It's a Nice Day to Start Again
By S. Faith, © 2012
Words: 78,546
Chapters: 11 + epilogue
Rating: M / R
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 2.
Sat, 13 May
The next weekend
The glint and glitter in Natasha's dark brown eyes was terrifying.
"Oh, Mark, we must go."
In her hand she held the invitation (surely it must have been a rush job for his mother to have it so quickly) to the reception that the Joneses were hosting on the occasion of their daughter's elopement. With both her eyes and his mother's boring into him, he could hardly say no. How petty and spiteful would he seem for him to refuse if he had been explicitly invited?
"Of course," he said coolly. He wondered if Natasha had a special sort of radar, knowing when his mother would be in town to visit, and dropping by to accept his invitations for him. He took the envelope and the invitation from her hand to review it.
The envelope had been addressed to "Mr Mark Darcy & Guest", and hand-delivered by his mother that morning, who'd apparently been helping Pam Jones with arrangements. The invitation itself read:
Mr and Mrs Colin Jones
request the honour of your presence
at a reception to celebrate
the marriage of their only daughter
Bridget
to
Mr Daniel Cleaver of London
on Saturday, the 27th of May
at The Bridge Hotel, Thrapston, Northamptonshire
beginning at five in the evening.
Buffet dinner served at six in the evening.
RSVP regrets only.
The very bottom included a telephone number, quite likely the Jones'.
"Not registered anywhere, I guess," sniffed Natasha. "I suppose with the time crunch it wasn't possible, though not something I will overlook."
He ignored her obvious hint and thought only of logistics. No wonder the rush job; the reception was only two weeks away. With the hotel rooms at a premium for those without familial lodgings nearby, it was practical for him to stay overnight at his parents'. Undoubtedly, Natasha would wish to stay with him.
It was only after Natasha left (with effusive air-kisses to Elaine) that his mother spoke about the subject he knew she must have been pondering.
"So Bridget's wed the man who destroyed your marriage," she said quietly.
He turned and looked to her. "Yes," said Mark.
"I was hoping it might be someone with coincidentally the same name," she said, "though I suppose that's optimism for you." She pursed her lips. "Obviously I said nothing to Pam. What good would it have done? The damage, such as it is, is done."
"I never thought in a hundred years they would marry," said Mark.
His mother's shock was evident. "You knew they were dating," she asked, "and you didn't warn her about him?"
He didn't say his attempt to do so had been thwarted, only replied, "What could I possibly have said? She either wouldn't have believed me, or thought I was just being spiteful."
Elaine pursed her lips once more. "If only you'd not been so crude on New Year's…"
He glanced down. The withering tone of her voice coupled with his own regret about that ill-fated day and served to silence him.
"You can stay the night at the house," she said in a much gentler tone, steering the subject away from those regrets; he must have looked pathetic. "And Natasha as well."
He nodded. "You can make up a separate room for her."
"Mark, we're more open-minded than that."
"Oh, I know," he said. "I must insist upon it."
She gave him a querulous look. "Mark," she asked, "are things serious between the two of you?"
"No, not serious," he replied. "Why?"
"I was just wondering," she began with a tone of foreboding, "why you don't seem to much like the woman you're seeing. I mean… she grates on my nerves a bit, but I can put up with her for your sake if you like her. Or love her."
He resisted glancing down or away.
"So do you?" she asked.
"I am not in love with her," Mark said.
"You don't love her," said Elaine. "Don't bring her."
"I can't back out of that now," he said. "I already said I would take her."
His mother laughed. "What if this were your own wedding day? Would you go through with it for propriety's sake?"
Mark bristled. "Of course not."
"I'm not so sure," said his mother. "Don't stay with someone you don't love, Mark. It never ends well."
Mark winced inwardly; he knew the truth of it, and so did she. "I'll end it after that weekend." He sighed. "To be perfectly honest, I'm not sure I want to go anyway. I'm in no hurry to see Daniel again."
"You must go," she said, "if for no other reason to show your support for Bridget as a friend."
So that you can be there for her when the worst happens, he added mentally. "Bridget despises me."
"She does not," said Elaine confidently. "In fact, she asked specifically about you, to make sure you were invited."
Curious, he thought. "All right," he said. "I'll be there."
…
"She's not going to hate you."
Bridget looked sepulchral at this assurance. "She will."
He chuckled, trying to decide upon a pair of trousers. "Why on earth would my mother hate you, love?"
"Because…" she began. "She will."
He chuckled as he slipped into them. "That is not a very strong argument." He grabbed his shoes then sat upon the bed to put them on. "She'll love you. In fact, I suspect she'll drop to her knees and thank God for three days when she meets you."
Bridget laughed, buttoning her blouse, then regarded him thoughtfully.
"Daniel," she began. "You're sure you don't want to invite your father?"
He looked down, away from his bride, at her question; it was not the first time she'd asked. He doubted he could ever convey to her why his father was not welcome, not when she had such a close relationship with her own. "Yes," he said in a sombre voice, "quite positive. Please, love. Don't ask again. Let's just get ready for dinner."
After a moment of two of silence, she sat down beside him on the bed, reached over and placed her hand on his own. "Sorry," she said softly. "How awful he must have been to you… you and your mum."
The painful past with his father was not something he liked to dredge up. He said nothing in response. He wanted for her to drop the subject.
"Daniel," she continued. "I know I can never really understand how you feel, but…"
He patted her hand, then left it there.
"…it might help to talk about it."
"I don't like to talk about it," he admitted quietly. "It's best forgotten, left in the past."
"Obviously it still bothers you," she said. "Was he… abusive?"
He turned to face her, withdrawing his hand. "I said I did not like to talk about it," he said sharply. "Come on, we have a reservation to make."
She did not react to his shouting at her. Rather, she took his reaction, and rightfully so, to mean that she was on the right track. "Did he hurt your mother too?"
"Not me," he said quickly. "I would have preferred it was me over her." As he spoke he realised: he was talking about it, what he had vowed not to do. "Bridget, please—"
"So she kept him from hurting you," she said gently, touching his hand, then his arm.
He felt traitorous tears pricking at his eyes. "Yes," he admitted.
"And was he… did he drink?"
He squeezed his eyes closed; his memories of his father's intoxicated rages rushed back into the forefront of his memory. "He was a good man when he wasn't drunk."
"I take it," she said, "that was not common."
"It wasn't."
"Come here," she said, then let go of his hand to put her arm around him and hold him close. As she did, as she started to stroke his hair, he felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. "Can't fathom the sort of pressure such a situation must put on a boy," she went on, "but I do know one thing: it wasn't your fault."
"It always felt like it—"
"Hush," she interrupted. "Do not blame yourself."
"But if not for me—"
"If not for you," said Bridget, "he probably would have hurt her anyway." After a pause, she added, "If not for you, your mother would have had no one to comfort and love her when she needed it most."
Sitting there in her arms, in the silence that followed her obvious but profound statement, Daniel felt an odd sort of peace wash over him. She was right. The memories still hurt and always would, but having shared his burden lightened it considerably. He sputtered a little laugh. He'd always thought that to be a trite cliché.
"Something funny?"
"Nothing at all," he said. "Just feeling very pleased to have a wife." He turned to look at her. "Up for a little comfort-shag?"
She smiled, then laughed. "The burdens of being a wife."
She then kissed him gently, then more passionately; he was grateful they had been in mid-dress-for-dinner, because they needed only to fall back to the bed, move around a bit of clothing, before she was straddling him and they were crying out in their release.
If ever he loved a woman, Daniel loved Bridget, and he thought he might be able to do this marriage thing, after all.
"Oh, I do love this 'honeymoon' stage," she murmured into the hollow of his neck.
He chuckled. "Any excuse to have at it like bunnies at the drop of a hat is good in my book."
As he spoke, her stomach audibly rumbled. This reminded him that they were certainly going to miss their reservation unless they hustled.
"Daniel," she said, drawing her fingers across his chest, "I think I'm just going to phone in for pizza."
…
Mark could not take his eyes off of her. More specifically, he couldn't take his eyes off of the photograph of her (with Daniel as they exchanged vows), one that had been included with the invitation that had gone unnoticed before now. She was a vision of loveliness in her bridal dress, simple ivory silk with beaded décolletage, and a similarly beaded pearl headband. In her hand she held a few white roses. Daniel Cleaver looked pleased. More precisely, he looked as if he'd won the lottery and couldn't believe his good fortune.
His eyes went to her again, and he scolded himself. Was what he was feeling now actually true, or only a jealous regret due to having missed his own opportunity?
"I'm not jealous," he muttered to himself, but the truth was, he did feel jealous. She was too good for that conniving bastard.
He saw two outcomes for this situation: he would stand by and observe Daniel from afar experiencing a happiness he did not deserve, or observe Bridget having her heart smashed to bits when the inevitable implosion occurred. Neither option seemed particularly appealing, and again he wished he'd done more, warned her off Daniel—
Even the thought of her consigning him to 'spiteful' would have been worth sparing her what he felt was inevitable misery.
…
Mon, 16 May
Things had immediately been different at work. Bridget had noticed this upon their return from Greece. Perpetua seemed insufferably smugger, infinitely kinder and much more respectful. "Didn't know you had it in you," Perpetua had said as she'd brought Bridget a cappuccino from downstairs.
"In me to do what?" she'd asked, gratefully accepting it.
"Tame Daniel," she'd answered with a smirk, then a wink.
She had also gotten many emails, phone calls and visits to her desk to congratulate her on her happy news. She had a pile of cards wishing Daniel and her well, to which she would glance with some frequency and smile. She loved that everyone at work had been so supportive.
Almost everyone, she would soon amend.
They were having lunch in Daniel's office when a commotion out on the main floor caught their attention. They both looked up just in time to see a tall, thin, bespectacled woman storm into Daniel's office, her chin-length brown hair swirling about her face.
"Daniel, tell me it's not true," the woman demanded, her eyes lit with anger. "They're telling me you've gotten married."
"Lara," said Daniel. "Allow me to introduce you to my wife, Bridget."
Lara's mouth dropped open. "You got bloody married and didn't even tell me? I thought we had something special!"
"Last year, when I was in New York, we did," he said calmly. "That's over now."
"But I thought—"
"Whatever you thought, it's wrong," he said; he looked upon this newcomer as if boring fire into her heart, and Bridget could not help wondering what his past with this stunning stranger was. "I'm sorry I wasn't able to let you know directly."
If Lara's jaw clenched any harder she would have thrown sparks from her teeth. She turned her gaze to Bridget. "Not sure if I should say 'congratulations' or 'my sympathies', Bridget," she said. "Oh, I know: 'Good luck, you'll need it.'" With that she swept out as quickly as she swept in.
"Well, that'll make the next week or so awkward as arse," said Daniel. "She's from the New York office."
"You must have had something serious," said Bridget, her voice lilting with humour. "You remembered her name."
The way Daniel laughed, then reached to kiss her, made her wish sincerely that they were not presently at the office.
"That reminds me," Daniel said as he reclined back into his chair. "What have you decided?"
"What about?"
"Your flat."
Sadness washed over her. As much as she looked forward to living at Daniel's, a small part of her would miss the flat she'd called home for most of her adult life in London.
"I'll help you pack," he continued.
"It's not that," she said, then explained about what she had just been thinking. "Just a lot of memories there."
"Well if you like," he said with a chuckle, "we can keep it, especially the bed, as an alternate shag pad."
"Oh, yes!" she exclaimed, and only after the momentary flash of horror on his face did she realise he had been joking. "Oh," she added dejectedly.
"No, no," he said. "I asked. We can do it. I'll pay into it."
She grinned, then leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his lips. "That would be wonderful," she said, still bouncing in her seat. "I could set up a writing desk there too, if I need to get away for some peace and quiet."
"Yes, yes," he said. "It's always a zoo around the flat."
"It's that Bosnian family," Bridget quipped.
…
Sat, 27 May
For only having been about three weeks in the planning, Mark was well impressed with the venue for the reception. He and Natasha had driven directly from London after an early lunch to his parents' to drop off their bags, then backtracked the short distance to Thrapston to arrive shortly after five. She had chosen to wear a very crisp, very expensive tailored pantsuit in a cool blue-grey; to Mark's eyes, its sole purpose was to disguise any hint of femininity behind straight lines and angles.
Upon entering the Ashton Room, he actually heard a sound of approval come from Natasha as she surveyed the room. "Quite lovely," she said.
"Mark, nice to see you."
Mark found himself face to face with Pam Jones, whose face was bright and shining in her pride for the day even as her voice was less than friendly. He smiled warmly in return, mindful of how rude he'd been on New Year's Day. "Thank you for having me. Mrs Jones, allow me to introduce you to Natasha Glenville, with whom I work in chambers. Natasha, this is the bride's mother, Mrs Pamela Jones."
"Charmed to meet you," said Natasha in her most saccharine voice as she took Mark's elbow; Mark could not very well object, though honestly would have loved to have pushed her away. "Simply wonderful, what they've done here."
"Thank you, Miss Glenville," said Mrs Jones, fairly frostily. "Lovely dress. Hope you enjoy yourself this evening." She turned her gaze to Mark. "Wait until you see her. She's the picture of radiance. Marriage suits her so well."
This pointed reminder of what he had himself squandered did not escape him.
"Unbelievable," muttered Natasha after they had wandered away from Bridget's mother. "She knows full well this is not a dress. And you! Why didn't you introduce me as your girlfriend?"
"You're not."
She gaped at him for a moment until she evidently realised it was unbecoming. "We've slept together."
"Twice," said Mark curtly, then saw Bridget's father. "We'll discuss this later."
He greeted Mr Jones with much the same warmness and in the same terms; he managed to disentangle himself from Natasha's clutches when she, in her petulance, made her excuses and left his side to speak to her friend Perpetua. "Congratulations, sir."
"Thank you, Mark," he said; he too was cool in tone. Mark could only think Bridget had told both of her parents how rude he had been to her at the Turkey Curry buffet—and that he deserved the rebuke.
With all sincerity, Mark said, extending his hand for a shake, "I wish your daughter every happiness."
His surprise was evident as he accepted the handshake. "Thank you," he said, nodding his head towards someone just outside of Mark's peripheral vision, "but you can give her your wishes directly."
Mark turned to see Bridget approaching. He didn't know where Daniel was, and frankly didn't care; he was rendered completely speechless by her appearance. Her golden hair was pulled up at the crown, tumbling down in gentle curls around her face and upon her shoulders. She wore a pale pink dress made of satin which was overlaid with a gauzy chiffon; the low V-shaped collar was made modest by a pane of delicate lace. The dress hugged her form to the waist, where it flared out to settle around her knees… and below that, very shapely legs that he could not help noticing.
It was soft and sweet yet quite alluring, almost sexy—and everything Natasha's outfit was not.
The sharp sound of his name brought him back to the present.
"I'm sorry, yes?" Mark asked, turning back to Mr Jones, who regarded him with an odd look, not irritated so much as puzzled, maybe amused.
"Did you hear a word of what I asked you?"
The collar of Mark's dress shirt suddenly became uncomfortably hot and tight. "I apologise, sir. I did not."
Mr Jones was definitely amused; the smirk gave it away. "Maybe now is not the time for me to be asking about work, anyway," he said. "Ah, here's Bridget now."
He faced her again to see she had come near to where they stood; she still bore a luminous smile. "Hello Mark," she said, surprising him by taking his hands in hers, surprising even more by getting up on her toes to peck him on the cheek, as if they were old friends whom had not seen each other in far too long. "I'm really very glad you could come."
"Thank you…" he began rather stupidly. "Thanks for having me."
She gave a little nod of her head. "If you don't mind," she said, "I'd like to have a word with you in private."
His brows raised slightly. "With me?" He could not imagine why.
"Yes," she said. "Is now a good time?"
He had no power to refuse. "Certainly."
"Great," she said, then looked away to her father; Mark had nearly forgotten that Mr Jones was still there. "Sorry to take away your chat buddy, Dad."
Mr Jones smiled. "No worries, poppet. I think I should mingle with the guests, anyway. See you in a few."
They went out into the foyer, then around the corner and ducked into an alcove by which there was not much foot traffic passing. She turned then looked up to him. "I'm just going to come straight to it," she said, her blue eyes almost mournful. "Daniel has told me that he's the one who broke up your marriage, which is… significantly different than the original story he gave me." He blinked in his surprise and moved to speak, but she held up her hand. "Yes, he lied to me, and yes, I know how that must seem, but the point I want to make is that I've misjudged you terribly, and I'm sorry. I can't excuse what Daniel did, but I have forgiven him, and I hope maybe someday you can too."
So great was his shock at this apology that it was many moments before it occurred to him that her expectant expression, her wide eyes gazing up at him, meant she wanted a response. "You were only working with the information you were given," he began, "and in that respect, you have nothing to apologise for… but I do appreciate it, and your candour."
She too seemed speechless for a moment until she smiled, then burst out with a little laugh. "You must really be a barrister," she explained at his confused look. "Most people would've just said 'Thanks'."
At this, he couldn't help smiling too. "Well, for what it's worth, thanks."
"Great. Pleased that's sorted," she said, beaming another smile. "Suppose we should get back. Hope you've got room on your dance card for me later."
"For the bride, of course I do," Mark said. "Though won't that make Cleaver a bit angry?"
"Well, if it gets the two of you talking to one another… it'll be worth it." She placed her hand on his upper arm in a reassuring manner. "I know you were good friends once. I think he's a changed man. Perhaps you two can be friends again."
A lot would need to happen before he would consider trusting Daniel Cleaver again, and in all honesty, Mark did not believe the man had changed enough, but after coming to a truce with Bridget he was not about to say so at this juncture. Instead, he offered a smile and said, "We probably ought to return. I'm sure there are aunts and uncles eager to see you."
"I'm sort of afraid of that."
On that note they walked together back to the room in which the reception was taking place. A great cheer went up and it was not until the assembled began singing that he realised that the relatives who hadn't yet met Daniel assumed Bridget was entering with her new husband. Bridget flushed crimson and made hasty apologies then went over to where Daniel was standing by the cake. As she spoke to him, Daniel shot Mark a furrowed-brow look, then returned his attention to his bride, kissing her on full the mouth as the group of people turned towards the newlyweds to pay their due.
"They make a nice-looking couple, don't they, Mark?"
The voice that addressed him was familiar, but it wasn't until a split-second after he turned towards her that he realised who she was. "Mrs Cleaver, hello," he said.
She smiled. She did not look significantly different than from when he remembered her best, almost twenty years ago; still very attractive, fashionably styled hair, well-toned skin and in good shape. "My word, Mark, it's been years," she said, then reached to give him a hug, "and for heaven's sake, call me 'Patricia'—you've got to be nearing forty by now."
"Old habits die hard," he said with a mild chuckle as she drew back; having known her since prep school, he didn't feel he could in good conscience refer to her by her given name.
"So did you know about this… wedding thing?" she asked.
"I didn't," Mark admitted.
"Very odd," Patricia said. "I would have thought that if he'd told anyone it would've been you. So she's a nice girl, this Bridget? I've only met her once before today—"
She went on, but Mark's mind was stuck in a groove over the implications of what she'd said: Patricia Cleaver had no idea that he and her son had had a fatal falling-out. He did not have the heart to break it to her now, not when she was so happy.
"So, Mark, do you know her well?"
"I… pardon me," he said, clearing his throat, hoping to cover for his inattention. "Not well, but well enough to know she's…" He paused, not knowing quite how to finish his thought, but could think only of Bridget out on the boat that weekend in the country, all golden sunshine and laughter. "Well, she's quite bright, funny, easy to talk to—"
"And something of a knockout," supplied Patricia with a grin.
"She is attractive, yes," admitted Mark.
Patricia laughed lightly. "Always the master of the understatement, you," she said.
"I don't mean to minimise anything," he hastily added. "She's a different kind of woman than Daniel's usual. Her attractiveness isn't merely superficial—rather, a reflection of how kind and sweet she is—something that will certainly outlast anything else. I think he sees that too."
He wondered if he had said too much, given her odd expression. "If she's good enough for you," said Patricia, "she's good enough for me. Well. So nice to see you again. Please keep in touch, Mark dearest." She hugged him again, then pecked him fondly on the cheek.
…
Not long after watching his bride enter the room on another man's arm, Daniel witnessed his mother hug Mark Darcy with affection. It might have bothered him more if his policy of non-disclosure to his mother hadn't abruptly seemed like such a bad idea.
"Daniel," came Bridget's voice, "I didn't know your mum and Mark Darcy knew each other."
"Yeah," he said, feeling a bit disconnected—had Darcy slipped up and told her? Surely not, he thought; she still looks happy. "Since prep school."
"I thought you only met in Cambridge," she said.
"Nope," he said, watching his mother; she was definitely still happy as a clam. He felt better, more relaxed. He then looked to her. "Have your friends made it yet?"
It was an effective way to redirect her attention. She beamed a smile all over again. "Oh, yes, got a text from the lot of them a little while ago; they're caravanning and last I heard they were checking in, will be down as soon as—Shazzer! Jude! Oh my God!"
At that Bridget sprinted away from him to embrace her foul-mouthed friend Sharon, then the smaller brunette, Jude; Bridget then dragged the lot of them, five in all, over to where he stood. He had met Sharon and Jude before (hence his knowledge of the former's spicy vocabulary), but not Tom, nor had he met Magda and Jeremy. Tom was looking at him appreciatively, which flattered him; the longer he chatted with Magda and Jude the more they seemed to warm to him, and he, to them. Magda's husband, however, said very little and kept his gaze on Daniel a great deal, almost as if he were sizing him up.
"So Daniel," said Magda, "small world: my Jeremy here is actually partners in chambers with Mark Darcy, whom I understand you know from uni! Isn't that a strange coincidence, considering how long Bee and I have been friends, and how long—?"
"Very strange," interrupted Daniel. What he thought stranger still was that his old friend and his new wife had never met before this year; frankly, though, he was getting a little sick of Mark Darcy cropping up everywhere. "My apologies," Daniel said quickly. "I'm clearly in need of another drink. Come, join me."
…
Everything about the day was utter perfection. Bridget got to talk to Daniel's mum, who truly did not think badly of her new daughter-in-law; she enjoyed being fawned over by relatives and friends; she ate from the delicious buffet until she swore she was testing the structural integrity of the seams of her dress, and drank enough to get a pleasant buzz, but not so much that she was pissed; they cut the cake and had it with tea and coffee; she danced with her husband, her father (to the dismay of her mother's mascara), and even Tom and Jeremy while somehow managing to deftly avoid Geoffrey Alconbury—
As she sipped at a glass of water as her father thanked everyone for coming, she spotted a cluster of her friends and she was reminded that she had one dance yet promised before the night was through.
"Bridge." It was Daniel, sliding his hand around her waist before she'd had a chance to move. "Have we made a decent enough appearance yet?"
"Daniel, don't be like that. It's my mum's wildest dream come true—"
"And not yours?"
"Shush," she said. "Actually, I'm having a pretty great time, too. Aren't you?"
"Of course, love," he said. "But it's all so wearing—love her, but that Una woman and your mum… they are prize talkers."
It was one thing to think unkind thoughts about her mum and Una, but another altogether to hear Daniel say them. She frowned.
"You know what I mean," Daniel added penitently. "I really did not need to know about Mavis Enderbury's prize hydrangea."
"Yes, I know what you mean," she said tersely, "but you know, the bridal suite is not going anywhere… and it's not like we haven't already… well, you know. Anyway. I'm not done having fun yet."
He offered an impish smile, then bent to kiss her. "A thousand pardons, love. You go on having fun. Tom, Shaz and I are going to have a fag outside."
She watched him leave, then made her way over to where Magda, Jude and Jeremy were standing, happily chatting with Mark Darcy, who looked a bit like he was a million miles away. She approached with a smile.
"Bridge!" said Jude.
…
The sharp sound of the bride's name snapped Mark to attention from his reverie about the day, the surprise and revelation that Jeremy's wife was a long-time friend of Bridget's, as was Jude Russell, the head of investments at his bank. Automatically his gaze went directly to Bridget.
"Glad to see you're all having a good time," Bridget said. "I was just coming by to see—"
"Yes, of course," Mark said, a bit more abruptly than he intended. "Your promised dance." He held his hand out just as the music began to play once more.
As chance would have it, the song that came on was one for which he'd a soft spot for some time, not that he was very familiar with popular music, but upon hearing it once while driving in his car, he'd made certain to take down the artist and title.
"Thanks again for inviting me," Mark said, taking the lead. "I wasn't sure about coming but…"
"I'm glad that you did. Chance to clear the air." She smiled. "Where's your date?"
He hadn't thought of Natasha since she'd sat stonily beside him while they ate the buffet dinner. He certainly hadn't seen her again. He realised he didn't really care. "No idea. I should have just come alone."
"Ouch," she said, which made him chuckle. "Hope you're ending it."
"Oh, we're not together," he said. "The problem is that she disagrees with my assessment."
At this comment she tossed her head back and laughed, the waves of her tresses sliding along her shoulders. "Oh, Mark, that's terrible," she said. "You're certainly sending mixed messages bringing her to a wedding."
"Reception," he said quickly.
"If you want to split hairs," she said with a grin.
She was absolutely right, of course; what had he been thinking, feeding Natasha's mania in this way? What must Bridget have thought of him for it?
"Don't worry, it's not like you punch kittens in your free time," she said. Feigning mock horror, she asked, "Or do you? You look sort of mortified."
He relaxed into a smile again.
"You dance like your father," she said unexpectedly.
"My father?" he asked.
"Yes, I danced with him earlier. Very kind, very gentlemanly. Wished me every happiness."
"That sounds very much like him." Mark wondered if his father knew of Daniel's involvement in the breaking up of his marriage and had just been tactful, or if, likelier the case, his mother had just kept her husband in the dark on details. Her words also made him realise that he had not actually given her his own congratulations. "You know, I wish you every happiness, too."
After a moment, she said, "It's very kind of you to say, given… well. You know."
"Yes," he replied, then added, "and I do mean it."
A comfortable silence enveloped them as they carried on dancing. The soft piano and sentimental lyrics of the song penetrated into his head; with the scent of her light, lovely floral perfume and the feel of her dancing in his arms, swaying to the music with him, he knew his memory of this dance, for good or ill, would rival the memory of her in the rowboat out on the water in the country…
…on the day before she was married to Daniel Cleaver.
The song ended, and she drew back with a smile. "Good luck," she said.
He drew his brows together.
"With your date," she explained.
He turned to follow her gaze. Natasha stared back with a cold glare, clearly furious. "Right."
She patted his arm again. "Thanks for the dance."
As he watched her drift away towards Daniel—who was also staring daggers at him—the song lyrics popped unbidden in his head. He cursed himself for thinking it, because it was entirely too ridiculous, based on nothing more than a few meetings and not even enough conversation to fill a single sheet of paper, yet there it was, dominating his thoughts:
I've been searching a long time
For someone exactly like you
…
"Why were you dancing with him?"
"I knew you'd ask that," she said, with an almost playful tone of voice. "He's just a friend, Daniel. Actually, at this point, an acquaintance. I've barely even seen him outside of your company."
Daniel took a calming breath. She was right. "Sorry." He reached up and stroked her cheek gently.
She patted his hand. "Are you jealous?"
"Jealous? Me? No." He was, however, irrationally afraid of turnabout; that Mark Darcy would somehow exact revenge for what Daniel had done by sleeping with Bridget. Of this his new wife would never know. He slipped his arm about her waist. "Today's been a terrific success, wouldn't you say?"
She smiled warmly, a far-off look in her eyes. "Very nice. A dream come true."
"And things are winding down; the sun is setting on this wonderful day. Why don't we start to say our goodnights, then take advantage of that wonderful bridal suite? Have a little more champagne… and I'm pretty sure there are some chocolates waiting for you."
That elicited a broad smile. "I suppose now it's decent."
After a warm exchange with their guests, Bridget's parents and Daniel's mother, they headed out of the room to light round of applause and headed up the stairs. "I insist in carrying you over the threshold," Daniel said as he opened the door.
She giggled, but teased, "We've done that."
"Let's try a different position, then," he said, then bent to gather her up over his shoulder. She shrieked in surprise, then laughed as he took her into the room, kicked the door closed and threw her down to land on her backside on the duvet of the very posh, very cushy four-poster bed.
She did look utterly ravishing sitting there amongst the fluff and satin of her dress, her coiffure slightly mussed from his playfully rough handling, her eyes sparkling as she leaned back on her hands. Oh, Cleaver, he thought; do not fuck this up.
…
Natasha didn't say a word to him, not until they had reached the car and were on the way to his parents' house, and even then, only in response to Mark's speaking:
"I'm sorry."
"Sorry for what?" she snapped. "Oh, right. Bringing me with you as a date then completely ignoring me to talk to Jeremy and his eternally pregnant cow of a wife, not to mention fawn a bit excessively over the bride."
The possibility of the transparency of his thoughts while dancing with Bridget took him by surprise, but he retained his composure. "I remind you, Natasha, that you're the one who invited yourself to come."
"You didn't brook any argument."
He remembered his mother's comment. "Perhaps I should have. I'm afraid my constant agreeing to your invitations has given you the wrong impression."
"It's not my fault," she said in an icy tone, "if you don't have the fucking backbone to say no."
"You're right, and I'm sorry." He flicked on the indicator. "It won't happen again."
They drove in silence and when he glanced towards her, he realised she looked uncharacteristically sad and vulnerable. She noticed him looking, and rather than pretend she hadn't had a moment of weakness, she acknowledged her state: "I don't know what I can do. What I've done wrong. Why you don't want me."
He didn't know what to say to that, but he grasped the opportunity to make himself crystal clear. "I'm sorry. You are a valuable friend and ally, but I don't love you."
After a moment's silence she exhaled roughly and said in a flat tone of voice, "I never said anything about love, so stop fucking apologising, already."
He thought enough had been said, so he chose not to respond.
As they approached the drive she said curtly, "I think I must insist on heading back to London tonight."
There was a moment, a very short moment, during which he considered capitulating. Instead, though, he found himself saying, "I'd be happy to take you to the train station."
She did not say anything until he rolled to a stop near the front door. "I'll get my bag from the foyer, if you'll let me in for it."
He was grateful for the foresight to have asked his mother to make up a room for her, but was equally thankful he had not informed her of it in advance.