A Brand New Decade
Part 2 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

Again, "amnyous", thank you for the review, but I felt that your describing what you wanted to happen was too close to... well, just keep reading. :D


"Surprise, Bridge." With an intonation of pure evil in her voice, Magda spoke up from behind her. "We couldn't let you go without a party. You mean too much to all of us."

She turned to look at Magda, tears threatening her makeup again. "When…? How…?"

"All I was charged with was distracting you for the day, which we all clubbed together for," said Magda. "Everything else was them." Magda indicated her three other best friends.

"You made us promise not to talk about a party," said Shaz with the glee of someone who'd successfully pulled off a major coup. "You said nothing about planning one behind your back."

She laughed even as she fought back tears of happiness.

Tom reached up and put a party hat on Bridget, then kissed her cheek. "You look amazing, birthday girl," he said affectionately.

"You do, Bridget," said another male voice from very close by. She turned and looked straight into a familiar ivory jumper. It was, of course, Mark. "Happy birthday."

She smiled, blinking away dampness in her eyes. "Thank you," she said.

Quietly he said, "I hope my being here isn't—"

"No, no," she said, interrupting him, spontaneously giving him a hug, glad that he cared enough to come, even if he had been absent from her life for over three months. "I'm very glad to see you."

She felt his arms come up and around her in a very tight embrace. "I'm very glad to see you too," he said, his voice clearly emotional to her ears.

She pulled back, looked up at him, and wondered if, were they alone, he might actually kiss her, with the way he was gazing at her with such fondness.

"Happy birthday Auntie Bridget!" It was Jack, wrapping his arms around her legs, nearly knocking her over. "Come on! We have to eat so we can have cake!"

"And presents!" finished Harry.

She laughed, running her hands over Harry's and Jack's short ginger hair, casting her eyes to Mark again; for a moment, he looked very sad before his expression changed back to something more neutral.

"You look so pretty, Auntie Bridget." It was Constance, who, at age ten, seemed to be taller every time she saw the girl.

"And so do you," Bridget said, giving her a big hug, before hugging Jeremy, Magda, and then, one by one, everyone else at the party, especially Simon, whom she had not seen in far too long. Simon gave her a tight squeeze before pecking her cheek.

"Jack's right," said Jeremy. "Let's eat. Got a nice buffet of stuff in the dining room."

Bridget blinked in amazement, still overwhelmed by everything.

"Catering, darling," said Tom. "Don't think we would cook and possibly kill you on your big day, did you?"

She laughed; with Shaz' arm around her on one side, and Jude's on the other, they all walked to the dining room, where a most impressive spread of food sat on the side board, and table settings around the generous dining room table.

As she fixed a plate of food, someone started up some music, and she laughed; it was music from her teen years. The overriding thought in her head, though, was wondering how Mark had come to be here. Did Sharon invite him? And then she remembered: he'd probably been told about it by Jeremy at work.

Strangely, she hadn't thought of Mark once that day before that moment, seeing him at the back of the crowd, when her heart had lurched in her chest at the realisation that she still loved him deeply. She glanced up, saw him loading up his own plate with all manner of comestibles, and smiled to herself. Despite everything that had happened, she was glad to share this day with him; it would have been the first birthday of the last eight birthdays she would have been apart from him if he hadn't come.

At that moment, he looked up at her and smiled too.

A glass of sparkling wine was thrust under her nose by Magda. "I insist on a toast." Magda then pointed at the table, at which she was given a place of honour at the head.

"Well," said Bridget with a cockeyed grin. "If you insist."

She took her seat at the head of the table and divested herself of her party hat, as it as really cutting under her chin. She saw that to one side of her sat Constance, and on the other, Mark's name on the tented card. Her stomach did a little flip. She loved her lovely friends, who knew the depth of her feelings for Mark, and knew how their breakup (or rather, fizzle-out) had devastated her.

Suddenly, Harry came up and pushed his sister. "Why do you always get to sit next to Auntie B? It's not fair."

"Because I'm a girl," said Constance, pushing back, "and I'm the oldest, that's why. And I'm her godchild."

"I am too! I wanna sit there!" shouted Harry, looking angry and frustrated to tears as he punched her in the arm.

"Ow!" yelled Constance, tears welling in her eyes, her hand covering her injury. "Mum!"

"Children!" hissed Magda.

Bridget said, scowling, "No fighting at my party!"

"I have an idea," said Mark calmly; with great authority, he commanded, "Harry, come here." Harry did as told. "How about if you and I trade seats? I'll sit next to your sister, and you can sit here. But you have to apologise to your sister and promise me no more punching, because gentlemen do not punch." An image popped up in her mind of Mark punching out Daniel Cleaver, and it was all she could do not to laugh. "Does that sound like a deal?"

Harry nodded solemnly, then went over to his sister to apologise. Constance looked to Bridget for guidance as the nearest adult female. She nodded to indicate she should accept like a lady would. Jack, the youngest of the lot of them at age seven, was happily seated beside his dad, whom he idolised. Bridget was thankful that he, too, did not want to sit beside her.

"A toast," said Magda, holding her glass aloft. "To Bridget, dearest of friends, kindest of hearts, sweetest of souls. Welcome to your forties. The best is yet to come."

Her vision went blurry as she looked around the table at so many warm and loving looks, as everyone said, "Hear, hear!"; everyone, it seemed, except Mark, who only looked at her with an intensity that paralleled the first birthday they'd spent together eating blue soup and omelette. Her face flushed and she dropped her eyes as she and everyone else sipped from their flutes.

"I don't know what to say," she admitted in a tremulous voice, after lowering her glass again. "I'm blown away by all of this. Thank you."

"You deserve it," said Mark automatically, at which everyone else made sounds of agreement. She turned to look at him, meeting his gaze and blushing a little, before turning her attention to her dinner.

Mark being an extra seat away was almost as bad as being on the other end of the table; they could hardly have anything resembling a private conversation. However, it did afford her an opportunity to watch him interacting with Constance, who remembered him from previous visits and seemed to be more enamoured of speaking with him then with Auntie B. If Constance calling him 'Uncle Mark' like she did when they were together bothered him, he didn't show it. He was wonderful with her, talking to her like the intelligent young lady that she was; then again, had always talked to her in that manner, even earlier in her childhood.

"Aunt Bridget," said Harry earnestly from her right hand side. "We got a really, really good cake."

"Is it chocolate?" she asked.

"Oh no," he said with great solemnity. "It's made from dirt. With mud frosting."

Bridget's eyebrows rose. "Dirt? Really?"

"Yes!" he insisted; he was not yet, at age nine, so sophisticated in his fabrications that he could keep the smile from the corner of his mouth. "And the dirt's from France. The best French dirt."

She glanced up, saw that Mark had his ear on the conversation. "I hear the best dirt's from Spain," Mark offered.

"No way," said Harry. "I've tasted them all. France is best."

"I bow, then, to your expertise," said Mark. He winked at Bridget before returning his attention to the last of his dinner, a smile lingering on his lips.

God, she'd missed him.

"And what shall we be having with our dirt cake?" asked Bridget of Harry.

"Frozen space goo," he answered seriously. She bit on her lip to keep from laughing. "It's very rare, but this is a special occasion, 'cause you're as old as Mummy now."

"Harry," said Magda threateningly, flushing red. Others around the table chuckled.

"Well," said Bridget. "I very much look forward to my dirt cake and frozen space goo."

"Hey," said Harry petulantly. "You didn't ask about flavours."

"My apologies," she said, bringing her hand up to her chest in mock embarrassment to have caused such affront. "Please, do tell me about the available flavours of this rare delicacy."

His good mood restored, he said, "Well, there is Mars goo, which is pink, and Moon goo, which is white… and the stuff that looks like chocolate? It's not. It's really Venus goo."

"I can't wait to try them all."

"I hope you like them, Auntie B."

"I'm sure I'll love them," she replied, eating the last bite of food. She glanced up as she pulled the fork from her mouth only to see Mark was looking at her again with a soft smile and somewhat, well, gooey eyes.

They each brought their plates to the dish bin, all except for Bridget, whose empty plate was swept up and away by Mark. "Thank you," she said, rising to her feet.

"My pleasure," he replied, then he walked away.

"Harry's been studying space and the planets in school," explained Magda as she came nearer to Bridget. Even closer, she said quietly, "Mark being here really is okay? I mean, we weren't sure, but—"

"Don't give it a second thought," said Bridget. "I am truly happy to see him."

Magda grinned. "Thought you might be."

"Cake! Presents!" squealed Jack, who was tugging on her hand.

"Leave it to him to keep things moving along," said Magda. "Jack, not quite yet. We adults want to relax a little before we try to eat more."

"Aw, Mum," he said with a pout before bouncing away.

"We don't exactly have Pin the Tail on the Donkey set up," began Bridget, "or do we?" She mimed horror.

"No party games, I promise. Just… well. You'll see."

Bridget felt a tiny tinge of real terror.

They all filed out and back to the family room, where Bridget was invited to take a place of honour on the large sofa. Constance sat beside her again, as did Harry.

"What's this?" asked Bridget.

"You'll see," said Jude, echoing Magda portentously.

Mark sat beside Harry. Again, he was too far away.

The lights dimmed, Jeremy pressed play, and the telly screen flashed, larger than life by multitudes, a picture of herself as a baby. They all cheered. She felt herself chuckling despite her mortification.

She realised within a beat what the song was: 'Just The Way You Are' by Billy Joel. She was sure its choice was no accident.

The baby photo dissolved and was replaced by one of her as a toddler, blonde curls askew as she clung to the side of a sofa. Next came a picture of her as a child on a tricycle, then one of her in a dress in a paddling pool; she could not resist glancing to Mark, who smirked as he glanced back to her. He leaned into Harry and whispered something; Harry stood and Mark scooted over next to Bridget, their hips touching, before Harry took a perch on Mark's knees. Harry seemed pleased with his new vantage point. Mark reached for her right hand and squeezed it… and didn't let go.

Next came a flood of pictures of her through her adolescent years, some of which would have, under other circumstances, made her die of humiliation: winged specs, orthodontics, bad haircut. She only honestly cared at present about the hand enveloping hers, and what it really meant.

After that were some university pics, younger versions of Shaz and Tom along with her toasting with beer to something she had long since forgotten, and finally, some of her as an adult, from fire station fiasco to a lovely photo of her with Mark. She furrowed her brow. She vaguely remembered the occasion—a past garden party where she was looking very thin in a floaty white dress and he, very dapper in a dress shirt and tan trousers—but it was not a photo she'd ever seen before. She and Mark looked so happy together. Maybe it's Magda's, she thought. I'll have to ask for a copy.

At the end, some text came sweeping onto the screen, one line at a time:

WE LOVE YOU…
JUST THE WAY YOU ARE!
LOVE:
YOUR ADORING URBAN FAMILY

At that, she really did burst into tears of happiness; within a moment a linen handkerchief was pressed into the hand Mark had claimed but released just as the lights came up and everyone began to applaud. Harry jumped from Mark's lap, as distracted as his siblings were by thoughts of cake, as Mark looked at her. As she calmed her tears, dabbed under her eyes with the cloth, she mouthed a Thanks. He acknowledged it with a nod before he rose to his feet, then held out his hand to help her up. Silently she accepted it and stood.

"Presents or cake?" asked Magda.

"I couldn't eat anything more right now," said Bridget.

"Presents, then. You sit back down, we'll fetch your loot."

Bridget smiled as she watched most of the room file out to grab her gifts; Jude, Jeremy and the children remained. She then looked back to Mark, whose brows were drawn together.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You've got a bit of… right here." He pointed to the corner of his right eye.

"What, here?" Mirroring his motion, she pointed to her left eye.

"No, other side," he said. "Here. Give me the handkerchief."

He took it from her, then, holding her cheek in his left hand, he wiped at the corner of her eye with the linen. The feel of his fingers on her face had an unexpected effect on her; she suddenly felt she couldn't talk or move.

"There you are," he said, focused on her now-unsullied eye. "No more smudge." As he drew his hand away, his finger pads, his thumb, brushed along her skin.

"Thanks," she said in a small, strangled voice.

"Anytime," he replied quietly, smiling again, stepping back and clearing his throat just as Magda came in with an armful of presents.

"Oh my God," said Bridget; her shock increased when she saw that just about each of them bore equal amounts of gifts. "What is all of this?"

"Happy birthday," said Shaz with a grin. "We were all feeling very generous."

She brought her hands to her face again, covering her mouth. "I don't deserve—"

"You f—" Sharon's eyes darted to the children, then she amended, "You darn well do deserve it." Bridget heard Mark laugh low in his throat. "Now sit down and prepare to be lavished with goodies."

She did as told, and one by one she revealed the depth of her friends' thoughtfulness: pyjamas, candles, artwork, books, movies and so on. Near the end of it, she came to one she knew was from Mark; the glossy, minimalistic paper, the crisp edges and tasteful ribbon bespoke a professional wrapping job. Heart pounding in her chest, she untied the ribbon, slit through the tape with a fingernail; she wondered what he would see fit to give her in the company of all of her friends.

She opened the box, pulled back the tissue paper inside, and when she saw what was inside, she smiled, then began to laugh, looking up to Mark. "Thank you," she said, holding it up. It was a brand new journal; it was bound with cordovan-dyed leather that was embossed with an intricate knotwork design. The paper was handmade and was gilt-edged. Next to it in the box was a Mont Blanc pen in a box. "It's beautiful."

He smiled, nodded slightly. "You're welcome."

She put the lid on the box then set it down and Constance, her little helper, took it off to the table to make room for the next gift. The next three boxes were gifts that were made by the kids, hand painted coffee mugs that they'd made in craft class. Bridget smiled at the three of them, who smiled back proudly. "I'll use them every day," she said.

The last of the gifts, a brand new makeup kit from Colour Me Beautiful courtesy of Jude, was unwrapped, and thanks were made, when Jack shouted out:

"Cake!"

Everyone laughed.

"Yes, darling, it's time for cake," said Magda. "I'll put on some tea and coffee and get the cake all set up. Constance, Harry, Jack, come on; you can help me with the candles." For a terrifying moment, Bridget wondered if they were truly going to try and get forty candles on the cake. Jeremy, like a dutiful husband, popped up and said he'd finish clearing off the table to make room for cake and ice cream. Mark offered to help, and the two of them left.

"Having a good time, Bridgeline?" asked Tom, plopping down on the couch next to her and wrapping his arm around her shoulders.

"I'm having a great time," she said, closing her eyes for a moment and smiling. "Thank you so much for lying to me and telling me you would be out of town." They all chuckled. "I'm glad you decided to put this together for me."

"You're welcome," said Jude, standing before her. "We figured deep down inside, you really wanted the party."

"The attention, more like," teased Sharon from beside Jude. Bridget stuck her tongue out playfully.

"Love the hair," said Simon, sitting to her left, putting his arm around her too. "You look fantastic."

She smiled. "I feel fantastic," she said.

"I haven't seen you in far too long," Simon continued. "We definitely need to remedy that."

"Definitely! I'm so glad you're back. You should come out with us sometime," said Bridget.

"So," Simon said, grabbing her left hand, staring at her ring. Fuck. She forgot that she still wore her engagement ring out of habit and to keep unwanted male attention away. "Married yet? Or—"

Her face went crimson and he stopped speaking when she tore her hand back from him. "Please," whispered Bridget. "Not now."

Simon looked understandably confused. "But isn't that bloke who was sitting—"

"Simon," said Bridget. "Not now. I'll explain later."

"Okay, fine," he said, looking wounded.

"Oh, Simon," Bridget said sorrowfully, even as she smiled at him. "I'm sorry." She turned to hug him. "I am glad to see you, and I'm glad you came."

"Thanks, Bridge."

"We're ready for cake."

It was Mark. She broke from the hug and turned to look at him; his expression had gone neutral, stony. "Thanks," she said brightly, rising to her feet. "Are you all right?"

He looked from her to Simon, then back to her. "I'm fine."

The penny dropped. He had seen her hugging Simon. Could he have possibly been jealous? "Mark," she said. "I don't think you've ever met Simon. He's been in…" She looked to Simon. "Where was it? Peru?"

"Peru."

"…Peru for the last five years. He's an old mate of mine."

She saw the line of his jaw soften. She was touched, really, that he still felt jealous about her around other men. "It's… nice to meet you, Simon."

Simon grinned. "Nice to meet you, Mark," he said. With a devilish grin he asked, "D'ya know Bridget well?"

She was mortified, but Mark betrayed no emotion as he thought about his answer. Finally he said, "I gave her that ring." With a tight, stiff smile, he turned and headed towards where cake and ice cream were happening.

Great. They were already fighting without even getting to talk about anything.

She popped up from the sofa (hearing Simon offering apologies for what he'd said, but she'd deal with him later) and caught up to Mark, who stopped walking. "I'm sorry," she said. "Simon was just being an arse."

She saw his jaw tighten momentarily again before he turned and looked at her. "You still wear it," he said quietly.

"Yes," she said; she knew he meant the ring. "I do."

He looked thoughtful again before he spoke. "I'm sorry if my appearance here was something of an ambush," he began. "I saw the shock on your face when you looked at me."

"I saw the shock on yours, too."

"That's because you look breathtaking," he said simply, which surprised her. He continued. "If the children weren't so keen on cake, I'd ask if we could talk right now."

Her pulse raced. "We can talk later," she said.

He nodded. "I'd like that," he said.

"Auntie B!" shouted Jack from the dining room. "The candles are lit! Hurry!"

With a smile he added, "I'll take you home later, if that's all right."

She nodded.

The singing, the blowing out of candles, the cutting and the serving of cake and ice cream were all something of a blur; her mind was preoccupied with the upcoming talk with Mark set for after the party. Upon regaining some of her senses, Bridget proceeded to compliment Harry on a very fine dirt cake (chocolate with fudge frosting) and the best frozen space goo (she had chosen chocolate ice cream) she'd ever had the good fortune to taste.

Harry beamed proudly. "I thought you might like the Venus stuff," he said matter-of-factly. "Mum's book says that girls are from Venus."

She almost choked on her cake. Sharon sputtered and let out a guffaw. Magda turned bright red, but was obviously holding back a laugh.

"I suppose," said Mark in perfect deadpan, looking at his vanilla ice cream, "I should have chosen the pink."