his flat in a heartbeat.
"Yes, Jones? Having fun teasing your pervy old uncle?" Caller identification, no doubt. He sounded tired.
"On my way back to town, actually," she said, reclining back into the seat, looking earnestly out of the window. "Couldn't bear it any longer."
There was a beat before he asked, "Back already?"
"Yeah," she sighed. "They changed it last minute from fancy dress to Country Casuals. I felt stupid."
"But you looked sexy as hell," he purred. "Probably gave those geezers heart palpitations."
She chuckled under her breath. He always knew how to make her smile. "And then on top of that, bloody Mark Darcy was there, staring at me like I was an escaped mental patient."
"Did you talk to him?" Daniel asked. He sounded concerned. "Did he bother you?"
"Barely. His only interaction with me was to slag you off."
Silence again. "Sorry," he said. "Trying to do too much at once. What was that?"
"I said he only tried badmouthing you to me and Una Alconbury."
"What did he say?" Daniel asked.
"Only that you weren't good enough for me."
He chuckled. "Yes, well, he would say that, wouldn't he?"
"That's exactly what I said to him."
She could still hear the smile on his face as he replied, "That's my girl."
"Can I come over? Please?"
He didn't answer right away. "I wish I could say yes, Jones, but you're a terrible influence on my productivity. Go have a lovely aromatherapy bath or something and I'll take a break, come by later for a little while and make up for your rotten day, okay?"
She smiled, thankful for this light at the end of the tunnel, at least. "Okay."
"And I want that bunny outfit at the ready. Understood?"
"Yes, sir," she said obediently, still grinning. "Bye."
She folded her phone closed and rested her head back, impeded by the bunny ears. Annoyed, she tore them off of her head and threw the ears to the floorboards. She then laid back, closed her eyes, resolving to nap for the rest of the ride back to London.
He was as good as his word and then some.
………
Monday being Monday, it wasn't a pleasant day, made even less pleasant by the arrival of stick insect extraordinaire Lara Connelly from the New York office. Bridget had been anticipating her arrival, had known she and Daniel had been working on some sort of project or presentation together, but had never expected tall, thin, raven-haired and drop-dead gorgeous. More than once Bridget would feel the woman's eyes upon her; Bridget would look directly at her, and Lara would quickly look away. This made her intensely curious and a little uneasy.
She messaged Daniel over IM while he was in his glass-walled office typing at his computer; Lara was in the office too, sitting across the desk from him, apparently dictating to him from the papers on her lap.
Why does she keep staring at me? typed Bridget.
Who? came the reply.
Who do you think? All day long she looks away when I catch her looking at me.
There was a pause during which he was apparently typing in another window.
Well, he responded at last, I've told her a lot about you, about how valuable you are to this company.
She chuckled. You're lying.
Daniel glanced up, his best innocent look firmly in place.
Am not. She probably wishes she could whisk you away to New York.
Liar! she replied, adding a smiley afterwards.
True fact: NY's staffed with a dozen cows, all with big hair, annoying nasal voices and Mafia-style accents. Whereas all I need is you, and you're far sexier to boot.
She looked up again to him in a very flirty way. She loved how playful he was. When can I whisk you away and out of here? She had hit enter and was about to add Am feeling v. v. horny when Lara stood unexpectedly and started to circle around to where Daniel sat; just as suddenly Daniel's status went to 'offline' as he did a quick keyboard command to quit the messaging program.
She smirked. Well, she couldn't very well get him in trouble, professionally.
………
Summer quickly passed into autumn, then suddenly it was November; birthday number thirty-three was taunting her from the horizon, and American Stick Insect Lara didn't seem inclined to head back to New York anytime soon.
From her position on her unkempt bed, Bridget asked once again about Lara's continued presence at the company as Daniel was digging through the pile of clothes looking for his ringing mobile. Daniel had declared that his flat was off-limits for staying over since he associated being there with work and stress, while her flat was all that was warm and cosy. She thought it was a little strange, but she didn't mind. "I told you, she's not leaving until she's satisfied we as a branch can keep our head above water," he said, locating it at last.
"But you seem to spend a lot of time with her," said Bridget with a pout.
He was staring at the incoming caller display. "It's Lara. Have to take it."
The conversation was brief but the look on his face was a portent of bad news.
"Have to go. Surprise telephone conference meeting with New York."
"But it's nearly suppertime," she said. "And it's Sunday."
"And they're in the city that never sleeps, five hours earlier." He gathered up his clothing, slipped into his trousers and shirt, then bent down to kiss her at length. "Don't wait up for me."
"Daniel," she pleaded as he reached the door. "Are you getting tired of me?"
"Never," he said without hesitation, turning back to her. He then added after a beat, "You don't think she and I—?"
"No," said Bridget, too quickly and defensively. "I mean, of course not. I trust you."
He looked at her like he was mulling over a very important decision, then sat on the side of the bed again, taking her hand, looking deeply into her eyes. "I have something I need to share with you."
"All right," said Bridget, her voice tentative.
"It's about Lara."
She raised an eyebrow, her heart pounding, fearing the next words from his mouth would be I can't keep it from you any longer—we've been sleeping together this entire time.
Daniel continued, "She doesn't want anyone to know but… well, I have set your mind at ease."
"Tell me what?"
Daniel looked very thoughtful. "When she first got here, when you noticed her looking at you, and I joked about her wanting to whisk you off to New York, well… I don't want it to make you uncomfortable, but I think she might have found you… well, you know." He waggled his eyebrows.
Bridget blinked. "Are you saying she's a lesbian?"
Daniel pursed his lips. "You didn't hear it from me."
"Oh," she said, stunned. "Really?"
Daniel shrugged in an affirmative sort of way.
She didn't feel uncomfortable at all; rather, she felt relieved. After all, there was no need to be jealous about Daniel spending extended hours in the company of a woman who was impervious to his charms. "Oh," she said again, slowly smiling, then reaching to squeeze his knee. "Wish you didn't have to leave."
He bent to nuzzle into her neck. "Wish I didn't, either," he said throatily. "But alas, duty calls." He drew away and smiled. "Why don't you call your friends and have a girl's night out?"
She remembered the invitation she'd declined for one of Magda's Smug Married dinner parties that evening, but decided not to last-minute accept after all; she didn't think spending the company in a bunch of boring married couples would do anything but remind her of how much she wished Daniel were there to add some life to the party. She smirked, thinking how efficiently Daniel would be able to skewer that mental midget Cosmo.
"Shazzer and Jude it is."
………
"You can't. It's my birthday a week Thursday."
Daniel stared at her with desperate eyes. "I'm sorry, Bridge. I can't get out of it. I'll be back the next night, I swear."
"Do they really need you in New York?" It was not the sort of thing any girl wants sprung upon her just after dinner: to find out her boyfriend has to suddenly leave that evening for New York. Especially not with the impending doom of her birthday, already traumatic enough having a first digit of three.
"As the editor-in-chief of Pemberley Press London, yes, I really need to be at the shareholders' meeting to plead our case, our future." He strode across the kitchen and took her hands in his own. "If I could bring you with me even just to keep me sane—but someone has to keep an eye on Perpetua and hold down the fort while I'm gone."
She fought a smile. "Can you at least bring me a souvenir?"
"One tacky plastic Statue of Liberty coming your way." His grin was gorgeous and devilish; God, she hated to admit it, but she loved him, and was sure he loved her too.
"At least call me?" she asked, trying not to sound too pathetic.
"Any spare moment I have will be spent trying to work out how to dial your number from the conference room telephone." He pulled her to him and kissed her. "I wish I could stay for a quick little goodbye shag but I have to get back to my flat, get my things and get to Heathrow." He took a moment to look at her appreciatively. "I'm going to miss you and your perpetually starving skirts, you know."
She chuckled. "They will miss you too."
………
The plan on her birthday originally was to make a big dinner for her friends and Daniel—tuna steaks, caper berry gravy, orange parfait in sugar cages; in short, the works—but with Daniel's departure and his apparent inability to find a spare moment or to figure out how to dial a telephone in New York, she didn't have the mental bandwidth to plan to shop let alone cook for a dinner party.
"What do you say about going to a club, instead?" asked Tom via the telephone, when she'd called to ask for his advice. "Pretend like you're a Singleton on the prowl, on the hunt for some sexy boytoy, and when you find one, flirt outrageously with him all night long," he explained dramatically. "Then when you tell Daniel all about it, he'll go wild with jealousy, and shag you like mad… that is, if he hasn't already converted that so-called lesbian—"
"Shut up, Tom," she interrupted, momentarily hating him for giving voice to her fears. However, she trusted Daniel, she had to trust him, and the idea of driving him a little crazed with jealousy was all too appealing. Maybe this would even prompt him to finally say the L word. "When and where?"
"Eight o'clock, 192."
"But oh, it's a work day tomorrow."
Tom made a dismissive sound. "Fuck it, I say. Call in sick. It's your goddamned birthday, for Christ's sake."
She grinned, moved her mobile to her other ear. "You're on."
She found her sexiest jeans—the form-fitting, black Agnes Bs that made it hard to breathe—and pulled out of the back of her closet a black silk top with spaghetti straps and rhinestones delicately placed along the deep V collar. She did her hair up into an intentionally sloppy mess of loose curls, then artfully applied deep grey shadow in the hollow of her eyelids before drawing a fine line of black eyeliner along the base of her upper lashes. After the finishing touches—slipping into her kitten-heeled pumps, dabbing a little Obsession into her pulse points and slinging a small silver handbag over her shoulder—she smiled at herself in the mirror; she had to admit, she looked pretty damned hot.
Daniel, you don't know what you're missing, Bridget thought impishly.
The taxi came for her at eight and she was deposited onto the walk in front of 192 by twenty after. She found Shaz, Jude and Tom already at the bar, a glass of Chardonnay sitting there waiting for her.
"It's my birthday and I can be fashionably late if I like," she said hoity-toitily before anyone could comment, her chin in the air with mock arrogance.
"Actually, we just got here too," said Jude, her glass in hand.
"Bridge, you look fabulous."
Bridget beamed a smile. "Why thank you, Tom, though it's hardly your eye I want to catch."
"A toast!" said Shaz. "Men may come and men may go but the urban family shall never be…" She flagged a little at the end.
"Dysfunctional?" piped in Jude.
"Why the fuck not!"
They each raised their glasses, clinked the edges, then drank.
For a Thursday night, the place was pretty packed. Before she knew it she'd gotten almost half a bottle of wine down her, was pleasantly buzzed, but had not yet found a man to flirt with.
Until she suddenly did.
She only saw him from the back at first—a little out of place wearing a dress shirt in a place like this, but he had a killer bottom that she couldn't tear her eyes from. When he turned and locked his gaze on her, she felt her mouth go slightly agape.
It was bloody Mark Darcy!
He blinked in obvious disbelief. She frankly couldn't believe her eyes, and just stupidly stood there as he came nearer to her, his features—handsomer than she recalled—sharpening into focus in the dim of the nightclub. His dress shirt was jauntily unbuttoned at the collar, and her attention fixed on his throat. All she could think was how this was worlds away from the horrid Christmastime jumper.
"Bridget Jones?" he said, his expression slightly incredulous.
"Mark Darcy," she said, her voice laden with amusement as she looked up at him, even with her heels on. Taller than she recalled, too. "What brings you out to a place like this on a weeknight?"
He didn't respond, only kept his unblinking gaze on her, until he finally asked, "I'm sorry, what?"
It was pretty hard to hear for the noise of the crowd and the music. "I said what brings you—oh, never mind. What are you drinking?"
"Oh, uh," he said, looking to the glass in his hand. "Merlot."
"Have another, and buy me one. It's my birthday and this is my olive branch."
He seemed perplexed at her friendliness—it was true, their last encounter at the Alconburys was less than amicable, but what better candidate to choose for her night of shameless flirting, complete with contentious Daniel-related history? It also didn't hurt that he cut a striking figure in his own way; it didn't escape her attention that other women were looking at him the way he was looking at her.
"I'm not sure I should—"
"Bollocks," she interrupted. "The birthday girl always gets her way. You're having a drink with me."
She couldn't tell if he looked trapped or intrigued. "So what's in your glass?"
"Chardonnay," she said, then took in the last of her wine. She set the empty on a free table at the edge of the crowd before taking a perch in the chair, and added, "Or at least there was. I'll wait here."
"All right." He strode away, weaving through the crowd toward the bar, and all she could think of was how wrong, wrong, wrong it was to be staring at his arse like she was as he walked away.
"Oh, Bridge, well done," said Shaz, appearing out of nowhere with a frilly mixed drink. "That is one sexy man."
She giggled, swooning in her seat a bit. "Used to play together as children."
"You're kidding. Who is he?"
She told her. Shaz' mouth hung open.
"You're fucking putting me on. I thought you said Mark Darcy was a dorky nerd."
"Well, he was…" She trailed off, thinking how dreadfully mistaken she'd been; her eyes were still on him, watching the stark light from overhead play across his face, his body as he moved. She saw him turning away from the bar, a glass of wine in each hand. "Now go on," Bridget hissed; "leave me to my bit of fun."
Shaz saluted her. "Bit of my own I'm working on. Happy Fucking Birthday!" she added before staggering off.
"Here you are," he said as he handed her the pale wine by the stem of the glass, inadvertently brushing his fingers along hers, causing him to slosh her wine a bit in the transfer. "Sorry."
"Oh, s'okay," she said, transferring the glass to her other hand, then licking her fingers clean of the wine. His eyes never left her hands, her chest for a moment. She giggled. "What? Did I spill it down my front too?"
He met her eyes. "Not at all." She couldn't quite discern his tone: polite and aloof, or embarrassed because he'd been looking pointedly down her front. He raised his glass, toasted her a happy birthday; after touching his glass to hers, he took in a rather long draw of red wine. He then said, "I have a confession to make."
"Ooo." She raised an eyebrow. "What dark and dirty secret does top human rights barrister Mark Darcy have?" she asked playfully, her tongue feeling thick in her mouth.
There was a hint of a grin playing on his lips as he fleetingly glanced from her face to the V of her top again. "Won a very big case today, so met my clients for celebratory drinks. Decided to stay and revel in getting out of a rather intractable entanglement. A bit of a dual victory, I guess. So I don't quite have my faculties about me."
"Nothing wrong with that once in a while. I'm pretty squiffy, too," she offered, cocking her head, feeling the effects of her Chardonnay multiplying as she took more in. "Besides, letting your hair down really suits you."
He smiled fully at long last, and God, it was a killer smile, with the way his cheeks dimpled, the shy way he looked down to his glass. "I'm glad for the olive branch. Huge weight off my shoulders, regarding New Year's Day. This feels—" He stopped short, looking at her. "Sorry."
"Sorry for what?"
He continued only because of her own penetrating gaze. "I don't want to say something that screws everything up again."
"You have to tell the truth on birthdays," she advised as solemnly as she could with a grin on her face, pointing at him with her free hand, touching him on the chest like she had at the Turkey Curry buffet, wobbling on her stool a bit.
"I thought that was Christmas," he said.
"Especially Christmas. After all, Christmas is the big-deal birthday, when you think about it."
He chuckled then knocked back the last of his wine. "This feels like a second chance, like fortune—" He stopped, then continued, "and you look absolutely bloody amazing." He set his glass down. "I don't know if you've noticed but I just can't stop looking at you."
"Chuh," she said; she suspected the sudden heat on her cheeks had little to do with alcohol. "You're just drunk."
He looked very thoughtful. "That may be true, but you're still stunning regardless."
"You're not just drunk, you're hammered," she teased, "your vision clearly impair—"
She felt his hand on her upper arm, stopping her short in speaking. "Dance with me." It wasn't a request so much as a quiet command.
"You don't really dance with someone to this music," she said, even as she hopped down from the stool.
"Humour me," he said, slipping his fingers down along her arm to take her hand. Her protest died in her throat. Who was flirting shamelessly with whom, here?
He led her away from the table and to the edge of the dance floor, then turned to face her. It was a throbbing, pulsing dance beat, but he simply raised her hand up, cradling it in his own, and held it at her shoulder height, drawn in close to him. He then placed his free hand on her waist as if they were about to embark on a slow dance; accordingly, she rested her left hand on his upper arm. He then began to move, leading her in a dance of sorts, swaying and turning her in very small circles while a crush of bodies danced in a frenzy around them.
He leaned in close to her ear, as if he were going to say something to her. He did. "I'm not a very good dancer."
She raised her chin to better aim her words at his own ear. "If you dance like this to a song like this one, then no, you're not," she said with a giggle.
He didn't draw back, but he didn't say anything, either, and she soon discovered what his real reason for bringing her to the dance floor was as she felt his lips touch her cheek near her ear in a very delicate kiss. Warning bells went off in her head: Danger. Danger. "I didn't really want to dance anyway," he said softly, close enough for her to be able to hear even over the music. "It was just an excuse."
"An excuse?" she echoed.
"Mm," he said, kissing her again at the hairline. "If I have to tell the truth, you must know how very attracted I am to you."
He released her right hand, the one he was holding up against his chest; she then felt his insistent fingers on both sides of her waist, pulling her up against him. Her own hands rested on his arms, on the fine cotton of his shirt; she felt his hot breath against her ear as he resumed the kisses along her cheek and on the bare lobe of her ear.
Damn her for being too weak (and drunk) to not have seen such an obvious attempt at seduction coming. She hated to admit she was suddenly and overwhelmingly attracted to him given her current attachment (and his history with said current attachment), but there it was, against her better judgment (which was, to be fair, quite diminished at present), and he wasn't doing anything to dissuade it. He didn't say a thing more just then, only continued with those teasing kisses. Her eyes felt cursed to close and she tightened her hands on his shoulders, her nails digging into the fabric, her brain shouting STOP STOP STOP like some incapacitated prisoner inside her head.
She thought this torture might never cease, but then it did, and she was thankful that perhaps he'd read her mind, knew this was not wise to continue—until he reared back to claim her mouth with a passion she never would have expected from him. Quite bluntly, he was a fucking exquisite kisser despite thoughts of TRAITOR, CHEATER, HYPOCRITE circling in her head, and she could tell the kiss was having much the same effect on him as it was having on her. An Oh escaped into his mouth as his hands roamed over her shoulders, her back, as his fingers went down and over the very tight denim of her jeans to the fold at the curve of her arse.
At last he broke away, his mouth close to her ear again, his voice throaty as he said, "Let me take you home."
Her head was swirling. I can't; I'm with someone, even if he has been kind of a shit, hasn't called from New York even though he's been there nearly a week and a half…. She was sure she said these things. She meant to say these things. He even seemed to have accepted these things, fetching them each both another glass of wine. Relief. After those were dispatched, though, he put his arm around her shoulders again, pressing a kiss into the hair at her temple, making her wonder what she'd said at all, if anything; it was as if someone else had commandeered her body, her sense, her will.
"I'll get a taxi," he said.
Good idea, she thought. Should go home, should forget Tom ever had idea of drinking and flirting shamelessly with another man.
It was all a blur from there.
………
Oh fuck.
Ohfuckohfuckohfuck.
This was the first thing she thought upon opening her eyes, upon gazing at the expanse of well-muscled, lean, nude masculine body lying in the bed next to her. It was early Friday morning and she had obviously spent the night shagging a man who wasn't her current boyfriend. In light of the situation, it was a quite a reasonable thing to have looping in her head.
Too afraid just yet to sit up for fear of hangover headache causing her to cry out in pain, Bridget ran her fingers over her eyelids, digging them into the corners of her eyes, planning her next move. Obviously, she had to wake Mark Darcy up, try to explain and apologise for the mistake she'd made last night and then get him out of there; only then could she decide if she was too sick to her stomach (literally and figuratively) to go into work.
True, Daniel wouldn't be in the office, wouldn't be back until tonight, but she'd have to own up to her infidelity eventually. It tore her up inside to think she'd had a part in causing history to repeat itself. Was it some kind of weird fetish of Mark's, to pursue and bed the women Daniel was seeing?
Well done, Bridge, she thought. Fucked it up again.
He stirred, turning over to face her. Out of the corner of her eye she could see he was now awake and very obviously smiling as he regarded her. "Good morning," he said in a soft, sleep-scratchy voice.
"Is it?" she asked, her own voice breaking as she turned to look at him; damn, he looked gorgeous and scruffy. "Is it?" she asked again, just shy of hysterical.
His smile went flat; his brows drew together. "What's wrong?"
"Where do I start?" she said, feeling tears welling in her eyes despite her efforts to hold herself together.
"We were drunk but it was still—"
"This isn't about that," she snapped, cutting him off as she sat up, drawing the blanket up to her chest. "Well, it is, but—oh, fucking hell." She let out an exasperated breath. "How could you, Mark?"
He looked completely bewildered. "I don't understand," he said quietly.
"You knew about my relationship with Daniel, and yet you—"
"Daniel?" he asked; she swore he went pale. "You're seeing—you're still seeing Daniel? I thought—I'd heard—Oh, Christ." He sat up too now, running his fingers through his hair, pulling the sheet over his own lap. "But you were coming on so strongly last night—brought me back here willingly—"
"Do you do this often?" she said angrily.
"If you mean…." He paused, then said bitterly, "One night stands, no. Never."
"I mean sleeping with Daniel's girlfriends," she said. "Is it a habit?"
"What is that supposed to mean?"
"Like you don't know."
"I don't," he said. "Unless you're… somehow… referring to Daniel sleeping with my wife."
She sat there, staring at him in stunned silence, until she finally asked in a low, toneless voice, "What are you talking about?"
"The reason I'm divorced. Daniel and my wife. I caught them having sex," he said matter-of-factly. She felt the bottom drop out of her stomach. "Did he tell you it was the other way around?"
Her head was spinning. Couldn't be true. Couldn't be. "I—"
Just when she thought things couldn't get any worse, she heard footsteps in the hallway just outside the bedroom door, heard a voice say, "Jones, I bet you weren't expecting me yet—"
As he said it, Daniel had no idea how accurate his statement would prove to be.
The look of shock on his face as he swung wide the door was beyond anything she had ever seen, the way it went white then red as his anger built. "What the fuck, Bridge?" he stammered. "What the fuck? You and Darce? After what he—" he began, then quickly altered his phrasing, darting a glance to Mark: "After our history together? I can't believe you'd do this to me!"
A jolt of adrenaline raced through her at his self-correction. Daniel actually lied about the reason for his strained friendship with Mark? Her world was utterly falling down around her.
Bridget stared at Daniel in disbelief, then turned to Mark. "So is this about revenge?"
"What?"
"Getting back at Daniel for sleeping with your wife? How lucky for you he should show up now!" she said sarcastically.
"What? No!" said Mark adamantly. "I thought—"
"And Daniel," she said, cutting him off, "why did you lie about sleeping with his wife? What else did you lie to me about?" A horror washed over her as she thought about all of those days and evenings he spent with the stick insect, a trip to New York with her; how Tom's teasing, how the niggling voice in her head might have been spot on. "What else are you lying to me about? Lara?"
The rapid, unconscious way he blinked gave her all the answer she needed.
"Right. Both of you out. Now."
Mark said nothing, just sat there looking stunned as he cast his gaze downward. Daniel stared daggers at him before turning back to Bridget.
"Bridge, we can work it out," pleaded Daniel. "I might have had a slip in judgement, same as you—"
"Now." Tugging the blanket off of the bed, she stood and wrapped it around herself with as much dignity as she could muster. "When I come out of the loo, you'd better both be gone. And Daniel, leave the key. I don't want to see you again." She stormed out of the bedroom, slammed the bathroom door shut behind herself, sank to sit on the closed toilet lid, and tried with all her might to sob as quietly as she possibly could.
She heard the sound of something metallic hitting the bathroom door, then heard the flat door slam moments later.
After having a shower (and standing far too long under the stream of hot water in a futile effort to wash away the memories of the previous twenty-four hours), she emerged from the bathroom to find they had obeyed her wish, and that the item striking the door had in fact been her key. She picked it up off the floor. Upon entering her bedroom, though, she took one look at the bed and started to sob again.
Bloody Mark Darcy had taken the time to make the bed.
Fucking bastards! Why did she let men get to her so badly?
………
An emergency summit meeting was called for immediately: Tom brought the wine; Shaz, the pizzas; and Jude, the chocolate. All in copious amounts.
"It's like a fucking soap opera, Bridget. I mean, wow." Shaz.
"I can't believe you brought him home!" marvelled Jude.
"Was he any good?" Tom dared to ask. Shaz kicked him in the shin.
"Thank you," Bridget burbled.
"So let me understand," asked Jude, slightly tipsy from the wine. "Daniel was shagging Lara this whole time, and had shagged Mark Darcy's wife? And Mark was getting revenge on Daniel by sleeping with you?"
"That's about the long and short of it," said Bridget with a sigh. "Except—"
"Spit it out. 'Except' what?"
"Except for me. I'm not innocent in this. I cheated on Daniel, so how am I any better than he is? And cheated with a man who was just using me for his own ends." She looked up at Shaz again. "It is a fucking soap opera."
"Bwa," said Jude. "You're miles ahead of Daniel Cleaver, that fuckwit. You didn't artfully string Daniel along for months, see Mark on the side and blatantly lie about it, did you?"
"Well, no." She sighed. "Despite what Daniel did to me, I still feel terrible about this."
"Even though he likely as not left here and went straight for his little praying mantis," said Tom, not very helpfully. Shaz kicked him again; Tom gave her a wounded look. "I'm probably right!"
"You probably are," Bridget said quietly, thinking of the proclamation he'd made that his flat was off-limits to her to keep him sane. More like, to keep up the deception.
"My point is," said Jude, "he doesn't feel bad about it and you do, even though his bastard fuckwittage lying was intentional and your… moment of weakness was not. Miles ahead."
Shaz and Tom nodded.
"I'm going to die alone, found three weeks later half-eaten by Alsa—" she began morosely before being interrupted by a chorus of voices.
"Hush your mouth. You will not."
"You have us."
"Have more wine."
………
The friends had helped immensely. They'd made a big show of ritualistically washing the bed sheets in her baffling washer/dryer unit—to cleanse out the bad shag vibes, proclaimed Shaz and Jude in unison—then had made up the bed for her all over again.
"Do you have sage?" Jude had asked.
"The spice?" Shaz had retorted.
"What are you gonna do, sprinkle it on the floor around the bed?" Tom had snorted a laugh.
"No, you morons," Jude had said with annoyance. "A stick of sage. To smudge with."
"I don't," Bridget had to admit.
After further discussion of incense and candles, they'd decided that the wash and dry was probably enough. By the time the night was over the four of them had had all of the wine, all of the pizza and most of the chocolate.
But now they'd gone, she was alone and it was time to retire to that empty, purified bed. She had the weekend stretched ahead of her to nurse her wounds, and also had to consider what she'd do for her career prospects, because she couldn't obviously continue working with Daniel every day. She finally fell asleep after staring at her dusky ceiling for more hours than she liked to think about.
When she woke on Saturday it was to the sound of her entryphone buzzing.
"Yes?"
"Delivery for Miss Jones."
She narrowed her eyes. She didn't recognise the voice. "Delivery?"
"Yes, miss. Flowers."
She had mixed feelings about accepting flowers, especially flowers from Daniel, but decided she shouldn't leave the delivery man hanging. "Come on up."
It was, to her surprise, three roses: one of pristine white, one pink, and one in deep burgundy.
"Three?"
The delivery man shrugged. "I only deliver the flowers. I don't ask questions."
She accepted the bundle and quietly thanked the delivery man, as she closed the door and returned up the stairs into her flat. They were accompanied by a small sealed card.
Bridget,
They don't exactly have olive branches for delivery, or I would have sent one. Please accept these instead.
I just want you to believe me when I say I truly thought you and Daniel had split up.
I'm sorry to have caused you pain.
Mark
What an odd choice of peace offering!
She immediately hopped on the phone and called Jude.
"What a weird thing to send!" declared Jude. "Just three roses?"
"Uh huh."
"And they're each a different colour?"
"Yep."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" asked Jude.
"I thought you might know of any of us," said Bridget, defeated. "Who knows if it signifies anything at all?" She sighed, looking to them again, thinking she should at least put them in water. "Maybe Shaz will know."
"Maybe." Jude paused. "You're sure they're from Mark?"
"Yep."
"Not the man who was your duplicitous, cheating boyfriend."
"Mark signed it."
"Weird. Well, let me know. Bye."
She took a moment to fill an old, rinsed-out wine bottle with some water and stood the roses up in it. She reached for the phone again to call Shaz when the phone rang of its own accord.
She brought the receiver up to her ear. "Shaz?"
"Darling, is that how you answer a phone, with nonsense words?" It was her mother.
"I'm sorry, Mum. I've had a bad run of days."
"Didn't have a happy birthday?"
She laughed bitterly. "Not really, no."
"I'm so sorry Daddy and I couldn't come up for it. I hope your dinner went well. I'm sure the tuna steaks were—" Bridget hardly heard the rest, for her thoughts went instantly back to Thursday night, how she wished she'd just ordered pizza and rented some DVDs instead of going to 192. Then again, if she had stayed at home, Daniel's own infidelity would not have come to light, and as much as she felt like an imbecile for not having seen it before, she was glad to have learned sooner rather than later. "—if you were free to meet me at Debenham's for lunch, but… darling, are you crying?"
Bridget blinked the tears from her eyes, honestly hadn't realised she had started to cry. "I'm okay, really."
"Don't lie to me," she said in a maternal, comforting-yet-threatening sort of way. "You can tell your mummy what's the matter."
She held the receiver with both hands, took in a deep breath to reassure herself before continuing, deciding in an instant not to go into full detail. "Daniel and I have split up."
"Split up?" Pam echoed. "Again? You didn't tell me you'd gotten back together."
"What? What do you mean 'again'?"
"Well, darling, I could have sworn you told me week before last you'd ditched him after he'd stood you up at Una Alconbury's dreadful summer fete," said Pam. "Well, do I ever feel like a silly-willy now—I told Una, as well as Mavis Enderbury, Elaine Darcy, Penny—"
Oh God, thought Bridget as her mother rattled a litany of names off. As eager as the hens had been to set Bridget up with Mark last New Year's, Elaine Darcy naturally would have mentioned it to her son, Mark. He really did think we'd split.
"Mum," she interrupted, her eyes darting to the flowers. "What do you know about roses?"
"What? Roses? What does that have to do with anything?"
"Well, I received three roses earlier and I don't know what to make of it."
"Only three? From whom?"
"They—" She decided to fib a bit. "—came without a card."
"From Daniel, I'm sure. Wanting you back."
She glanced to her answerphone. Curiously free of apologetic messages. Bastard.
"Oh, what colour are they?" asked her mother. "Used to be that each colour had a different and special meaning, you know."
Bridget perked up. "Really?"
"Yes, a language of sorts, for passing secret messages during Victorian times."
Secret messages? "One's white, one's pink, one's burgundy," offered Bridget.
"Sounds lovely. I'm sure it's a coded apology. Why don't you go look it up at the library?"
I'll go you one better, she thought. "I will, right away, so I'll—have to miss Debenham's."
"That's okay, darling. You'll be all right?" asked Pam.
"I'll be fine. Bye." She hung up, then headed to her computer. Bringing up a web browser, she did a search on 'rose colours'. She was, yet wasn't, surprised at what the roses were saying.
The pink: Please believe me.
The white: I'm worthy of you.
Some of the other possible meanings for pink and white she didn't think applied, but she wondered all the same: you're heavenly; my feelings are gentle and true…
However, there was pretty much universally only one meaning for the burgundy: You are so beautiful… and you don't even know it.
She didn't know what to think. It wasn't as if they'd spent any significant time together prior to the night in the bar: the Turkey Curry fiasco, the Kafka's Motorbike book launch, the hotel at which she and Daniel were having their minibreak (Bastard probably wasn't working at all!), and then the party at the Alconburys—all moments of time at best—and then nothing. He certainly wasn't attracted to her based on the soused woman he'd unexpectedly run into at 192, so what was it, exactly, he was attracted to?
She didn't know what to think at all.
………
"So what are you going to do?"
Bridget sipped on a bloody Mary, across the table from Shaz and Jude, typical Saturday night behaviour. She sighed heavily. "I feel like a fool."
"Ball's kind of in your court," said Shaz. "What are you gonna do?"
She shrugged. "I don't know."
"Do you like him?"
"I can't deny there was an attraction that night—" She stopped, thinking traitorously about how nicely he kissed. "Actually, the first time I saw him I thought he had a nice bottom, but the jumper, good God."
Jude laughed.
"But—?" prompted Shaz.
"But I just… don't know him very well. Apart from being some sort of big name lawyer, the one other thing I thought I knew about him wasn't even true."
"Sleeping with Daniel's—" Shaz snorted. "—'fiancée'."
"Bridge, remember, he's got your mother's ringing endorsement. That can't be good," said Jude.
"Normally I'd agree, but…" Bridget sighed. "He was really nice to me, bought me drinks, called me 'stunning'—"
"Men will say a lot of things to get a woman into bed," reminded Shaz sagely.
"I'm sure he's just another typical specimen of the gender," said Jude, swigging her own drink.
Bridget said nothing more, polishing off her bloody Mary; then Tom arrived, and all attention moved to him as he regaled them with tales of his exploits after leaving Bridget's the night before.
She was thankful for his taking the spotlight, ordered another bloody Mary, and drank it in thoughtful silence.
At the end of the evening, though, she found she wasn't about to get away that easily.
"Bridgeline," said a slurring Tom as he pulled her outside, waiting for the taxi. "Why the long face?"
She briefly explained to Tom the bits he'd missed by arriving late.
"Oh, for Christ's sake," he said, then made a dismissive sound. "Just ring him up, already. At least thank him for the roses."
Tom had a point.
"Who knows," continued Tom; "he could be your rebound stud. Doesn't hurt that you've already given him a test drive…"
"Shurrup," she slurred in reply, slapping him lightly on the arm, and nearly falling down in the process. "Besides, look what happened the last time I listened to you."
"That, my darling, was a blessing in disguise."
Another very good point.
………
She was still considering contacting Mark over her coffee the next morning, alternately talking herself into and out of it.
He seems like a nice man. Normal, even.
He slept with you while you were drunk.
He was drunk too.
And you were going out with someone else at the time.
But he didn't know that. And he called you 'bloody amazing' and 'stunning'.
What man wouldn't say that to get a shag?
She sighed. But he deliberately chose that flower, that burgundy rose, whilst sober.
The pros had it.
She reached for her telephone and her directory, and found his listing with an address on Holland Park Avenue. Crikey. She punched in the number, felt her heart race with each ring, until his answerphone came on.
"If you'd like to leave a message for Mark Dar—"
She hung up, too chicken to leave a message, hated leaving humiliating messages anyway. She never knew what to say.
As she ate her yoghurt, she stared at the phone, contemplating trying again, reaching for the receiver then backing her hand away slowly. "Fuck," she said to herself. "I don't know what to do."
Miraculously, the phone rang. She reached for it, bringing it her ear with an embarrassingly tremulous hand, thinking, What if he 1471ed me? "Hello?" she asked tentatively.
"Bridge? It's Magda."
"Oh, Magda. Hi." She sighed her relief.
"I heard about your break-up with Daniel. I'm sorry."
"Well, don't be too sorry," she said. "He was cheating on me with another woman." She blinked. "Wait. How did you hear?"
She could hear her friend smiling. "A little birdie told me."
Oh, GAWWWWD, she thought. It must be time for one of those Smug Married—
Magda barrelled on. "So I'm having a dinner party tonight and was wondering if you wanted to come."
Can't bloody well say no, Bridget thought morosely, if she knows I'm single again. I'm going to murder that little birdie Jude.
………
Reassuring breaths. Then scale the stairs.
Her feet weighed ten stone apiece as she trudged up to the front door, dreading the evening from start to finish, then reluctantly knocked. She was promptly greeted with the smiling visage of her auburn-haired friend. "I'm so glad you came."
Bridget smiled stiffly. An evening of Smug Marrieds and me feeling even more like a failure. Whee.
Magda took her friend around the shoulders and said confidentially, "I know it's a little soon after your split, but, well, I've invited someone I think you'll get on very well with. He split up with his horrible girlfriend last weekend…"
"Magda, no," she said, reeling, visions of Jeremy's boorish brother or Cosmo's bucktoothed cousin at her side through all of dinner.
"I know I've said this a hundred times before, but he's really very, very nice. Works with Jeremy so he's not a lunatic or a psycho. If you don't like him, I swear, I will never, ever try again."
"Promise?"
Magda nodded solemnly. "On my honour."
Bridget still looked very serious. "I'll hold you to it."
Magda tugged her towards the stairs. "Come on, dinner's about to be served."
When she got to the dining room, she could not believe what she was seeing. Introductions were going all around but she didn't hear a single one; she could only stare mutely at the only unpaired man at the table.
Bloody Mark Darcy. And the seat next to him was the free one.
"Hi," he offered with a reserved smile; strangely, he did not seem surprised at all. The mental image of the last time she'd seen him, sitting naked on her bed with the sheet over his lower half, sprang unbidden into her mind.
"Hi," she returned. It was a safe response.
Magda narrowed her eyes. "Do you two know one another already?"
"In a manner of speaking," said Bridget quietly, politely taking her seat by him, sitting stiffly in her chair. Oh God. This was a nightmare come true.
Soup was served and most everyone ate it in silence; it was during the serving of the second course that spontaneous conversation began to erupt. She thought it might be the best time to get her thank-you out of the way.
"Mark, I wanted to—" she started, then stopped, not wanting to mention flowers, not wanting to raise the interest of anyone within earshot, but she saw no way around it. "—well, thank you for—"
"No need to thank me," he said, interrupting her; she couldn't tell if his curtness was due to impatience or for trying avoid attracting attention to what she was thanking him for.
She pursed her lips, nodded, and looked down. Right.
Bridget picked through her dinner, waiting for the chance to escape from the party without being rude, when she heard him speak once more. "I trust you liked them," he said politely. She glanced to him; his attention was on his meal.
"Yes," she replied quietly. "My mother clued me in about the colours though."
"As did mine."
She swallowed hard. She had to tell him she did believe him, after all. "Mum also clued me into the fact that she had been mistaken about—rather, had told your mother I was… single. When I wasn't. So…."
He lifted his gaze to meet hers, looking shocked for a split second. "Oh," he said, clearing his throat. He then looked down again.
"I guess that takes care of the pink one," she said; though the meaning might have been cryptic to anyone else in earshot, it was not to Mark Darcy. The corner of his mouth raised imperceptibly. She continued. "Magda seems to think that the white one might be spot on, as well, but… the dark red one is hardly verifiable."
"I think you'll just have to take my word for it," he said casually, bringing his table napkin up to his mouth, dabbing gently. His dark eyes met hers again, and she understood that she had not misread the flower's message at all.
The guests abandoned the dining room table for the sitting room to partake in after-dinner espresso and dessert. She found herself being herded in a not very subtle way by Magda over to where Mark was standing. He looked to her, then looked back to the window, out into the night as he sipped his espresso. Grinning madly, Magda retreated to leave them to talk.
"I'm sorry," she said suddenly. He looked to her. "For what I said about you. About… revenge."
He closed his eyes, squeezing the lids for a moment before opening them again, his expression quite pained as he did so. "That's all right," he said softly. "I understand why you did."
She shifted from one foot to another, drinking her coffee, before offering him a small smile.
They shared a far more comfortable silence than they had during dinner. She thought about his reaction when she'd entered the dining room, and asked, "Did you know I was coming here tonight?"
A very faint smile lit upon his lips. "Jeremy mentioned his wife's friend Bridget was coming, warned Magda might try to play matchmaker, but that you were… very nice. Not a small city, but also not a very common name, so when you walked in I wasn't surprised."
She smiled, looking out of the window too. It was a lovely evening; bright moon, sparkling stars. "I didn't realise you'd only split with someone yourself," she said absently.
"You remember Natasha," he said. Of course she did. The tall, dark, bitchy beanpole he'd brought to the Alconburys' party.
"I'm sorry it didn't work out."
"I'm not."
She turned to look at him, at his intense gaze, sure she had misheard.
He continued to speak, offering another confession: "I saw you and Daniel in those rowboats out on the water that weekend, and when I saw you laughing, when I saw how much fun the two of you were having, I'd've given anything to be in his shoes at that moment."
She looked away.
"It took me a while to realise that I didn't want another woman poured from the same mould my ex-wife was poured from. I wanted someone like you."
Overwhelming sensation, really, to discover that a man's flattery went beyond solely trying to get in one's pants. She blinked, not quite knowing what to say. She thought she might bide her time taking a sip of coffee, but when she lifted her demitasse she found that it was now empty.
"I'm sorry," he said. "Let me get you another coffee."
"No," she said with a firmness that rather surprised her. Continuing in a gentler tone, she said, looking up to him, "Maybe we could wipe the slate clean… and have coffee somewhere else."
"Maybe," he replied; however, the way his smile broadened, the way he drank back the last of his own coffee and impatiently set the cup down, said much more than 'maybe'.
The end.
n.b.: If you do a search like Bridget's, you will find out what the language of roses means, too.