Chaos Theory
Part 3 of 6

By S. Faith, © 2008

Words: 31,177 (this part: 6,170)

Rating: M / R

See Part One for details.

Mark suddenly had no reason to see Bridget every week, no reason that didn't seem completely awkward or forced. Tamiko, as she always did, got over the whole scene at the restaurant within the day; she thrived on drama the way other people thrived on air. The scales had fallen from Mark's eyes, though; he had begun to objectively see not only who she really was, but their relationship as a whole. He could finally see what others had been able to so easily discern:

They did not have a happy marriage; they had a convenient legal arrangement with occasional emotionless sex.

They were barely friends. He didn't love her. He wasn't sure he ever had.

He offered Bridget comfort via the phone a couple more times over the next week, offered Daniel his support over a glass of stout four nights out of seven in addition to the usual lunch date, regretting his actions but reiterating that Bridget deserved better. Mark did not once say, "I told you so."

His contact with Bridget grew more sporadic as the weeks passed. It killed him a little bit every day, but he did not want to prolong his agony; talking to her was bad enough, but wishing he could see her, wishing for more and not being able to act on it, was torture. She was healing from her break-up with Daniel; that much he was glad for. He had no intention of ruining that, taking advantage of her weakened emotional state, or allowing his own weakened will to cause more harm to more people than not.

Mark was, however, treading water, and he knew it. He just didn't know what to do about it.

………

It was some time just after the New Year that Jeremy advised he and Magda were throwing a house party at their country home (quaintly referred to as 'the cottage') to celebrate their wedding anniversary—"best thing you ever did for me," Jeremy had confided, "was giving me that kick in the pants"—and had extended an invitation to Mark and Tamiko.

Mark smiled. "I'm pretty sure the diary's clear, but I'll double check."

When he brought it up over dinner, Tamiko rolled her eyes. "Do we have to go? You know I find Magda a whiny cow and Jeremy's an absolute windbag, completely full of himself."

He swore she insulted his friends and acquaintances just to get a rise out him. "He's my partner in chambers as well as my friend and I'd like to show my support."

"But Mark," she replied, her tone verging on petulant, "it's winter. I don't want to go driving out to the middle of nowhere in winter."

He wanted nothing more than to get away from the city; if he could also get away from her and think, he might be able to figure out his next step. "Do you have any objection to my going alone?"

"Hm, don't suppose it would do any harm." She smiled up at him. "I could have the decorator over about the new drapes. I know how much you hate that sort of thing."

He nodded. Yes, he thought, keep yourself occupied with trifles and leave me alone.

………

Mark arrived to the cottage later on Friday than he intended to, having got misdirected more than once. The snow was really starting to come down, heavier than he could recall in recent years, and he wondered when Sunday rolled around, if they'd be able to dig their way out. He went to the front door with his little travel bag, shivering a bit in the cold, and knocked firmly.

He heard the lock turn—you could take the Londoner out of the city…, he thought bemusedly—then the door swung open. It was Magda. "Oh! Mark! I was beginning to despair you'd ever arrive! Please come in."

He set his bag down, then shook the snow from his coat and removed it; she took it and hung for him. He stepped out of his dripping wet shoes, saw his trouser cuffs were damp too. "Have a little mulled wine; just the thing for a cold winter night, hm?" she said with a smile.

"Sounds delightful." He stepped in to see the room was rather empty, just one other couple sitting on a sofa near the fireplace. He spotted a chair near to the flames and sat on the wingback, settled into it, stretching his feet in front of him to get warm and dry just as Magda brought him the promised mug of warmed, spiced wine. "Where is everyone else?"

"Oh," she said. "I had a few cancellations due to the weather."

"Ah."

"I'm sorry Tamiko couldn't join us."

I'm not, he thought, savouring the crackle of the fire.

"I have some dessert cakes if you like," she added, seemingly determined to be a good hostess.

"Marvellous," he said, sipping his wine, then closing his eyes and cradling his mug in two hands. The quiet, the solitude, with nothing but his thoughts…. he hadn't felt so at peace in months. He smiled, felt himself drifting off to sleep.

He then heard a voice he thought surely he was hallucinating until he opened his eyes.

"Mark?"

It was really her. Bridget.

He sat up as she took the empty chair beside him. "What are you doing here?" he asked.

She laughed. "It's nice to see you too." Her hair was down loose around her face, a little longer then when he'd last seen her. She had on dark blue denims and a jumper that was the same pale blue shade of her eyes, a little too long and too baggy on her. She looked absolutely adorable and devastatingly lovely. He realised instantly his feelings had not changed one iota; he was still painfully, achingly in love with her. It was so good to see her again that it was all he could do not to jump out of his seat and throw his arms around her.

He offered a smile, instead. "I only meant I wasn't expecting to see you here."

"Magda invited me, a little getaway. Figured it couldn't hurt." She looked around herself, as if she suddenly felt like she were in someone's crosshairs. "Did your wife come?" He opened his mouth to speak when she started to laugh, quoting him from what felt like long ago: "Ah yes, right. 'She never does. And I—'"

"'—usually don't either,'" he finished, cracking a grin. "You're looking very well."

She smiled. "Thanks." After a pause, she added, "It really is nice to see you. I wasn't just being facetious."

"I knew what you meant."

"You usually do," she said, before her smile faded. "You know," she said, "I've really kind of missed—"

She stopped talking as Magda came by with a plate of little biscuits and other confections, and with a polite smile, Bridget took a chocolate chip biscuit. He grabbed a few powdered tea cakes.

"I've missed seeing you," she said after Magda departed, completing her thought, her expression slightly sad.

He nodded. Saying he missed her too was the first step down a very slippery slope.

"How's—how's Daniel?" she asked. He felt a stab of pain through his centre at his friend's name, wondered if she still had feelings for him, wondered how horrible her days must be working with him on a strictly professional basis. She then added as if reading his thoughts, "I got a new job. I don't see him anymore."

"Oh. He's… well, he's Daniel," he said. "He's seeing an Indian girl now."

Her expression was hard to read, as was her response. "Ah."

"He was a fool—"

"Mark, please," she interrupted. "I'm over it. Really."

He hated to ask, but wanted to know: "Have you found… someone new?"

She shook her head, casting her gaze to the fireplace. "No."

"Ah." He bit his powdered cake. He was kind of relieved in a way to hear it.

"I'm actually doing all right without," she said, smiling crookedly. "You won't take credit, but you helped so much. I can't thank you enough."

"That's what friends—" He stopped short. He hadn't felt like much of a friend in recent weeks. He looked down into his mug, unable to complete the sentence.

She said nothing in response right away, and when she did speak, her voice was gentle and concerned. "Mark, are you all right?"

He didn't answer. He wanted to say he was fine, but he never could lie to her.

"Mark," she said quietly but insistently. "You know, my offer to listen still stands."

He couldn't bear to look at her, because if he did, he would pour the whole story out, and he didn't want to do it in front of even this small crowd. "I know."

"Maybe later?" She reached forward, putting her hand on his forearm.

He nodded, then looked up at last to meet her eyes.

"I understand." She patted his arm, then stood. "I'm going to go ask Magda if she could show you your room. Maybe we can talk once everyone's gone to bed…?" Her tone, her words, was everything tender and encouraging, more than enough to convince him he'd held in his thoughts and feelings for long enough.

He nodded. "Okay."

"Okay," she echoed with a smile. With that she left his side.

………

It was late, later than Mark was used to staying up, but he wanted to be very sure that no one else was awake when he wandered back down to the main room. He felt ridiculously nervous, like they had planned an illicit tryst, though deep in his heart he thought maybe he wished they had. At last he heard no more movement, no other sounds, and decided to head back to the fireplace.

She was already there, waiting for him on the big sofa in front of the fire, two steaming mugs on the small table there. Her big, beaming smile melted his heart and he suddenly couldn't wait to unload his burden into her care.

"I thought maybe you changed your mind," she said quietly. "Or fell asleep or something."

"No," he said as he took a seat. "Just thought it best to wait until everyone else had retired. No sense in—" He stopped, realising he did not want to bring up the rumour from the autumn party, especially when his thoughts had already betrayed his wedding vows. "Well. Anyway." He cleared his throat. "Where shall I start?"

"Wherever you'd like to." She handed him a mug; it was more mulled wine. "Tell me what's making you so unhappy."

As she was so good at doing, she'd cut straight to the heart of it, and he sighed. "Is it that obvious?"

"A little." She sipped her drink, not breaking eye contact with him. "Just tell me."

He was so afraid to say it out loud because saying it out loud made it somehow more real. However, he knew he must, and he did:

"I am not happy in my marriage. I don't love my wife. I don't know if I ever have. And I don't know what to do about it."

She blinked. "Wow," she said. "That's… pretty major."

"I know."

"Why did you marry her?" she asked tenderly. "I mean, if you didn't love her."

He chuckled bitterly. "I thought I had good reasons at the time. For years it was enough for me." His pulse was racing. "It isn't anymore."

"What changed?"

He swallowed hard. "I met you."

"What?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"What I mean is," he said, wildly back-pedalling, "that spending so much time with you and Daniel showed me what a loving relationship was really like."

As he said it, he regretted it. She looked down.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to poke at the wound."

She shook her head. "It's all right. I asked." She met his eyes again. "So are you looking for advice on how to maybe… fall in love with her? How to bring that dimension to your marriage?"

"No," he said. "I don't think I am."

She blinked confusedly. "What is it that you're looking for, then? What do you think will make you happy?"

You.

He wanted to say it so badly but knew he could not, because once that door was opened there would be no going back, and despite the torture these feelings caused him, he did not want to risk losing her friendship for anything.

So instead of confiding any of that, he merely looked down again, and said in a quiet voice, "I don't know."

She didn't say anything right away. The enticing steam and scene of cinnamon and spice tempted him to drink from his mug; he nearly emptied the whole thing at once out of sheer nervousness.

"Is there a reason," she began tentatively, "that you don't, you know, leave her?"

His eyes flashed up to her as if the idea had not occurred to him. Maybe it hadn't, at least not seriously. He suddenly could not think of a good reason why it hadn't.

"Sorry," she continued. "That was stupid of me to say. Obviously you would if you could."

"No," he said. "Don't apologise."

She went on: "It's not, after all, like it would be an easy thing to do, walking away from something like that, something you've invested a good deal in, even in your situation…"

"Admitting that I was unhappy out loud—admitting it to myself—meant that I had failed." He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, dangling the now-empty mug from his finger, watching it swing. "I have never been good at accepting failure."

She reached forward and took the cup from his finger, setting it down on the table, then her hand was sliding across the back of his hand, taking it in two of her own. This simple gesture of comfort overwhelmed him with emotion, and he hung his head, feeling tears spring to his eyes, which he immediately cursed himself for.

"It's all right to feel sad," she said. "Even if it's the end of something unpleasant, it's still the end."

"It's not that at all," he said, and it almost sounded cross, but she seemed to know the anger was not directed at her. "Do you know in the time we've been married I have never had a moment of consolation like this when I needed it? She thinks I'm too strong to need it, and I try to be strong, but sometimes I just—"

He froze in mid-sentence when he realised she had slipped one hand from his and stretched an arm across his back, curling her fingers to grasp around his shoulders, bending her head so that her temple was touching his upper arm. Her hip, her thigh were both up against his; he could feel her breast pressing into his side.

"I know," she said softly. He turned slightly to see her lashes brushing against her cheek as she looked to where she still had his hand in hers. "Sometimes you just need a hug."

Before he could rationally think about it, in the space of a moment, he was turning in his seat, freeing his hand to take hold of her face, catching her hair in his fingers, and clumsily bent to firmly, briefly, and chastely press his lips to hers, soft and pliable. He felt like she was burning into him along all points of contact, but especially white-hot was her mouth. The miracle was that she didn't immediately push him away and run at breakneck speed up the stairs; she allowed him this kiss until he pulled back what felt like hours later, the skin of her cheek hot under the palm of his hand as he rested his forehead against hers, trying to compose himself, and thanking God that she hadn't completely bolted.

"Sometimes I guess you need that too," she said gently.

He nodded and lifted his head back to look at her; those blue eyes in such close proximity nearly tore him to shreds inside. He brushed his thumb along her cheek.

"Yes," he said.

"It's all right," she began, covering his hand with her own. "I'm not offend—"

The tenderness, the caring, the magnetism of her presence, all of it broke down his resistance at that moment; he quickly, desperately pressed his lips to hers again to quiet her words, moved his hand to cradle her head, to hold her to him like he might not let go. This time it was no chaste peck; he kissed her earnestly, delicately, reverently, caressing her lips with his, teasing them with his tongue until they parted. When they did it was like a fire igniting his soul; he covered her mouth with his, passionately kissing her with abandon, seeking to satisfy the deeply anguished hunger he felt inside. To his surprise she kissed him with equal fervour, making soft little sounds in his mouth, which only served to intensify his efforts. His free hand moved down the knit of her jumper to grasp at her upper arm, the pale blue weave tight against his fingers.

He was then aware of her hands pressing gently against his collarbones as if to push him away, of her breaking apart from him to breathe in deeply. "Mark," she managed in a rasp.

It was the sound of her voice, the tremor of her tone, that brought him back to the present, to reality, and with ragged breath he reached his hand up to smooth down her hair, pressing his cheek to hers as he closed his eyes, steadying his breath, quelling his unbidden arousal.

"I'm sorry," he said; even as he had loved every moment of that kiss, he had to admit: "I should not have done that."

She was breathing a little unsteadily too. "Just got… caught up in the moment, I think." She chuckled but it sounded forced. "I guess I've been feeling a little lonely, too."

He released her jumper, smoothed that down too, and pulled back from her, even as he wished from that small glimpse of heaven that he could have more. He would have to excuse himself or be tempted to kiss her again. Forcing himself to meet her eyes, he said, "I should probably go to my room, try to get some sleep."

She looked wild, untamed and luscious, her cheeks rosy, her lips still parted and moist. "Um. Yes. I think that would be a good idea."

"Thank you for the talk," he said, having forgotten for a moment that they had not arranged to meet on the sofa for a mad snogging session. "It really helped."

She managed a smile. It was not convincing.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"I hope this doesn't make things weird between us."

He chuckled. "I think we'll be all right." Feeling recovered enough at last to rise from the sofa, he reached back down for her hand, then brought the back of it up to his lips for a peck. "Good night, Bridget."

"Good night. Actually—" She rose as well, her hand still in his until she pulled it free. "I'm going to just tidy up our mugs before I go to b—sleep."

With that he proceeded to scale the stairs, then lingered at his door, looking down from the loft as he watched her run her fingers back through her hair before gathering up the mugs and heading for the kitchen. Her self-correction had not escaped his notice.

With his travel case in hand, he ventured to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face and otherwise going through the routine of preparing for bed before returning to his room.

He climbed beneath the covers, switched off the lamp, and tried diligently to fall asleep, but had no success. He had been lying back on the bed, gazing up through the panes of glass at the silhouettes of the trees against the cloudy, hazy, moon-bright sky for God knows how long when he heard a gentle tapping at his door. He rose, dressed in his robe, pulling it snugly around him and tying the sash, and went to answer it.

It was Bridget, her face freshly scrubbed clean, her hair clearly just brushed and shining like spun gold against her shoulders. She was wearing a plush housecoat pulled closed and cinched shut, and a very disconcerted look on her face. He stood back, without words inviting her in. She entered, closing the door behind her, then stayed fairly near the door like she was uncertain about having come in the first place. He steeled himself for a talk about how things would not get weird between them because he would not let that happen. He would not let his lack of control ruin one of the closest friendships he had.

She didn't speak at first, and it was hard to discern the state of her expression in the dim of the room. "I had no idea things were that bad for you," she said at last.

"Neither did I," he said, straining for a light tone.

She lowered her head, as if looking down. "I can't stop thinking about it. I can't stop thinking about—" she began, then hesitated, looping her thumbs on her robe sash. "—you. And whether or not you're really all right… or need anything else."

It was a crossroad moment that ordinarily would have had a very clear and decisive direction for him to choose; but the truth of it was that he had wanted her very much for a long time; his marriage was bereft of love and lust; his resistance had been worn down to nothing; and just for once he wanted something wonderful, something pleasurable, for himself. He only hoped his advances were welcome.

So he stepped forward, took her in his arms and kissed her again with an ardour that quickly surpassed that of their earlier kiss, helped on by her most eager participation. There was a hesitation before he felt her hands on his forearms, then they swept up to his hair, her nails raking down over his sideburns, neck and collarbones, to the vee of exposed chest between the halves of his robe. He shivered as the tie came undone in her hands and she encircled his bare midsection with her arms, grazing her fingers lightly over his back as she leaned into him.

She must have loosened her own robe; this he realised as his bare skin made contact with hers, and he gasped, breaking the kiss at last, taking a step back from her and out of her embrace in his disbelief. Lest she think it some kind of rejection, he quickly raised his hands to her shoulders and pushed the robe over them; for her part, she dropped her arms down to allow the robe to fall to the ground. The moonlight was enough that he could make out the shape of her body, the full swell of her breasts; he wasted no time returning his kiss to her mouth. Eager to become intimately familiar with every curve and bend, he trailed his fingers over her velvety skin, as soft and supple as he'd only imagined, causing her to sigh and tangle her fingers in his hair.

Still engaged in an all-consuming kiss, he backed her up against the bed and in response, she lifted her legs one at a time to kneel upon it, urging his own robe over his shoulders and off. She then broke away from him to lower herself onto the mattress, pulling him forward to join her. He stretched out beside her, leaned over her, continuing his exploration as she made her own; as he became more deeply acquainted with her body, it gratified him to know those little sounds of delight were for him.

The intimacy of their lovemaking went beyond anything he'd ever experienced; he knew this might be the only night he had with her, so he was in no way tempted to rush a moment of it. She was exquisite; soft, and tender, warm and giving, yet at the same time not afraid to direct him in what she desired.

At the moment they joined she arched her head back and cried out; he was quick to cover her mouth with his to stifle her little gasps and utterances as he moved in her, and could feel his own desire building exponentially. The unbelievably heady sensations of their contact coupled with months of wanting her with no relief meant a very powerful and abrupt release, and, still kissing her, he tensed as he thrust forward and groaned into her mouth.

He knew though he could not be truly satisfied until she was, and so he did not cease his motion altogether; he felt her fingers gripping ever more tightly into his back, could hear her breathing get rougher, could feel her tensing and pushing herself up into him. He knew the moment she came by the throaty way she moaned, the fierce way she held onto him as she tightened around him. She broke from his kiss with a long exhale of breath, before her body went utterly slack and seemed to subside into the bed.

He rolled to his side, pulling her with him, and enfolded her in his arms, brushing her sweat-dampened hair away from her face and showering her with tender kisses. He ran his hand down over her arm, then reached to pull the sheets and duvet over them both. He then rested his hand almost possessively on her hip.

A feeling of peace, of security, of wholeness permeated his entire being as they lie there in the afterglow, their limbs entwined, drifting between sleep and wakefulness, the silence an easy one. As he held her close to him, feeling her holding him in return, feeling her lips pressing tenderly against his throat, he thought, This cannot be all we have.

She shifted to nestle into his neck, her hand splayed on his chest, and she let out a slow, even breath. Soon afterwards, he could tell she had fallen to sleep; although he was physically spent, his mind could not settle down, turning over the thoughts stemming from their talk, from his epiphany. He ran his hand down over the small of her back, then continued until his fingers were curved over her bottom. Very gently he began moving his fingers in small circles, caressing her skin; she sighed and tightened her arm around him.

It saddened him suddenly to think that it had been the exception, not the rule, to fall asleep with his lover curled up to him, clinging to him. Until that moment he didn't realise how truly lonely and miserable he had been.

Mark was not a dramatic man, prone to grand, sweeping and patently ridiculous statements, but at that moment he thought with great conviction that he would do anything—live in a box in Piccadilly Square, swear off human rights law forever, move heaven and earth itself—just to be with her again.

Reality would not be as dramatic as all that, but he was certain now of which path to take.

………

Cool winter light filled the room slowly, and Mark was thankful that he woke before she did, because it afforded him the opportunity to gaze upon her while she slept. The way the oblique sunlight haloed the downy blonde hair on her forearm, her elbow crooked over the edge of the covers; the way her locks splayed beside her as she burrowed into the pillow; the way her lips parted slightly as she slept; he studied it all, hoping he might memorise it.

The brightness level rose just enough to wake her, and he watched as she squeezed her lids tight then blinked sleepily, looking up to him. Her brow ever so subtly wrinkled, then he watched as that unfortunate moment came when the reality of what they'd done hit her, obvious in the way her expression turned into one of alarm.

"Oh God, Mark," she whispered, jerking upright, pulling the sheets to her chin, scanning the room frantically with her eyes, in search of her robe. She spotted it and then tried to free herself from the bed sheets. "I have to get back to my room before anyone notices I never—"

He sat up too, interrupting her panic with a kiss. It was heartening to realise she responded favourably, returning the kiss, until she pulled away, shaking her head.

"No," she said. "Mark, please. Let me go."

He retreated from her, releasing her, startled and wounded.

She pushed back the covers, hastily putting on her robe and cinching it, then turned back to him.

"I don't want to leave," she said in a quiet voice, giving him a sympathetic but frantic look. "I know we have a lot to talk about. Later, I promise."

She rushed to the door, reached for the handle before he unloaded the last of his burden:

"I don't care if anyone here knows you spent the night with me. I love you."

She froze, then faced him again.

"Mark, you're still married. I'm not going to provide her with more ammunition to hate me or to hurt you."

"Not for long."

She knew what he meant, and she shook her head, looking shell-shocked. When she spoke, her voice trembled. "Don't do this to me. Don't say you love me, don't tell me you're leaving your wife, after spending one night with me."

He covered his face with his hands, rested his elbows on his raised knees, and realised he did indeed sound like a desperate man clinging to the first woman to show him any affection. He dropped his hands and met her eyes again. "Bridget," he said plaintively. "I have known I loved you since the night Daniel left you. And I'm going to divorce her whether or not you'll have me."

She merely stared at him, mouth slightly agape.

"I—" she began, then stopped, looking intently at him. "I have to go."

She turned and pulled open the door, looking furtively for signs of life before ducking out.

He laid back down, trying not to feel completely forlorn. Rationally he knew she was right; it was foolish to openly flaunt an extramarital liaison amongst people who knew both himself and Tamiko. It didn't make the emptiness any easier to bear.

He turned over, pulling the pillow she'd slept on up close to him. He could smell the faintest trace of that floral perfume she wore. If that's all I have of you right now, he thought, that will have to be enough.