Missed Connections

By S. Faith, © 2018

Words: 13,143
Rating: M / R
See Chapter 1 for the summary, disclaimer, etc.

Chapter 2

Have escaped parental hell. Let me know when we can meet—can really use it after first day back to work.

It took Mark a moment to realise that the text message was from Bridget about the owed coffee, and he laughed a little.

Are you talking about coffee, he replied, or a cocktail?

After a moment she responded again. LOL, don't tempt me. But all indications were that she was typing again. Though, you know… I'm game for a cocktail if you are.

He couldn't think of a reason why not. He responded, Sure… have a place in mind?

He waited, watched her type, then stop, then type again, until finally: The American Bar, at the Savoy?

This surprised him a little. He had expected her to choose something a little more bohemian. Perhaps she was choosing it thinking it was a place he wanted to go. Yes, that's good. 6:30pm? He sent it, then added, Give or take a few minutes.

OK, she replied. Will try not to get my handbag caught in the door this time.

He chuckled a little. A self-deprecating sense of humour spoke of a certain level of humility, and he liked that.

Mark arrived promptly at 25 past the hour, scanning the crowd in the bar before ascertaining that she had not yet arrived. He wasn't surprised. In fact, he expected that she'd be late again, as if it were a bizarre sixth sense, so he sidled up to the bar and ordered a scotch and a charcuterie plate to share.

He raised up the glass and looked around again at the sea of anonymous faces, looking to see when she might arrive. After a few minutes of scanning the area, he realised that most of these people were young professionals in their work suits. People dressed very much like him. It reinforced his opinion that she had picked the place to try to accommodate him.

He felt his mobile vibrate in his pocket. He pulled it out to read it.

Nearly to Temple Station, incident-free!

He smiled, then raised his tumbler up for a sip of the amber liquid and continued the careful visual scan, though as soon as she did arrive, he realised he needn't have bothered. No one else in the place wore knee-high boots, black tights, and an orange skirt. Her hair was pulled up at the crown, mussed from the wind outside, wisps of her blonde hair framing her face. The purple muffler hung loosely around her neck; the ends flew out behind her as she rushed in.

She then spotted him at the bar. First she offered a smile, but it quickly turned into a little scowl. As she came closer, she said, pointing to his drink, "That's supposed to be on me."

"Nice to see you again, too," he said drolly. "You can get the second round." He paused to take in the last of the drink in and then set down the empty tumbler. "It's been a day."

"Fair enough," she said with a small smile. She turned to get the attention of the barman, but with the crowd and the fact that she was shorter in height than most of the other patrons, she was having no luck at all.

He decided to intervene on her behalf. He raised a hand and gave a little wave. She turned to look at him as he did.

"What are you doing?" she asked, a bit indignant.

"Getting the barman's attention for you." He nodded to indicate he had succeeded.

"Hello, yes," Bridget said, snapping back to face the barman. "Another of whatever he's already had, and a mojito for me."

"Yes, miss."

The barman poured their drinks and set them down; she picked hers up and then turned back to Mark. "Well. Here's to lost things finding their way home."

Mark raised his tumbler, too. "Hear, hear."

They made their way to an available table, slipped out of their overcoats. She was reluctant to reach for something from the meat and cheese plate Mark had ordered that arrived to the table just after they had, until he told her to please help herself.

After a few moments of silence, she said, "So, do they expect you to hit the ground running after the holidays like they do where I work?" He always expected to pick up where he left off, so he wasn't sure what she was getting at; he let her continue. "I always feel like it's cruel not to let you ease back into it, after getting in the habit of lazing about, eating chocolates and watching the telly…"

She had a point, and he nodded. He had spent a lot of time actually relaxing and watching the football. "It took me a while to pick up the threads of my pre-holiday work."

"Yes! That exactly!" she said excitedly, then sipped her drink again. "Oh, that is a good drink. They do make them strong here, don't they?"

"That's what I've heard," Mark said. "I don't typically get a mixed drink."

"Scotch, eh?" She made a show of looking into his tumbler, and pulled a little face. "That's serious business."

"Not a fan?"

"It's a bit too harsh for me," she said.

"Perhaps an acquired taste, then," he said. "Or perhaps just a preference. It'll always be the same, more or less. I don't have to guess whether it's going to be strong or weak. Macallan 18 is pretty much always Macallan 18."

"You know what you like and you don't take a chance with something you might not," she supplied. "Wait, that came out wrong, sorry. I mean, it's comfortable. I get that." She grinned. "I pretty much never stray from the same Ben & Jerry's flavour."

At this, he couldn't help but chuckle. "That's it exactly," he said. "And don't worry. No offense was taken."

They engaged in more small talk, mostly to do with the weather and the subject of why he was unavailable before the holidays (her response, utterly earnestly: "You were living in New York? How exciting!"). He had been pacing himself as they talked, so he still had plenty of his drink left when she ordered a second mojito for herself. He declined having another. "I'm probably going to regret this, but they're so good," she said. "And today was so rough."

"So what is it exactly that you do?" he asked.

"I work in publishing," she said. "Publicity. It can be dreadfully dull, with the occasional book launch party. You? My mum mentioned you were a barrister—is that right?"

He nodded. "Human rights cases," he said.

"Jesus," she blurted. "And here I am complaining about my stress…" She looked a bit sheepish. "Mum had said you were some top barrister commanding hundreds of pounds an hour, but I assumed she was just, you know. Upselling you."

He couldn't help laughing a little again. It was a confession he had not expected to hear. It made him think about all of the things his mother (and Una Alconbury) had said about her. He had to wonder if 'millions of men' taking her out wasn't something of an exaggeration. "In this case, she wasn't."

"She always does, so I just assume," Bridget said, swirling her drink with the straw. "Shit, I really want another, but I have to work in the morning."

This statement prompted him to glance at his watch. To his surprise, they had been talking, picking on bar food, and drinking their drinks for two hours. "Yes, probably a good idea say goodnight," he said. He then smiled. "Thanks for the drink."

"Thanks again for my muffler," she said, then rose from her seat. "Time to wind my way home. Ooh." She wobbled on her feet a little, grasping the edge of their table. "Definitely stronger drinks than I'm used to."

"Let me drive you home," he said; he couldn't let her navigate the Underground as unsteady as she was.

"Oh, you brought your car?"

He nodded.

"If it's no trouble, I'd really appreciate it."

"No trouble at all," he said.

They donned their coats and gathered up their things; he guided her towards the exit, a steadying hand between her shoulders.

"I'm not completely plastered, you know," she said, once they were in the relative quiet on the pavement outside, "but thanks all the same for that."

"My pleasure," he responded automatically. "Come, my car's this way."

Once they reached it, he pulled the door opened for her. He noticed that she was smirking as they buckled in, and he gave her a curious look that prompted her to speak.

"Really glad you're not an axe murderer, 'cause this a really nice car."

He couldn't help but smile as he turned the key to engage the engine. "So, where do you live?" he asked. "So I can program the satnav."

"Ah, yes, right."

Within minutes they were on their way; a comfortable silence filled the car, and his thoughts drifted back to the evening. It had been quite pleasant; she was not the kind of woman he would have ordinarily met in his social circles. Frankly, it was a rather refreshing change of pace. Mark wondered how they might have hit it off on New Year's if not for the chance occasion on the Underground, if he had not been the one to find her muffler. Given how they had both bristled at first at the set-up, he didn't think it would have gone well at all.

They were to her building in very little time. He glanced over to see that she was sort of gazing out of the windshield in an introspective way. Politely, Mark cleared his throat. She started. "Sorry, was off in my thoughts," she said, then smiled. "Thanks for the lift home." Before he had a chance to get the door for her, she opened it, then stepped out and was running off towards her building. Within another moment, she was inside.

As he drove home, he heard his mobile buzz a few times. When he checked the message upon pulling up in front of his home, he started to laugh a little.

Hi—can't believe this happened again, but please tell me my muffler is in your car…?

He turned on the interior dome light and there it was, in a pile on the floorboard. How had that even happened?

Fear not. Indeed you did manage to leave it behind.

After a pause, she responded: Oh thank goodness. Swear that usually am not this careless.

He was convinced from their interactions to date that she was indeed usually this careless. He smiled to himself in his observation.

Hate to be a pest, but can I stop by your office or something to pick it up?

Court this week, he responded. Will let you know when it would be convenient to meet.

There was silence until he got back into the house.

You know, before we met in person that would have seemed a bit gruff. But oddly now it does not. Let me know. xx

He blinked at the "xx" at the end of the message until another message came in.

Almost immediately she added: Disregard that. I mean, you know what I mean, right?

He replied right away, even though he was not sure at all what she meant. It's disregarded.

OK. Hope to hear back soon.

He set his mobile down onto its charging pad, then slipped out of his overcoat and shoes. His mind was even more occupied than before. What had she meant by that closing?

It was nothing, he decided, as he scale the stairs towards his bedroom. She was… well, he thought of the words he'd once used to describe the scent he associated with her, and how well they described her: sweet and a little nutty. She was probably just used to signing her text messages to her friends with it. He supposed it was a promising sign that she felt comfortable enough to let her focus down, to think of him as a friend, and append the endearment onto his message, but…

But maybe it wasn't nothing. Should he assume it wasn't? He loosened his tie, then tossed it gingerly onto the foot of the bed. He glanced up and at himself in the mirror. What if there was something to it? What would be the harm in asking her out on a proper date? The worst that could happen was that she could say no; it would be a blow to his ego, but his evening would be no different than before. If she said yes, though…

He noticed then that his reflection was smiling.

…

Mark strove for casualness as he held the mobile in his hand, but he had to admit a little nervousness. People asked other people out on dates through text all of the time, or so he was led to believe by the secretaries at work. He had never been very confident asking women out, because he hadn't had the greatest luck in the past. More recently, he couldn't be sure whether they were really interested in him or his money.

Nothing ventured, nothing gained, thought Mark, as he began to type into his mobile.

Are you free for dinner on Friday night?

After he sent it, the silence was agonising. How long was too long, these days? He had no idea. Then he saw the indication that a response was incoming, the animated ellipsis.

Dinner?

He sighed. This was when tone of voice would have been helpful. He went for humour.

You know, that meal you eat after work.

This time the typing activity came much more quickly.

LOL. Well, obvs. Like… a date?

Humour was obviously working well for him.

Absolutely. Was planning on taking out your muffler, thought you might like to come along.

This time the length of her silence was longer than the first, and he began to worry he'd really stepped in it. Then she began to type again: Yes, sure, sounds nice.

He was not convinced. Are you sure? Was only kidding. Sorry to offend.

Is ok. Not offended. Little odd, is all. Will explain on Friday.

Intriguing.

He asked, Have a favourite place? Or I can pick. Let me know.

OK, she replied.

Before Friday, preferably, he added.

She replied one more time, and the message contained only an emoji, sticking its tongue out, as if (teasingly) offended that she might not respond in a timely manner.

He had a fleeting thought that it was perhaps the first time he had ever seen that emoji.

He realised that the court recess was just about over. He pressed the button on the side to darken the screen, then tucked the mobile back into his jacket pocket, and switched his mind back into work mode.

In fact, he went so deep into work mode that when his mobile announced an incoming message later that evening, he was genuinely confused as to who it could be. As he read it, though, he wondered how he could have forgotten.

Hi! How do you feel about Moroccan food?

Honestly, it was not at all what he expected to get in a response. When he'd asked women out in the past, they would often suggest the name of the latest trendy bistro. He should have expected this kind of suggestion from her, though.

Love it. Completely open to it.

She replied: Oh, goody! Will send you address. What time?

He considered a moment. Six-thirty seemed too early for her to get away from work in time to make it, given how late she had been for the Pret meeting and their drinks date. 7pm?

She responded: Sounds good.

Do you need a lift?

Is all right, we're coming from different directions. Easier to meet there, I think. See you then!

A few minutes later his mobile pinged again, providing him with the name and address of the restaurant. He hadn't heard of it before, but looking at their website and browsing the reviews, it looked like she'd really picked a winner. He pocketed the mobile, a smile upon his face. He was, surprisingly enough, really looking forward to Friday night.

…

He stared at the restaurant front, then stared at the information on his mobile. Surely there was a mistake? He had to wonder if he had come to the wrong address. It seemed dark, it was a bit dingy, and he hadn't seen anyone enter or exit in the few minutes he'd been standing there.

He spotted the name of the restaurant hanging over the door. Hesitantly he reached for the door and pulled it open. Instantly he realised how deceptive outward appearances could be. The soft amber glow of the lighting reflecting off of gold linework on the painted walls, the sounds of a gentle but persistent drum, and the perfume of spices hanging in the air… the overall warmth of the place was undeniable.

He would have thought he'd have learned his lesson by now about appearances.

"May I help you, sir?"

Mark turned around to see the querulous face of a woman whom he assumed was the hostess. She was looking at him as if he had stepped out of a time machine come from the past; a quick glance around told him that the suit he was wearing was not commonly seen among the clientele. Fair enough, he thought. His work suit was a bit too formal for this place.

"Yes, hello, I'm meeting a friend here. I don't think she's arrived yet." Just then it occurred to him that he should have looked into making reservations. "I'm sorry, I don't think she phoned ahead to reserve a table."

"That's all right; we have tables available. Party of two?"

"Yes, thank you."

"Can we bring you refreshment while you wait?"

"Water, please."

She nodded, then retreated. A server returned shortly afterwards to bring him a tall glass of ice water with a mint leaf in it. He thanked her, took a sip, and began inspecting the artwork on the wall in the waiting area. It was nothing more than a geometric pattern, but there was something comforting, almost meditative, in allowing his gaze to lazily follow that pattern around in zigzags…

"Hey, sorry I'm late—hope you haven't been waiting long."

Mark turned away from the painted wall at the sound of her voice, though it took him a moment to speak; she wore a dark blue dress, her hair was down and wavy, brushing against her shoulders looking impossibly like the gild on the walls. He thought she was wearing a little more eye makeup than usual; stunning, enhancing the blue of her eyes, and not at all over the top. The overall effect was just beautiful. "Hello," he said. "No, I've only just arrived myself." He looked to his watch and found he had been lost in the painting for fifteen minutes at least.

She smiled. "Oh, whew. I've kept you waiting too many times already."

"I think they were preparing a table," he said, then looked to where the hostess waited, and she looked up just as he looked over, and nodded. "I think they're ready for us." He knit his brow. "Did you have a coat?"

"I've hung it over there," she said, pointing to a coat rack near the hostess' stand.

"Ah. Good."

"I'll show you to your table," came the soft interruption from the hostess.

She took them to the corner, where the walls were painted a dark blue with a gold geometric pattern and stars overlaid. A lovely candle lantern sat in the middle of the circular table, casting little stars of light onto the tablecloth. The atmosphere was perfect.

The hostess laid two menus down. "Your server will be along soon to take your order," she said with a smile. "No hurry, though."

The circular table had a bench-type seat; she entered from one side, and he, from the other, meeting somewhat at a right angle to each other around the table.

She smiled a bit awkwardly, looking at him over the light of the candle. He asked her if something was wrong. "No, not wrong; it's my favourite table, but I'm usually with my friends. I didn't really think about… well, it's kind of…" Her cheeks went pink.

"Kind of what?" he prompted.

"…romantic."

He smiled a little. It was a little romantic—perhaps more than a little—but he hoped she didn't feel pressured by it. "It's lovely, relaxing, soothing after a very long and trying week. I'm not reading anything more into it."

She relaxed, smiling again. "Good," she said. "That's why I like it so much. It's a bit magical, if I'm honest."

"It is," he murmured. Returning to the task at hand, he took the menus and handed one to her. "What do you recommend?"

"The big group of us usually get and split this—" Her pink-tipped finger pointed to the chicken and pastry bisteeyah. "But I've also gotten this—" Now she pointed to the slow-cooked stew called tagine. "—and it's very good. In fact, I've never been disappointed by anything I've had here."

"Good to know." After much perusing, he decided to go with the tagine, and so did she. "Was thinking of these for a starter." He indicated the briouates, little pastry rolls filled with goat cheese, sour cream, sun-dried tomato, and other spices.

"They sound nice," she said. "If you meant to split it."

"Yes, of course," he said.

"And mint tea. Can't not have mint tea."

"'Moroccan whisky'," Mark joked with a little laugh. "Pretty much have to ask them not to bring it."

She giggled, tucking her hair behind her ear. He noticed she did this often, but it never stayed. "Oh, but they also have some cocktails," she said. "One's a Moroccan Mojito that is absolutely killer."

"Sold."

"And then there's dessert, but I don't even want to look at that yet, or I'll just want to dive straight into a plate of chebakia."

There was a photo in the menu of this dessert, which looked like rose-shaped fried dough drizzled with honey. He had to agree it looked quite delicious.

After placing their order, they sat for a bit in silence, but it was comfortable. Relaxing. He felt oddly unpressured to impress; he hoped she felt the same. "I'm glad you agreed to dinner," he said. "I'm grateful for your muffler. Hope you don't mind I left it in my car."

"That's fine," she said. "Oh—" She laughed nervously. "I promised to explain that reaction about your joke… it's just… do you know a man called Daniel Cleaver?"

Mark would have been less surprised to hear her ask him if he knew King Richard the Third. "We used to be university mates, but I haven't spoken to him in years. Not important now. Why do you ask?"

"He had recently made a similar joke trying to ask me out," she said. "Offering to take out my skirt, and I could come too if I liked."

Of course; Mark had probably pulled the joke out of the recesses of his memory without even realising consciously where it had come from. "That doesn't surprise me," Mark said coolly. "I apologise that I even remotely sounded like that man." He cleared his throat. "Sorry. The less I think about him, the better."

She looked at him, deeply introspective. "He must have hurt you badly. I'm sorry to hear it. And I'm glad I never agreed. I'd thought about it, but he's my boss, and then your joke made me think that maybe he was just feeding me a line."

"Your… boss." It made sense. Cleaver was the editor-in-chief at a London publishing house. "Obviously," Mark said, "I'm glad you never agreed, too."

She grinned.

"I hope you didn't think I was feeding you a line," he said, suddenly concerned.

"I don't get the impression you go around feeding women lines," she said teasingly. "I mean, if you did, you wouldn't need to get set up with the likes of me by your mum." As she said it, she brought her hand up to cover her mouth. "Jesus, I'm sorry, I didn't mean it like that. And I haven't even had a drink yet."

"No offense taken," he said, laughing a little. "But you shouldn't sell yourself short, you know. I didn't ask you to dinner because of my mother." He reached out to place his hand over hers—

Just then, however, the goat cheese and tomato starters arrived, along with the cocktails. He sat upright and drew his hand back.

"Oh, this smells amazing," she said, her eyes lighting up with unmitigated joy at the plate set down before them. "And these cocktails are works of art."

He used the little tongs to put two of the small pastries on her small plate, and two on his own. He then picked one up and took a bite. He didn't bandy the word "amazing" around as often as she seemed to, but in this case, it was warranted. He nodded in agreement.

And then he tasted the drink. He would have to limit himself to this single drink; it would be easy to overindulge, so smooth and sweet was the flavour, despite the rum.

"Thank you, by the way," she said. "I mean, what you said about not selling myself short." She grinned, stirring the straw in her drink. "It does seem highly unlikely we would have gone out if not for our mums."

"I've got to disagree," Mark said. "If we're going to owe it to anyone, we need to owe it to your propensity for leaving your muffler behind."

At this she smiled almost shyly.

"It's true, I don't meet a lot of women," he said. The words flowed, perhaps thanks to the drink. "Certainly none like you, so different from the ones I meet at work. No, no, that's a compliment," he added hastily, at her reaction. "Definitely a compliment. They're stylish, posh, and utterly self-obsessed. Transparent as glass and only after one thing. And not the thing you're thinking of."

She looked a bit stunned at his confession, but then laughed aloud. "Revelatory," she said. "I always thought men had it all together as the pursuers, but that's not it at all, is it?"

"Some of us definitely feel pursued, to my usual discomfort," he said, a half-hearted grin playing on his lips. "But not this. This is… nice."

"It is nice," she said, still smiling. She placed her hand atop his, wrapping her fingers around his, squeezing slightly before taking her hand away. It was a quick gesture, meant to show casual reassurance, but to him, the touch of her hand against his was electric. If she felt it too, she didn't show it. He liked it. He realised he wanted more.

Before long the main course arrived, as did the mint tea; she ordered a second cocktail for each of them, and he did not speak up to say no. The tagine came with warm bread and he ate them together eagerly. She seemed equally delighted with the dish; as they partook in dinner and their drinks, there was very little conversation.

"Wow," she said, sitting back. "That was good. Even better than usual."

He had no basis for comparison, but he had to agree it was exceptional. He drank the last of the second cocktail and set down the empty glass. "Thank you for suggesting this place. It's a true gem."

"Thank you for asking," she beamed, pushing her unruly hair behind her ears again. "Torn. Dessert or no?"

"I'm game if you are," he said. "With coffee."

"Oh, yes, perfect." As she said this, she brought her hands together, which shook her hair free again. Quite without thinking he raised a hand and tucked it behind her ear. It made him realise too how much physically closer to each other they were now.

"Perfect."

The word had slipped from his lips before he realised it, and she met his gaze.

"Oh?"

He drew back his hand, regretting the discomfort he may have caused, but not the sentiment. "The night is," he said. "The food, the drink, your company. You."

He saw the pink rise in her cheeks again, and she glanced down. "Not me."

"Pardon?"

"Not me," she said again. "I'm anything but perfect."

"The funny thing is, Bridget, that I am growing rather fond of that about you."

She seemed to be thinking about what to say in response when their server came to inquire how things were going. She swept away their plates and took their order for a plate of chebakia and two coffees.

Once they were left alone again, he said, "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. I'm sorry."

"No, it's fine, I'm fine," she said. She met his gaze again. "I'm just… so far, I can find no flaws with you. It's a bit unnerving."

He smiled tenderly. "I can assure you, I have my flaws," he said. "For example—I tend to fold even clothes that are meant for the laundry basket."

This made her smile, then laugh. "Just picturing your laundry hamper stacked with folded socks and underpants."

"Accurate," he said with a smile.

The dessert and the coffees arrived, and with glee she plucked up one of the pastry roses. "It's the honey that makes these so good," she announced, then took a bite, making a small sound of delight at she did.

He chose one, too, and took a bite. Like everything else they had eaten that night, it was delectable, and the coffee served to balance the sweet of the dessert perfectly. Between the two of them, they cleared the plate in little time at all; it was just the right amount after the meal. He found himself watching her lick the honey off of her fingertips perhaps a little too intently. He looked away and to his coffee cup, which he picked up and emptied.

He indicated that he was ready for the bill, as much as he wished to stay in this corner with the golden stars cast upon the table and the shining lines and stars glowing on the wall.

"Thank you," she said just after the server had come to the table with the card reader.

"Genuinely my pleasure," he said.

"You know, I love sitting here," she said. "It's so pretty and peaceful, and it's even better when I'm not surrounded by my rowdy, pissed friends."

"I imagine so."

She shifted slightly to sit closer, then placed her hand where his rested on the bench's seat. He felt that electric warmth as she touched him, and he turned to look at her. He had looked at her many times over the course of the evening, but this time, something was ever so slightly different. He found it hard to draw his gaze away from her.

Just then, she leaned forward and planted a quick kiss on his cheek.

"We should go," he said, because it would have been inappropriate to try to kiss her there in public, as secluded as the table was.

"All right," she said quietly.