If—

By S. Faith, © 2013
Words: 53,952 (in 10 chapters and an epilogue)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 2: Of Chess and Whippersnappers

Sunday, 17 January

9st 1 (fat cells exploded due to shock); calories: 1500 (could not eat due to shock); alcohol units: 4 (natural and just)

9 am. Came home as soon as I made sure Mark had some hot breakfast (instant oatmeal was about all was up to making) and orange juice. Cannot get image out of head from wee hours last night, when went to look in on Mark.

Pushed door open. Light fell across broad expanse of bed. Realised in an instant that he had only put on pyjamas for my benefit earlier, and now had none on, was completely naked, had obviously felt too warm for his duvet as had kicked it off, and… Oh God.

Backed away slowly, closed door, image of him burned into brain. More than just lean, naked body (he must keep up on five-a-side or squash), which was lovely treat for eyes, but obvious fact was that while most of him was fast asleep, one part was distinctly not.

Have not felt so mortified in life… yet mortification stemmed from deep and immediate desire to do something about it, even though have told self time and again that we work best as friends only. Cursed self for having had thought of going to check on him.

Was v. difficult to meet his eye this morning.

Tuesday, 19 January

9st (fat cells calmed); calories: 2200 (better… no! Gah!); alcohol units: 4 (but for good cause)

7.30 am. Getting ready for work. Completely forgot that today was some sort of big lunch meeting. Cannot find favourite black skirt anywhere. Oh God. What if left skirt at Eric's? Come to think have not worn it in while.

8.10 am. Have found skirt. Was tucked in carrier bag. Have no memory of how it got there.

1.30 pm. Right. Off to fancy lunch thing. Must remember to not get too pissed.

5 pm. Lunch meeting well into afternoon (obvs.) and not disaster. Two glasses of wine, barely wobbly. Hurrah! Am recovered. Salads with salmon and chicken or similar, with v. g. crème brûlée for dessert after. Is dessert after lunch a thing now? Am doomed.

5.05 pm. Oh dear. Have just had call from boss, v. serious voice. "Bridget. I'd like to see you in my office, please." Should not have had wine. Knew it.

6.30 pm. My flat. Am queen of the hour. Am fantastic. Apparently they (new clients I think) loved me and want me to produce show. Hope they do not expect me to drink two glasses of wine every day at work. (Though would not be much of a hardship, honestly.)

Friday, 22 January

9st 1 (sympathetic baby weight gain?); calories: 2100 (maybe not sympathetic); alcohol units: 8 (drinking for two)

6.30 pm. Long week at work, in which got details of new producer gig. Rosy glow fading. Is short series on the history of chess, which sounds like might possibly be most boring thing ever. But must be professional and do v. g. job.

Leaving shortly to have dinner with Jude, Shaz and Tom. Will be like old days! Hurrah!

Later. Blurry bast fuck alalone wildogs—ouch.

Saturday, 23 January

9st 2 (ashamed); calories: 1800 (less ashamed); alcohol units: 0 (must make up for last night); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: rising

10 am. Last night painful and disappointing. Got to restaurant and immediately felt like third wheel or as if attending one of Magda's smug married parties. Jude brought Richard, Tom brought Jerome (knew it, yuck) and Shazzer brought Simon (no idea they were friendly again—and by 'friendly', mean 'shagging'). Felt need to have a little extra in the drinks department, with result in may have said some things will regret in light of day.

Air raid siren or similar has just begun going off. Must go silence hell sound.

10.15 am. Was wrong. Just telephone. Was Jude sounding extra bubbly and excited. "So are you ready?"

"Ready? What for?"

"Briiiiiidge," she said. "Don't tell me you've forgotten already!" Clearly had. "You promised last night to come out to Baby Gap with me."

Was right; did say things last night that now regret.

5 pm. Am exhausted. Had no idea one could spend whole of day shopping and hate it. We trawled over every inch of Baby Gap as if elderly beachcombers with metal detectors looking for jewellery, coins and similar, though suppose as we left laden with carrier bags, Jude had far better luck than any such beachcombers.

"Thanks so much, Bridget," Jude said, cheeks blushing with what I expect was maternal glow. "I so want everything to be right when the baby comes."

"Do you know if it's a boy or a girl?"

She shook her head. "I'm only eight-and-a-half weeks along. They can't do the sonogram for that until twelve weeks."

Unbelievable. Jude has just spent equivalent to one of self's mortgage payments and doesn't even know if it is for boy or girl. Though suppose everything she got is rather gender neutral.

Hungry. Hm.

6.30 pm. Back in flat with Chinese takeaway. Know should cook for self as is healthier, cheaper, etc. but am exhausted after day in soul-draining baby store.

After have eaten will muster courage to ring Mark Darcy. Should have phoned sooner. For all I know he could be deathly ill, and only thing keeping me from checking was burned-in image of—must not think of it.

Eat, then ring him up.

7.30 pm. Was v. glad to hear from me. He is feeling recovered and is back to work, which is huge relief. "And you?" he asked. "How are things with you?"

"Fine," I said, though not sure was convincing.

"Bridget, you were acting very strangely the last time I saw you, and haven't heard a peep even though you said you'd call."

"Did I?" Was entirely possible I did but forgot in my state of shock. "Sorry. No, nothing's wrong."

"Are you sure?" he pressed.

Rather than confess to bearing witness to his nocturnal salute, I blurted out, "Jude's pregnant."

"Oh," he said; funny how tender that one word sounded, or could have been wishful thinking on my part, because when he spoke again it was in a normal tone. "Well, be sure to pass along my best wishes if I don't see them first."

"I will."

There was a bit of silence before he said, "Well, it's good to hear from you. Appreciate that you checked up on me." Chuckle. "Wouldn't want the Alsatians to get me."

Chuckled too, then found self blurting out (again): "Up for lunch tomorrow?"

"Oh. Yes." Seemed surprised, to be honest. "I'd like that."

So we are fixed for lunch. Meanwhile, am home alone on Saturday night. Wonder what's good on the telly?

Sunday, 24 January

9st (mysterious); calories: 2500 (though worth it); alcohol units: 4 (social necessity); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: holding steady

9 am. Strangely looking forward to lunch with Mark Darcy today. I mean, always nice to see Mark, but looking forward more than usual. Am up and already dressed. Freakish.

11.45 am. Shit. Entryphone has gone off. Has startled me from sleep. Must have dozed off without—GAH. Have just seen self in mirror. Smeared mascara and lipstick, which is now, I realise, on sleeve of v. cute, soft cashmere cardigan. Now know why do not bother to dress too early in advance. Must do makeup again, and find new top.

11.55 am. Have just tidied self up (at record pace) to more presentable state, to repeated buzzing of entryphone. Ran to pick it up. "Sorry, sorry."

Could tell in voice he was not annoyed, but rather, amused. "I should be used to it by now."

Just pressed button to let him in, though should have said to bugger off.

9.45 pm. Begged Mark to give me just a few more minutes to fix self up. "I was all ready, then I dozed off and…" I trailed off.

"It's all right," he assured.

Took no time at all, I swear, and returned to find him nose deep in book and with half-finished cup of coffee. "Ah," he said, looking up. "There you are." Honestly, swear he did that to take the piss.

Ended up going to a pub 'round the corner. Will say this about going out with Mark Darcy now we're not dating: is v. nice that there is no pressure to impress or gauge responses correctly about whether or not we'll shag that night, whose flat we'll go to, and similar. Though was v. good time, began to think hair had started moving on own accord, as noticed Mark looking away from me just as I looked to him.

"What?" I asked, paranoid. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"What makes you think something's wrong?" he retorted, a little sharper than expected. Honestly, you'd think it was perfectly normal to keep staring at someone. Short temper did not last, however, and in fact instead of parting after lunch, he suggested we visit this art exhibition he'd heard good things about, celebrating the human form through history. Turned out to be great fun, even if reinforced notion that self was born with body that was meant for another era, such as Renaissance or even pre-history (thinking of the Venuses (Venii?)). By the time we were done there it was time for dinner, and since neither of us had plans, decided to have a curry at my flat.

Now he's gone and have to prepare for work tomorrow. First production meeting in the morning for chess monstrosity. Anyway. Sometimes forget how nice it is to have another person here in the evenings. Feels so lonely and quiet now.

Friday, 12 February

8st 11 (miracle—love the lovely chess); calories: 1800 (am saint); alcohol units: 2 (am angel); probability will be eaten by Alsatian: reaching panic stations (re: Sunday and Valentine-less)

10 am. So tired. Took off day to rest after mad frenzy getting chess thing to air, which has sucked life and all spare moments from it for nearly three weeks. Show came on last night, was quite pleased with the results. It actually turned out to be quite fun if exhausting, and rather interesting in subject matter. Got rung up by Mark Darcy at end of it, giving congrats on the show.

"Did you like it?" I asked.

"Oh yes," he said, so quickly and earnestly I knew he wasn't taking the piss. "It was very good. I enjoyed it very much." Did not surprise me at all as chess is right up his street. "I actually learnt a lot about the history I didn't know." He paused. "I'm really very proud and pleased for you; let me take you out to celebrate."

"Oh, I'm far too tired."

"I meant on Sunday. What do you say?"

"Sounds fantastic," I said.

Said goodnight, then put down phone. Was not until went to bed (another night in, but at least get to practise cooking, so that's something) that realised what Sunday was: Valentine's Day. So have platonic, friendly date of sorts on most romantic day of year. Though is not as if have prospects lining up 'round the block or anything.

Saturday, 13 February

8st 10 (if only had boyfriend); calories: 2100 (still saint-esque); alcohol units: 6 (normal for night out); prospect of boyfriend: 0

3 pm. Just heard from Shaz. Wanted to know if I wanted to come out tonight, so said yes, as have v. much missed interaction with friends.

"Just you and me?" I asked, hoping for more info. Mysterious scenario with Simon in that she is not mentioning whether there is scenario or not.

"Tom too," she said, which was equally intriguing. Feel like Rip Van Winkle, except instead of v. long lie down, have been separated from friends by work sequester. Have no idea what is going on with Simon or Jerome.

7 pm. Just leaving to meet Shaz for some dinner in advance of night out.

Later. Goodgood no shags a strange whippersnaps.

Sunday, 14 February

8st 11 (How did put on one pound overnight? How?); calories: 2500 (in mourning); alcohol units: 4 (restraint impeccable); prospect of boyfriend: is less than zero possible?

11 am. V. good fun last night. Head only mildly painful now. Almost like old days. We tried new Latin American-type restaurant and was v. g. though a bit spicy. Emboldened by tequila-based cocktail, wasted no time in asking, "So what is going on with you and Simon?"

She demurred answering until she had enough booze in her, then admitted that she really, really loved Simon but had chucked him again.

"Why?" I asked, shocked.

"Because I'm not sure how he feels, and it's all too weird. Can't bear it if I told him and he, like, laughed at me or something."

"Why chuck him, though? Why not just see where things go?"

"Because I can't take the tension," she said. "He can be so distant, like he can't be bothered to talk to me when we're alone. Like he'd rather be anywhere else."

Felt self channelling Magda: "Why not ask him?"

She gave me a piercing look. "That's fine advice coming from you, Bridge."

Stunned at her words. She meant Mark and I knew it. "That is totally different," I said. "He chucked me for Rebecca. I didn't need to ask a thing. It was pretty clear."

"But then he chucked her," said Sharon. "Maybe he had regrets."

Cannot let self get caught up in thought bogs like this. "It's not like that anymore," I said with finality. "We are friends. In fact, we are going out tomorrow, as friends, for dinner to celebrate my show."

She gave me a look but said nothing more on that subject. "What do you think about Tom, then?" she said, and we proceeded to speculate until we could get the story directly from him. Our opinion was that Jerome was a just-for-now boy, and that Jerome deserved it after all the crap he'd put Tom through.

When we got to the nightclub, Tom was there and had our drinks ready. We asked him straight away about Jerome, and he laughed. "Revenge!" he said. "Have him on a hook. Did not appreciate what he had when he had it… and now I have got the upper hand!" More evil cackling. Though justifiably evil.

Everything's a bit of a blur after that, though do remember meeting very attractive flirty whippersnapper with dark hair and incredible blue eyes, v. Bradley Cooperish. We danced together and snogged a bit. Then Bradley asked me to come home with him. Was so v. tempted, as had been so long since had a shag and he was really v. sexy, but resisted as thought of, ironically enough, Mark Darcy.

Ooh, telephone.

12 noon. Speaking of the devil, was Mark Darcy calling to fix plans for tonight. Will be here to pick me up at half five, told me to dress up a bit. Might be able to fit into the black satin now.

"Having a nice day so far?" he asked gently, then teased, "Not too hungover, I hope."

"Just the normal amount," I said.

He chuckled. "I'll see you later. Oh, and try to have your hair dried by the time I come for you."

Will never let me live that down.

5 pm. Ha! Will show Mark Darcy. Am already ready, with hair, makeup etc. Just need to decide on shoes. And put on dress, but that is no big deal.

5.05 pm. Will wear new, gorgeous, open-toed kitten-heeled shoes. Perfect.

5.07 pm. Dress is not in wardrobe. What has become of dress?

5.15 pm. Well, have picked out lovely bra, pants, stockings and shoes. However, cannot locate dress. Pretty sure they will not let me into Mark Darcy-approved restaurant like this. GAH.

5.25 pm. Entryphone. Shit. Mark Darcy is early, though am not surprised. Where the fuck is dress?

11.30 pm. "I am ready, I'll have you know," I said as I picked up entryphone.

"I didn't say anything at all," he said, though I could tell he was smirking. "Are you coming down?"

Panicked. "I need a few more minutes."

"I thought you just said you were ready."

"I am," I said snootily. "I—"

"Then let me come up."

There is no arguing with his lawyery logic, so I pressed the button then put on a dressing gown. When he came in, he looked me up and down; hadn't exactly tied dressing gown shut. I blushed. "While a stunning look for you," he said drolly with a small smile, "I doubt you'll gain entrance like that."

I pursed my lips. "I can't find the black satin dress," I explained.

He looked incredulous. "You… can't find it? Didn't you just take it to be cleaned?"

Thoughts raced back to fib told last time I didn't wear the dress. "Er, yes. Perhaps I forgot to pick it up."

"Why don't I have a look in your cupboard? Things have a habit of getting left behind in there, don't they?" Same cupboard that the festering fillet steak had been in.

He went out then came back again with dress in hand. Frankly was astonished. "Inexplicably it was wrapped in a winter coat. Here you are."

Took it from him. Prayed it would fit, else would be really fucked. "Give me a few minutes." Went back into bedroom, slipped dress on, and thanked God, the angels and saints above that dress fit beautifully.

"Need help with the zip?" he called through the door.

Had forgotten about zip—clearly he had not. "Sure, thanks." Turned my back to door as he came in, looked over shoulder with a smile, and he coughed a little as he reached for then tugged up the zip.

"There you are," he said. "Always thought this was your best dress." Cleared his throat. Hope he's not getting sick again. "Come, we should go. Made reservation for half six, and I want to get there well early."

Dinner was fantastic. Restaurant called Trinity, v. nice and v. classy, though had to laugh at all-white appearance of décor, in manner of Mark's Holland Park house. When I told Mark he laughed. We were both having v. good time, but midway through dinner, mobile went off. Since didn't recognise number, asked Mark if it was okay if I took the call, since it might be to do with work or similar. Turned out to be Bradley whippersnapper. Told him couldn't talk just then, and rang off.

"So who was that?" he asked.

"Bradley," I said, because was too embarrassed to admit I hadn't got his real name.

"Oh," he said. "And who's Bradley?"

Felt like was being interrogated by my dad, age twelve. Awful, creepy thought. "Just someone I met while out last night. Obviously, I don't want to see him tonight."

Thought that would make Mark feel better, as meant I was perfectly content to be at dinner with him on Valentine's as friends, but he seemed a bit down. "Oh," he said at last, then smiled a little and very quickly changed the subject. "So are you up for some dessert, then?" He tried, but seemed to me his spirits were a bit deflated after that. Told self must remind him to have some Echinacea and vitamin C, in case was coming down with another cold.

Brought me back to my flat and to my astonishment the whippersnapper was lurking outside my building. "Bridddgurt," he said, obviously pissed. Was so like Daniel Cleaver it gave me the shivers. Bradley pointed to Mark accusingly. "What're you doing with this guy?"

Had seemed so nice in the club! One nice, sexy dance is hardly a long term commitment! He was acting totally mental—and how on earth did he know where I lived? Had I told him? "You have no right asking me that," I said, furious. "We only danced for a bit last night."

"Danced?" he asked, seeming creepily sober all of a sudden. "Was a bit more than dancing, Bridget. You very nearly—"

Knew what he was about to say and interrupted as felt self go red all over: "Go home."

The odd Bradley-Daniel hybrid scoffed. "Me last night, this guy tonight… care to book me again for tomorrow for an in-house?"

Surprised then to hear Mark sound v. authoritative. "I don't know who you think you are," he bellowed, "but if you don't leave this instant, I'll break your fucking legs."

Was shocked at his language, though v. grateful for his defence, even though probably could have dealt with him myself, thinking back. Anyway. Bradley gave Mark a horrible, death-dagger look but shambled away.

"Thanks," I said.

"Don't mention it," he said. "You'll be all right?"

I nodded. "Thanks."

"You've said that," he said. Could tell his patience was wearing thin. "You know, you should be a bit more careful when you go out, handing out your number and address. I'm not always going to be around to intervene."

Had thought about asking him up for coffee, but after that, decided not to. He wasn't jealous; he was merely being protective, as usual. The rest of the night would hold nothing but lectures. "Thanks for a nice night," I said tiredly.

He didn't say anything right away. Then he bent, pecked my cheek, and said, "You should get upstairs. Good night."

Now writing this, feeling a bit bewildered, adrift and a touch lonely, but suppose that is my own fault. Hope Mark is not angry with me, though honestly, am slightly angry with him for telling me off in public like that.

Later. Rang up Shaz, though she did not pick up. Left message asking if am totally mad for giving total stranger (despite being hot young sexy whippersnapper) my home address.

Monday, 15 February

9st (trauma); calories: 2100 (this must stop); alcohol units: 3 (only right during lunch); eventuality of conversion to pod-person: almost certain

9 am. Have just heard from Shaz. Having lunch to discuss Valentine's Day massacre, as it were.

9.45 am. After some thought, decided to ring up Mark Darcy. Could not stand thought of him being upset with me. "Mark Darcy," he said in that way he has.

"Hi Mark, it's me."

Pause. "Hello, Bridget." Voice slightly softer. "Need me to come shoo away random boys from your building again?"

I smiled. He clearly wasn't holding a grudge, thank goodness. "Just wanted to say I'm sorry."

"Sorry? What for?"

"For thinking unkind things about you last night," I explained.

He laughed.

"You know what I mean," I said, feeling a bit frustrated.

"Yes, I do, Bridget," he said, in a tone that suggested some act of senility from a gran or similar, though, oddly enough, seemed tenderly meant. "I'm sorry too," he said. "I shouldn't have come down on you so hard. You're a grown woman; you can make your own choices."

"No, it's okay, I understand what you meant."

Things went quiet.

"Are you free for lunch?" he asked.

"No," I said. "I've already made plans with Shaz."

"Oh," he said. Sounded so disappointed. "Maybe later in the week."

"Tomorrow?" I suggested.

"Can't," he said. "Court."

So we fixed for Friday, then said our goodbyes. Think all is well again.

2.30 pm. Back from lunch with Shaz. Turns out she did not pick up call last night because she was enthusiastically shagging Simon.

"But I thought you chucked him!"

"I did," she said with a smirk, then a wink. "Couldn't stand the thought of Valentine's Day without a shag, though."

Reached across table and gave her arm a gentle smack. "You're giving him false hope, Shaz. Now he's going to think he's in your good books."

"Why can't I do what millions of men do all the time?" she said defensively. "Equality for the sexes!"

Thought back to all the times we'd not been phoned after what had seemed like a reconciliation shag, and had a thought that that sort of pain and heartache wasn't exactly what anyone wanted when talking of 'equality'.

"I don't know," I said, feeling v. uneasy. "It doesn't seem… honest."

She laughed. "You sound like Magda."

"Magda's happily married," I said, pushing down the image in my head of the screaming car alarm/baby scenario of a few years ago. "Maybe she knows something we don't."

"So how was your date with Mark?" she asked, deliberately changing the subject in such a way to throw me completely off. "And are you talking about that lovely young stud from Saturday night?"

Explained again that it was not a date, and yes, that the young stud showed up at my flat. "Did I even give him my phone number and address," I asked, "or is he, like, stalking me?"

"No, you gave him your info," she said. "Quite willingly."

I shuddered. "Do not let me do anything of the sort again."

"Not even a phone number?"

"Well, maybe a number. I just do not need crazy showing up at my flat."

With this agreed upon, we moved to other things: Tom and Jude. Tom we gave up as lost (not literally)—he was a bit mad to be messing around with Jerome again, but we hardly could tell him what to do. Reminded me of what Mark Darcy said about being a grown woman (me, not Tom). Jude, though—we felt things would probably not be quite the same.

"You realise once the kid is born Jude'll turn into another Magda," whispered Shaz. I nodded in agreement. Not that this was a bad thing in and of itself, but it was unlikely she'd come out drinking at the drop of a hat or stay out all night with us… and when she did come out, it would be stories of thrush and mastitis. Ugh. Feel as if friends are slowly being pulled into pod-person type scenario that will soon pull me in, too. V. conflicted feelings, though, as would like to have husband (or long-term-committed boyfriend), baby, etc. some day. Will it turn me into Stepford Wife or similar? Hate the thought.

Meeting now to discuss chess show. Hate that they call it post-mortem. Does not generate v. g. feelings.

Wednesday, 17 February

8st 12 (wild joy); calories: 1800 (better); alcohol units: 2 (excellent); path to worldwide domination: open

9.30 am. Have been too busy making plans to update. Am being sent to New York at the beginning of March to meet with networks in US who are showing interest in the chess programme! Feels so mature and adult… am certain will fuck it up in some way.

No, no. Cannot think that way. Is negative and wrong, and will undermine confidence in self.

Spoke to Mum yesterday, though I don't think she quite understands what I'm doing: "You're going to New York for chess? I didn't even know you played." Did not try to explain. Would have drained all strength, all life out of me.

Friday, 19 February

8st 11 (must keep this up); calories: 1700 (better); alcohol units: 7 (not nearly enough); coincidences: more than am comfortable with

1.30 pm. Just back from lunch with Mark Darcy. Told him all about how Cinnamon Productions wants me to meet with network folks next month who are interested in rebroadcasting my chess programme.

"That is fantastic," he said with genuine warmth in his eyes. "I'm really very proud of you. So who's rebroadcasting? BBC? ITV?"

"No, no, in New York! In America!" I gushed. "Though am a tiny bit nervous about presenting things and putting my best foot forward."

"You'll be great," he said; he always seems to know the right things to say. "Wait, when did you say you're going?"

"Leaving on the twenty-seventh. Have meetings first and second weeks of March. Two whole weeks in New York, imagine that!" Again dazzled self with thoughts of traipsing through Times Square, Central Park, and similar.

"You sound like your mum," he joked. "Actually, that's a pretty amazing coincidence, Bridget. I've been asked to speak at a series of panels at the United Nations—" Bloody braggart, I thought fleetingly, though it is sort of what he does. "—and the timing perfectly aligns with when you'll be there. Where are you staying?"

I hemmed and hawed; have had no luck finding a hotel room that wasn't in the outer reaches and sure to be infested with roaches, bedbugs or similar. "Still working on that," I offered lamely.

"Never mind that; you can stay with me in Manhattan."

Jaw dropped open. "You have a flat in Manhattan?!"

He laughed. "No," he said. "A colleague of mine is in the Caribbean on holiday for a few months and is letting me use the flat. There'll be no problem if you stay with me." After a beat, he said, "I mean, you'll have your own room, so that's not a worry. And maybe with no hotel to pay for, they'll give you an extra spending allowance."

I chuckled; could think of worse things than being showed around New York by Mark, though felt a bit… don't know, melancholy at pointed reminder that we were not, in fact, sleeping together. Even though all is better as friends. (Pushing image of naked body out of head constantly.) "Thanks. I'll talk to Grant and see what they can do."

Took down his flight details, and hoped I could get moved to the seat next to his.

2.45 pm. Hurrah! Is all settled. Will be on same flight as Mark Darcy so maybe he can pick me up with company car, and won't have to run the transit gauntlet and risk being late. Is almost, sort of, kind of like a mini-break. (Gah. Must stop thinking these thoughts.)