…In Health
(Part 2 of 6)
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words (This Part / Total): 6,962 / 39,496
Rating: M / R
Summary: Same story, parallel point of view.
Disclaimer: V. v. much not mine.
Notes: The flip side of "In Sickness and…"
Saturday
Mark's eyes popped open and instinctively he knew that he had woken before the call, had not slept through it. A quick check of his watch confirmed the time to be eleven a.m., and the rumbling in his stomach told him he would be unable to fall back to sleep. He gingerly slipped out from beside her and placed a call to room service for a sandwich, some chips, and a black coffee. "And some orange juice," he added, thinking she might like to have something not only cool to drink but good for her.
He went into the bathroom to use the loo, and caught his reflection once more. It had scarcely been a three hour nap, but the improvement to his overall appearance (despite still needing a shave) was quite marked. It helped too knowing she was on her way to recovery. They had quoted him a twenty to thirty minute turnaround time on room service, so he dared not shower just yet. Instead, he took a seat on the bed beside Bridget. He raised his fingers to brush a sweaty frond of hair from her face. He might have been imagining it, but he thought she looked better too.
As he watched her sleep, he thought about having only one more day here; his thoughts then turned to the logistics of not only the long drive home fitting in with her treatment and her propensity for nausea and vomiting, but treating her and still keeping to both his schedule and hers while in London, when he had a brilliant idea: Why not just stay here to recover?
The more he considered the notion, the more he liked it. Yes, convalescence in the country. Fresh air, peace and quiet, and he could focus his attention on her health and nothing else. He would have to make arrangements as soon as possible.
The knock at the door signalled the arrival of lunch, and he eased himself off of the bed in order to allow them in. The young staff member set the tray down on the small table near the bed, and just as quickly left. The smell of the food hit him like a freight train; he swore he took off a quarter of the sandwich in one bite. He didn't ordinarily indulge in chips but something about the crispy, salty potato wedges really hit the spot. The coffee was brewed to perfection, fresh and not at all bitter.
He had tucked away about half of what was on the plate when the phone began to ring. Bloody wake-up call. He'd forgotten to cancel it. He swept the receiver up and thanked the front desk before hanging it up, then turned to see the ringing had awakened Bridget. As if it weighed ten stone, she lifted her head and turned to look at him. He hastened to her side, placing a kiss on her forehead, bracing himself for the inevitable.
He offered her the orange juice, which she accepted gratefully, guzzling down a good amount in one swallow, then reminded her it was time for another treatment. Her expression darkened and she hesitated to comply, but in the end she did and without a fight. He hoped the lucky streak would remain with him.
When he emerged from the bathroom after washing his hands again, he saw that she'd fallen back off to sleep. Poor darling, he thought, though it was good for her to sleep so much. It meant the medicine got a chance to work.
He finished his lunch—the chips had gone quite tepid but were still edible—then decided to pop into the shower to clean himself up properly and shave.
It wasn't until he stood under the hot water of the shower tap that he pondered a statement she'd made to him in jest as she prepared to receive her treatment; when he'd teased her about her reluctance to lie down by threatening to wrestle her into place, her automatic, suggestive response reminded him once more about her shared expectations for the weekend. It made him that much more wistful for the delay in a proper reunion, even though he knew it would come in time. Although he missed her terribly, he was hugely grateful for the intimate time they'd had before he'd gotten so busy with work. Now, though, the recovery of her health was of paramount importance. Everything else would take a back seat.
After shaving and dressing in fresh clothes he emerged from the bathroom to find that Bridget was stirring. He saw the contents of the orange juice glass had dwindled and he was happy that she'd taken it all in. He sat on the edge of the bed, raised his hand to comb his fingers through her hair, and called her name.
She opened her eyes suddenly.
"How are you feeling?"
She blinked sleepily. "Very tired."
He just wanted to scoop her into his arms and hold her close; instead, he only nodded and spoke. "That's to be expected. Your body's fighting off the infection. I see you finished your juice. Very good." She smiled up at him tiredly. "Is there anything else you want?"
To his delight, she asked for more things to drink, but she couldn't seem to decide between water, apple or orange juice.
"I'll get one of each." He stood again, walking to the phone on the desk.
"What about you?" she asked.
"Me?" He'd hardly given his needs a thought, aside from sleeping and eating. Half in jest, he said, "I could do with a pint, but otherwise I'm fine."
Her eyes, however, were wide and mournful. "But you must be bored out of your skull tending to the invalid here."
He smiled. He had to disabuse her of this notion, regardless of the fact that it was not his first choice of activity. "I'll admit it wasn't how I wanted to spend my time this weekend… but you're ill and there's nothing to be done except to see that you get well."
And get some more juice. He picked up the receiver and dialled room service, ordering orange juice, apple juice and water for Bridget, and for himself, a bottle of ale and a packet of crisps. They told him to expect them in a half-hour or less, which he then passed along to her after he hung up.
The question remained, what could they do to pass the time while she was awake?
He admitted: "I didn't exactly pack any reading material…. Um. Would you like to watch the telly?" She shrugged; he chuckled. "You must be ill if you're forsaking the telly."
"There's never anything good showing on Saturday afternoon. Oh God." She went pale, her mouth dropping open slightly. "What time is it?"
He knew immediately the reason why she'd become panicked. "It's about two. You have a reprieve before your next dose." The relief that washed over her face made him chuckle again, before he turned his thoughts once more to occupying themselves. "We could play chess. I'm sure there's a chess set somewhere in this hotel."
She admitted that she could not play chess. Instantly he offered to teach her.
She fixed him with a serious look, raising one eyebrow. "You could also try to teach a pig to sing, but we both know how that would turn out."
He laughed out loud and conceded the point.
The decision was made to borrow a movie from the hotel—Sneakers was chosen, in the end—and as they waited for their drinks and movie, Bridget got up and used the loo on her own, dressing in a hotel robe. She looked so tentative as she walked that it was an effort not to go to her side and guide her to the toilet, but because she looked so proud at being able to do it on her own he was able to resist. The sharp knock at the door signalled the arrival of the beverages so Mark was further distracted by dealing with that, also taking a moment to power up the telly and the DVD player, putting the disc into place. She returned from the bathroom, shed the robe and climbed back into bed; he took the opportunity to change into clothing more suitable for lounging, then patted the pillow and put her drinks on her bedside. His beer and crisps remained on the tray close to him.
Everything was perfect for an afternoon of movie viewing.
He hit play on the DVD remote and pulled her close when his fingers brushed across her very bare hip. Immediately realising his mistake, he pulled his hand away perhaps a little too quickly, placing his fingers instead against her forearm. In apology he pressed a kiss into the hair at her temple, then reached and took a long drag from the bottle of beer.
She settled into is embrace, resting against his chest, watching younger versions of the main stars hacking very, very old computers. They had barely apprehended young Cosmo when he heard the distinct sound of her softly snoring.
Inwardly he chuckled. At least they hadn't chosen something he wasn't interested in seeing, and at least he had taken advantage of the toilet himself not too long ago.
As he watched the film, his earlier thoughts about staying the week came back to him. He would need to make those arrangements soon to ensure they could stay in the same room through next weekend, as well as calling Giles to advise him of the change in plans. He'd also have to call Richard Finch on Bridget's behalf, something he both loathed and looked forward to doing. There was also the matter of her sleeping apparel, and finding things for her to do when she wasn't asleep, enough to last a week's time.
Despite not liking the thought of leaving Bridget's side, he realised he would have to head for civilisation.
The movie was ending before he knew it, and he realised it was time for the third glutamine treatment of the day. He roused her awake and as before, she did not put up a fight. He was extremely thankful she had not as yet, but thought wryly that his luck would not hold forever.
After cleaning up, he changed back into trousers then returned to the bed to offer her one of her glasses of juice. To his delight she drank down a pretty respectable portion. He stroked her cheek again and asked, "Do you mind me stepping out for a bit? Will you be all right?"
"Sick of me already?" she taunted playfully. Though she was smiling, she still looked quite exhausted.
"You know that isn't so," he said softly. "I'd just like to take care of a few things. And I promise to be back in time for—well, be back by eight." He cursed himself for the misspeak, and he could see her expression change to one of conflict. Ah well. He didn't really need to go; they were things he could take care of from the room, undoubtedly. "Never mind. I'll stay."
"No, go on. I'll be fine, really," she said, her voice surprisingly firm. "I'll probably only be sleeping anyway, and that's not very exciting for you."
"If you're sure."
She nodded.
He could not, however, resist a tease. "You know, the last time I asked you if you were sure about something, you went funny and feverish."
She pouted. "Mark, go on already. Don't make me get out of bed and kick your arse."
He agreed, laughing softly. She must have been feeling a little better if she was making silly threats. He made a point to remind her where everything was, well within her reach: her bucket, the fever reducer, the glasses of juice and water, the telly remote, and her mobile phone. "If you need me, call me."
"Aye-aye, Captain."
He laughed again, and bowed to kiss her before leaving the room.
His first stop was the front desk. Within minutes he'd secured arrangements through the following weekend. He then headed for the car park, and each step closer to the car was more hesitant than the last; he realised he had no idea where he was going.
Well. What were friends for?
He pulled out his mobile and called Hugh.
"Mark?" came the worried voice on the other end. "Everything all right?"
"Yes, everything's fine," he assured. "I was just about to head out for a little bit while Bridget slept to pick up some necessary items and am appallingly unfamiliar with the area. I need your help. Are you busy?"
"Not at all, just coming off shift. What do you need?"
"Well." He leaned against the vehicle. "Some nightgowns for Bridget. The flannel pyjamas from the hotel are three times too big for her."
"Presumably," Hugh teased, "you want the sort for actually sleeping in."
"Very funny," he retorted, though he was laughing all the same.
Hugh was silent for a few moments. "Just 'round the corner from my favourite pub there's a little boutique that sells the loveliest cotton nightgowns. Seen them in the window. Seem perfect for recuperating in without being too granny-ish."
It did indeed sound perfect. "Can I meet you somewhere easy to find so you can take me there?"
"As a matter of fact, the main road into Stratford from where you are passes right by the hospital. I'll meet you right out front. Did you have supper yet?"
"Not yet," Mark admitted ruefully. "Though it is a bit early."
"I'll pick us up some sandwiches. What else do you want to get?"
"Something for Bridget to read."
"Books?"
"More like magazines. I'm not sure she's up for literature in her state."
He heard Hugh chuckle. "I think we can find a corner shop open at this time of day."
"And… roses and chocolate."
He didn't know why he sounded so sheepish at admitting he wanted to bring the love of his life some pretty flowers and sweets, but Hugh seemed to understand. Mark could hear the smile in his voice as Hugh said, "Know the perfect place for that too. But no chocolate."
"What? Why?"
"No dairy whilst on the doxycycline."
He was glad at that moment she hadn't been able to take in more than apple or orange juice. If he'd given her coffee… "Anything else I need to know?" he asked gruffly.
"As a matter of fact, yes. Keep her inside at least until the fever breaks. She's very susceptible to other disease at this time."
"I'm glad I asked," said Mark wryly.
"Don't mention it," Hugh said brightly.
They said their goodbyes and as he pulled out of the car park, he hit the speed dial on his phone and rang up Giles, giving him the very short version of why he and Bridget were staying in the country longer than anticipated: "Bridget's not well."
"Nothing serious, I wager?"
"No, nothing too serious. It's just easier on her to rest out here, you know?"
"Of course. We'll be happy to take your work on, Jeremy and I, and Rebecca of course can take care of the bureaucracy of day-to-day things…"
"Can't thank you enough. See you next week."
He disconnected, then punched in buttons for directory assistance. The operator provided a home number for Bridget's boss.
"Richard Finch speaking," came the neutral-toned nasal voice.
"Mr Finch. I don't believe we've met. My name is Mark Darcy."
At the sound of Mark saying his own name, he swore the man gasped. "Yes," said Finch hesitantly. "I mean, you're right, we haven't, Mr Darcy. I've, uh, heard of you. Barrister. Human rights. Aghani-Heaney."
Mark smiled a little evilly. It sounded to him like Finch believed this to be a professional contact. No need to disabuse him of this notion. "Yes, yes, that's right. I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, regarding an employee of yours. Bridget Jones."
"Oh, of course, of course." Mark heard a shuffle of papers, then something that sounded like a cup of pens falling off of a desk. "How can I help you?"
"As you may know, she is also my girlfriend, and God willing, my future wife."
He actually heard Finch swallow, and swallow hard.
Mark continued with particular emphasis, "As a result of her work-related stay in Thailand, Bridget has taken rather ill."
"Oh. I—I'm so sorry to hear that. She can take as much time as she needs, paid leave, of course."
"That's very generous. I expect she'll need at least a week. Possibly two," he added on a whim.
"Of course," he simpered. "Two weeks paid leave. Whatever she needs. Only have to ask."
"I'll bear that in mind if we need more than the two."
"Send her my well-wishes," he added abruptly.
"I will. Good day."
Mark disconnected, and with a residual smirk hoped he'd made up for all of the torture Finch had put Bridget through the time she'd worked for the man. He only wondered why he hadn't thought of it sooner.
………
Stratford's hospital was not hard to find, nor was his friend standing in front waving like a lunatic. He pulled up along the side of the road and Hugh dashed across the street to climb into the passenger seat. "Long time no see," said his friend. "Off to the nighties, shall we?" He handed Mark a wrapped sandwich and a bottle of water, keeping one of each for himself. "I'd save the food for later. I can't say with certainty what time the shops close."
Mark could just start to feel the first signs of hunger, but set the sandwich down.
"Roast beef and provolone. Lettuce and tomato. Mustard. Wheat roll," said Hugh.
"You're evil," groused Mark as he pulled away from the kerb. "Tell me where I'm going."
He directed Mark to a little shop not too far from the hospital, tucked away in a back street next to a framing shop and a tobacconist's. Mark told himself he'd have to remember where it was, particularly when he saw the selection inside. Their clothing was gorgeous. Especially catching his eye were what appeared to be hand-painted silk dresses. There was a white and green one there that he thought would look quite lovely on Bridget.
In the end, though, he chose three similar white cotton nightgowns with floral designs in blue, green and burgundy. He didn't even have to think twice on the size; he knew the dimensions of her body almost as well as he knew his own. Hugh only looked to him with one eyebrow cocked in query.
"I know they'll fit," Mark said in explanation.
"You're scaring me a bit," Hugh replied.
They left for the corner shop next, and he chose two magazines whose titles were all too familiar to him. Hugh tried to hide his amusement but was not successful.
A little too defensively, Mark said, "She's very well-read. Used to work in publishing. One of the first times I met her was at a book launch amidst the likes of Salman Rushdie, Jeffrey Archer—"
Hugh interrupted, "You don't have to justify buying these to me. After all, I've been known to watch an episode or two of Top Gear in my time. And then of course there was Star Trek—"
Mark chuckled, interrupting him before he could continue: "True enough."
The last stop was for the flowers. The florist presented Mark with a dozen roses of the deepest red; she explained that they were an heirloom hybrid with a very fragrant bouquet yet a fairly hearty vase life.
Mark smiled. "I'll take them."
They exited the florist's; Hugh made a show of checking his watch. "Record time, mate; record time. Not even five-thirty. Well done, you. As your reward, have your sandwich."
"You're too kind."
They climbed into Mark's vehicle and each tore into their sandwiches, washing them down with their bottles of water.
"So how is Bridget doing?" asked Hugh between bites.
Mark nodded, swallowing. "She's doing well. We've had one shot and three glutamine pills."
"Any trouble there?"
"None at all."
"Were you expecting any?"
"I was."
Hugh grinned, seeming to instantly know the understated nature of that reply. "How about I stop by in the morning, see how she's doing, and bring you a little breakfast to boot?"
Mark grinned. "Yes, that'd be very nice indeed."
They finished eating and as Mark brushed crumbs from his shirt, he asked, "So where's your car? Can I give you a lift there?"
Hugh pointed to a car park on the corner. "I'm actually just parked right over there, but thanks."
"No, thank you, for running these errands with me. You saved me a lot of time and frustration."
"No worries. It's always good to see you." With that, Hugh opened the door and got out of the car. "Have a good night. See you in the morning."
"Cheers," said Mark in reply.
The drive back took a little longer than the drive to Stratford due to needing to make sure that the roses (in their vase in the back seat) didn't topple over. As he pulled into the hotel's car park, he gathered the flowers up in one arm and the carrier bags over the other. It was awkward, to say in the least. One of the hotel staff, a boy not much older than twenty-five, seemed to think so too, and offered to assist him to their room.
Unfortunately, the young man seemed to be under the impression that the room was not occupied, and entered without preamble. Mark barked for the boy to wait: "Let me make sure she's, um, all right before you go barging in there."
He heard her voice call back, "I'm decent, if that's what you mean."
The boy had the grace to be mortified at his misstep, and he apologised profusely.
Mark calmed himself when he saw Bridget was in the bed, lying there with the covers up to her waist. "Quite all right," Mark said, clearing his throat. "Thank you."
The boy bowed then left; Mark was more interested in the gleeful expression on Bridget's face, the soft tone of her voice as she looked up to the blooms. "These are so lovely, Mark; thank you. I'd get up but my head's woozy…"
"It's all right. I'll get you some pills if your stomach's okay."
"It's okay."
"Have you been awake long?"
"No. Just had a call from Shazzer, that's all."
"Ah." He hoped like hell that Shazzer hadn't ruined the surprise of the ring, and decided quickly to change the subject, intending on distracting her with what he'd carried in besides the flowers. "So. Not a single comment?"
Her face was pure confusion. "What, about Shaz?"
Did she honestly not see the bags he held? He stared at her, willing her to catch on, when she suddenly did. Her face brightened a thousandfold, which was a tall order considering what the roses had just done.
"Mark! What's all this?" she asked excitedly.
He smiled and said, "I thought you might like a little something to cheer you."
Her cheek dimpled adorably when she smiled that broadly.
The first one he gave her held the nightgowns. As she raised the blue one from the bag, he explained, "I thought you might have grown a little tired of the men's flannels."
Her smile did not abate, though her brow creased as she realised there were multiples in the bag: "Three?"
"Well," he said, "since we're staying longer than anticipated—"
Unmitigated shock: "What?"
"I've made arrangements to stay through until next weekend. I thought you might like to recuperate out here in the country, away from the stresses of everyday life in the city."
She was obviously touched, but as expected, she asked, "What about work?"
He explained that he'd spoken to her boss for her, which sent her eyebrows shooting up in disbelief. He also advised that his office had been more than sporting and happily took on his work for him.
"Remind me to get them all thank you presents," she said, not unemotionally.
The next bag had the most recent editions of Hello and Marie Claire. She grinned and seemed to silently agree that anything more would have been too much to handle in her state.
He thought he ought to confess about the chocolate, lest he be thought of as completely unobservant. "I would have bought you a Milk Tray but I thought the temptation whilst you're on antibiotics would have been too great. Can't have dairy due to the doxycycline."
"Ah." Her gaze travelled over the magazines splayed amidst the nightgowns, then up to the roses. In a quiet voice he could barely hear, she said, "You are too good to me."
"I feel I have a lot to make up for," he said.
The confusion was back on her face. "What are you talking about? My chucking you was my own stupidity."
He looked down. Of course she would take all of the blame, and it wasn't justified. "Well, no, not entirely. I didn't do more to assuage your fears regarding Rebecca. And for that I am sorry." He sat by her again, embraced her shoulders, kissed her cheek. "But that wasn't what I meant. I meant having to do such… unpleasant things in the name of your health."
Surprisingly, she laughed.
Perhaps unsurprisingly, this caused another spasm in her stomach, and he dove for her bucket. Thankfully, his reflexes hadn't suffered for the long day he'd had.
………
The evening plans were thus: taking of temperature, cool bath, and the final treatment of the night; then a try at chicken broth and housekeeping at nine to change the bed sheets. The temperature-taking, while not a complete triumph, at least showed movement in the right direction: down. He'd had his generous sandwich with Hugh and so was not in the least bit hungry, but Bridget said she was in the mood for some soup. He ordered both her dinner and a change of sheets as she sat in the bathtub soaking.
"Could you get my little suitcase, get my shampoo and conditioner for me?" she called, just as he was hanging up the phone. "My hair's feeling kind of nasty."
"Of course." He brought the little toiletries case into the bathroom, propping it on the side of the sink, then locating the bottles he remembered seeing in the shower at her place. "Service with a smile," he said, setting the bottles at the side of the tub. "I'll even wash it for you if you like."
She grinned. It was so like the Bridget he knew and loved that for a moment he forgot she was ill.
She leaned forward as he poured on the shampoo, then lathered it up, the pads of his fingers massaging her head languidly. From the way her head lolled about, he reasoned it was helping to alleviate the pain. She sighed, then confirmed his thoughts: "That feels so nice."
"I'm glad. Now lean back for a rinse," he said, turning the faucet back on for a moment; not too cool, not too hot. She closed her eyes as the sudsy water ran down over her face and into the water around her.
He then did the same for her conditioner: a generous dollop in his palm, which he spread between both hands then worked into her scalp and locks. She didn't sigh so much as moan; he was just happy he could give her some pleasure that day. That he had himself suffered casualties—a soaking wet shirt and spotted trousers—were of little concern.
"Second rinse, then a wash."
"Ahh," she said, lying back under the stream again.
He lathered up a washcloth and ran it gently over her arms, back and chest; one at a time each leg rose up out of the water and he diligently washed those as well. She got up on her knees so that he might wash the rest of her, then one final rinse and he was helping her up out of the emptying tub, wrapping her in a giant cotton towel after patting at her skin.
"It's amazing how a bath can help one to feel ten times better," she said as he took a second towel to her hair.
"Or," said Mark with a smirk, indicating his mussed clothing, "a shower."
"Sorry," she said, with an equally amused smirk as he brought the blue nightgown up and over her head.
He walked with her back to the bed, sat her down, then went for the comb he'd seen in the case. With great care he combed her hair—noticing her lids falling with the pleasure—and as he did he steadied himself for the unpleasant duty to come.
It not take long to get through the treatment, and afterwards he settled her in to rest to allow the medicine a chance to get into her system, pulling her new nightgown down and the bed sheets up to her waist. As she rested there on the bed taking a few steadying breaths, he laid beside her and stroked her hair once more. Her eyes were closed but she managed a smile. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek.
It was true that he had never known anyone like her before… and he was going to do anything it took to get her well and keep her by his side for many years to come.
………
"…and look, there's a story here about that handsome doctor from television…"
Mark had barely gotten her settled into her chair with the broth and her magazines, had pulled one out to read her the lead story, when a housekeeping arrived in the form of two polite young women with an armful of towels for the bathroom and linens for the bed. As they worked, he stood near Bridget's chair to better observe both them and Bridget; they seemed friendly, offering smiles and fleeting glances to him. Though she'd started eating eagerly, her appetite seemed to wane as time passed. It was a little understandable, thought Mark, as she'd eaten nothing of substance since the day before, and she'd hardly be able to tuck into a full meal after so little.
They were extremely efficient and were finished with the bed in short order. They gathered up the dirty linens and were appropriately deferential to Bridget and himself.
One of the two young ladies offered, "We hope Madame is feeling better soon."
Bridget thanked them. Mark knew instinctively she was not fond of the designation, but despite that and her illness she was still very gracious.
They bowed and retreated from the room.
Noting she hadn't quite eaten half the broth, he asked her how she'd liked it.
"Just my speed," she said.
He smiled and offered to take her to the bed.
"I think I'll stay in the chair for a bit, if it's all the same."
He was surprised by the sharpness of her tone. "Whatever suits you." He crouched beside her lap, concerned. "What's the matter? Was it the broth?"
"No, I told you the broth was fine."
He saw her eyes dart to the door, and he creased his brow. "Did the chambermaids do something wrong?"
The quickness of her denial made him suspicious.
"Bridget," he insisted, "Tell me what it is."
Her eyes dropped to look at the floor, and she told him. "Well, they didn't do anything wrong, per se; they were just… they were falling over themselves for you. Surely you noticed."
He had, of course, been very aware of how courteous and proficient they had been at their work, and he said so. However, he had also seen that they did direct their attention to him personally. Taking her hand, he said, "Okay, yes, I did notice they were fawning over me a bit."
She scoffed. "More than a bit. And I'm sure you noticed that they were young, and really attractive, in shape, and not in fact suffering from lepto-whatever…"
As he looked into her eyes again it pained him to think that she might really believe he had the slightest interest in other women, exacerbated by the insecurity of her perceived appearance due to her illness. Softly, he advised, "But they're not you." He paused, reaching out to stroke her cheek. "You make me laugh like no one else can—and I don't mean at you," he said quickly before she could retort with a self-deprecating remark. "Your spontaneity brings joy to my life. You're beautiful and bloody sexy—" He momentarily lost control of the reserve of his voice and was quick to recover it, but not before it caused her to blush. "—and as I believe I've remarked on more than one occasion, I find your figure to be quite perfect; I continue to be deeply disappointed that I can't take full advantage of it at this very moment." His hand came to rest on her knee, which he ran his palm over, as he concluded tenderly, "Surely you've noticed."
His speech appeared to have the opposite effect it intended. She said in a dejected voice, "I know, Mark… I have noticed. I'm sorry. I'm just… not feeling my best at the moment. Throwing up, being stuck in the arse in more ways than one… none of it does much for a girl's self-esteem, and then those twelve-year-olds call me 'Madame'…" She looked absolutely crestfallen.
He realised he would have to pull out the big guns, as it were. "Hm." He rose from his crouched position, went towards where his jacket hung in the closet, where the box holding the ring still sat nestled.
She called after him, asking if he was angry. He realised that sometimes it was not so beneficial to be taciturn, especially when she sat there looking so vulnerable and delicate. "Of course I'm not angry," he said to her as he returned to her side, kneeling beside her. "I was going to give this to you last night, but with everything that happened, I wasn't able to. Then I thought I might wait until you were feeling better, but, well, I see that flowers, nightgowns and magazines aren't quite doing the trick for lifting your spirits." He opened the box, smiled then raised it to present it to her.
The change was instantaneous and complete. Her hand flew to her mouth as her gaze connected with the sparkler on the black velvet.
He said in conclusion, though hardly thought it necessary: "So yes, my unfortunately queasy love, I still want only you." To seal the deal, he took the ring from the box and slipped it onto her left hand.
He had never seen her cry like she was crying now, but the smile on her face as she examined the ring told him it was probably the happiest she'd been in some time. "It's amazing."
He couldn't hold back a grin. It was exactly what Shaz had said she'd say, and he told her as much.
"Shaz?"
His eyes flitted down to steal a glance at the silver-coloured band, the beautiful centrepiece diamond with the two smaller ones flanking it on the band. "Well, you didn't think I'd make a decision like this without some input from your friends, did you?"
"Friends?"
"Yes. Sharon, Jude and Tom all came with me to Asprey."
"Asprey?" she said in barely a whisper.
He loved what this was doing to her, and he grinned. "Apparently platinum has an odd effect on you. It's turned you into a mynah bird."
"Plati—?" Catching on to what he'd said, she ceased speaking and instead reached for him to pull him close with as much strength as she could muster.
He wrapped his arms around her in return, pressing his nose into her hair, closing his eyes and willing himself to breathe once more. She'd accepted the ring. That was just as good as a yes in his opinion. He could now in good conscience consider himself engaged.
………
Sunday
She's too damned thin.
Mark woke with his arm still draped over her, and that thought was still going through his mind, the way her hip protruded out and dug into his elbow. Shortly after giving her the ring, shortly after ejecting the broth from her body and all over the lovely jewel (much to her mortification), he'd helped her into bed. She'd fallen almost instantly to sleep and after divesting himself of his own clothes, he'd joined her, a smile still playing on his lips after noticing how she held the hand with the ring on it close to her heart.
He'd debated saying anything about her how alarmingly thin she'd seemed to him. She'd seemed too skinny as it was after returning from Thailand, but now, after falling ill, it was even worse.
Slowly he raised his arm and rolled away from her to rise from the bed. He wasn't sure of the time but knew Hugh would be there sooner rather than later, so he wanted to get up and get dressed. He went to his mobile, attached firmly to its charger, and saw that he'd had no messages as yet from Hugh, also saw that it was six-forty.
That gave him time to at least shave and dress, surely. Just to be sure Hugh didn't come calling while Mark was in the bathroom, he opened the phone and sent a message to Hugh: Don't knock before seven.
Hugh came as instructed at the top of the hour, and as promised, bearing pastry and coffee. Bridget was thankfully still sleeping and it was his intention to let her sleep as long as he could.
Later, as he walked Hugh to the door, he could only think how pleased he was that one of his best mates from university—one of the ones he still spoke to, anyway—liked Bridget as well as he did after so few actual meetings and heartily approved of the fact that Mark had asked her to marry him. Hugh had done the quick examination, the purported reason for the visit, but Mark felt that the real reason had been to get the story of their meeting out of him, the little details that brought a man like Mark and a woman like Bridget together. Sly fox. When Hugh invited Mark out to the pub that evening for a pint, Mark reasoned it might well be another go at getting even more details out of him.
Bridget, seemingly as determined as ever to find out more about the embarrassing 'Captain' story, had asked Hugh about it before his departure (he'd deflected it, thankfully, by drawing attention back to her ring), and was obliquely asking Mark once more as he returned to the side of the bed.
"Bridget. Leave well enough alone, already," he said with a smile.
He glanced to his watch, saw there was yet some time before eight. He decided to clean up the table where they'd eaten breakfast and was just about done when he heard her call his name.
When he turned to look at her he saw she was regarding him with a level of intensity he wouldn't have expected from a sick woman. "Yes, darling?"
"It's not quite eight yet. Come back to bed for a bit before… well, you know."
He slipped in beside her as he had been earlier, spooning up to her back, his arm encircling her waist, his cheek against her hair. He thought surely she'd drifted back to sleep when she suddenly asked, "Mark? Were you going to give me the ring on Friday night in the garden?"
He smiled. "I was. Why?"
"Well… I thought I dreamt it, but it was a memory after all."
He briefly tightened his arm around her before she turned over to face him, suddenly looking woeful. He was momentarily alarmed until she asked, "I know we can't really, you know, do anything about it, but if I could at least beg a kiss from you—"
Truthfully, there was nothing in the world that would stop him from doing so when she asked. He reasoned that she was asking because she knew he would never dare otherwise in the condition she was in. He brushed her hair away from her face and tenderly kissed her; she kissed him back with rather more passion than he was expecting.
As he continued caressing her lovely lips with his own, it was then he knew he wanted to give her more than just a kiss, to please her more, even knowing that sex itself was out of the question. He reached over her shoulder gently, slipped his hand to her waist then her thigh, looking for the bottom of her nightgown.
She reared her head back, saying his name in protest as he full well expected.
His own voice was thick as he spoke. "I know. I just want to make you feel good, that's all." He brushed his fingertips along her leg.
"What about—"
"Don't worry about me. Now hush."
He found the bottom of the cotton shift and raised it above her waist, brushing his hand up over the warm skin of her stomach to her breast before returning to her hip and abdomen. She made no further protest as he carried out his loving mission.
Afterwards, she drifted back to sleep with a smile playing upon her lips; he glanced to his watch again and saw there'd be just enough time for a very quick, very cold shower before her treatment.
Notes:
I love the movie Sneakers. :) (IMDB is your friend.)
