Mr & Mrs Darcy
By S. Faith, © 2013
Words: 30,042
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 3.
Wednesday, 5 November
Despite Bonfire Night being midweek, Ben had begged and pleaded to go to Brian's for festivities there; Brian had asked him before Bridget had called asking the same, so there was really no getting around saying no.
"I'm really sorry I even mentioned it to Brian before asking you directly," she said. "You'd think I'd know better by now, eh? Well, I hope you and Mary can make it."
"We'd better," he said, "unless I want to risk being The Worst Dad In the History of Ever."
This elicited a laugh. "My friends will be over too. Jude's got her little one—did I tell you, she and Richard adopted? Sweetest little girl."
"No, you didn't," he said with a smile. "That's wonderful—I'm happy for them." He grinned, cradling the phone under his chin while he popped an email off in response to a case. "And how about Sharon? Tom? Oh God… Constance must be ten by now, right?"
"Twelve," said Bridget. "Hard to believe."
Mark sat back in his chair. "Wow," he said. "Seems only she was just a wee girl… I'm sure she doesn't remember me."
"She was rather young the last time you saw her. Anyway, they'll all be there tomorrow night, so I hope you will be, too."
"I'll give a tentative yes," he said, "since I doubt Mary wants to disappoint Ben, either." He then asked, "Shall we bring anything?"
"Um, we're doing a buffet dinner, so whatever you might want to contribute towards drinking," she said. "Obviously, with the children, it's all in moderation, but…"
"I understand," he said with a chuckle.
"About half seven?"
"Hope to see you then."
Mary of course did not want to say no, though she did not seem overly enthusiastic about going, either. "The only other person I'll know beside you is Judith."
"And Bridget, Daniel, and Brian," he reminded.
"Well, yes, but…"
"You can at least talk to Jude out of the context of work," he said. "She has a little girl, adopted. You have that in common—being working mothers."
"I suppose," she said. "I have heard a lot about her little girl. Adopted out of an orphanage in Mongolia while still a toddler. Emma, they call her. Bright little thing."
"Well, you can meet her at last."
Mary offered a smile. "That sounds lovely."
"It'll be a nice time," he said.
Mark picked up some wine—white and red—on his way home from work. Once Lynn came home with Ben, Mark got his son changed into play clothes before getting him into the car for the quick ride to Bridget's house.
"Four bottles of wine?" Mary asked as they walked up to the front door, Mark with carrier bags in hand; Ben raced ahead to the door to knock.
"It's a party," he said. "It isn't as if it's all just for you and me."
The door swung wide and they were greeted by Bridget with a bright smile. "Hi," she said, stepping side to allow them in. "That's the thing about hosting a party—you can't be late."
Mark grinned, handing her a carrier bag. "Some wine."
"'Some wine' indeed. Goodness. Thank you."
"White's probably still chilled."
"Terrific," she said. Still smiling, she looked at Mary. "Nice to see you again."
"Nice to see you too," Mary replied. "Are we the first to arrive?"
She pointed to the garden; only then did Mark realise Ben had vanished. "They're out back. Nice that it's so unseasonably warm. We'll be eating soon."
"Would you like some wine?" he asked Mary. "I'll just drop this to the kitchen and I can pour, if you like."
He often asked Mary if she wanted wine, and she always declined, but tonight she would surprise him. "I would love some. Thank you. Some of the burgundy, please. I'll go find Ben in the garden."
"Okay," he said.
He followed Bridget to the kitchen; she unloaded one bottle of the white wine into the fridge as Mark opened the red. Without his even asking she pulled down two red wineglasses and a white wineglass for herself, then picked up the corkscrew and opened one of the bottles of white.
"I'm glad you came," she said, glancing up to him before taking a sip. "I wasn't sure that you would, Ben notwithstanding."
"Why's that?"
Her gaze flicked to the door and her voice dropped down. "I don't get the impression that Mary cares for my company."
"That's absurd," he said, even as he realised it might actually be true.
Bridget gave him a look that said she did not buy it for a second. "Well, never mind. Come on and bring your wife her wine."
When they got to the garden he found an array of familiar faces he hadn't seen in some time, and he took great pleasure in saying hello to each of them: Tom (who had brought a man who looked vaguely familiar—then the name, Jerome, popped in his head like a flash), Sharon, Simon, Jude, Richard, Magda and Jeremy. In the garden beyond, a group of children ran around with Ben and Brian, and as he watched he realised he could figure out each and every child's name: the tallest girl must have been twelve-year-old Constance; the taller boys could only be her brothers, Harry and Jack, who must have been eleven and ten respectively; and the smallest of the lot, a little raven-haired girl who must have been Emma.
To the side of the stone patio was a series of five buffet trays with chafing fuel beneath each one to keep them warm. "Daniel spent the afternoon grilling," Bridget said. "Seems a bit mad for November, but it's been gorgeous."
"I'll bet it's delicious," he said.
"Ah. Darce and Bridge, back from the kitchen with the wine," Daniel said, rising from the chair. "I think this means it's time to eat."
One by one they went to the buffet to pick out a burger, a side of chicken, a skewer of roasted vegetables or some combination thereof. As they ate—and ensured the children ate, too—Mark learnt that the chafing pans were borrowed from the station; with a laugh, Bridget explained that no one even knew whose they were or why the station had them, but no one objected to the loan. "Mind you, trying to find the fuel canisters in November was quite trying," Bridget added. "But Daniel, ever resourceful…"
Daniel bent slightly at the waist as if to bow.
As the sky darkened and the evening progressed, Mark took a post by the covered copper fire pit at the far end of the stone patio; ostensibly it was to make sure the children didn't burn themselves, but in reality wanting to get away from the chatter, away from the waves of nostalgia washing over him from the highest point of his relationship with Bridget. In some ways it would have been easier with just the four adults and two children; the group assembled as it was echoed all too loudly how things might have been.
"Look at you, engaged in traditional party mode."
He turned and saw Bridget heading towards him, a little smile playing on her lips. "Just making sure the children don't get hurt."
"A likely story," she said, standing beside him. "In case you hadn't noticed, Constance is perfectly capable of wrangling the small ones." He supposed she had a point. She spoke again, this time in a quieter voice. "Look, I don't want to alarm you, but… it's Mary."
He turned to look. The last he'd seen her, she'd seemed to have loosened up a little with her glass of wine, and had engaged in conversation with Jude and Richard. "Why? What's wrong?"
"I get the impression she doesn't drink wine often. Or anything alcoholic, really." Bridget looked really concerned, which heightened his own. "She's had three glasses now and… she seems really, really down."
"Oh, boy," he said. He was grateful that he'd only had the one glass, and it had long since gone out of his system—and felt very guilty that he had not been more attentive. "Did you hear her say anything in particular?"
She shook her head. "She didn't say much at all. I mean, apart from a very short conversation with Jude about Emma."
He sighed. "Thanks."
"Of course. Oh." She grabbed his upper arm, taking hold of his jumper. "Don't beat yourself up. She could just as easily have come over here to you."
He looked down to her, her face half-bathed in the firelight, and he smiled. "I appreciate that."
Bridget nodded, then kept walking towards where the kids were running around in circles with glow sticks, making pretty streaks of colour against the dark of night; quickly she escaped the glow of the fire and become little more than a silhouette.
He, on the other hand, veered in the opposite direction and approached the house; he was able to locate Mary relatively quickly, sitting in the corner with Magda, Jeremy, Jude and Sharon. He was a little surprised that she had not gotten into conversation with Magda, but only a little. The situation that had filled him with nostalgia probably was strange for her to handle without context.
"Hey," he said as he approached the group, broke into a lull in conversation, looking directly at Mary. "Everything okay?"
She set her now-empty wine glass down, nodding in an almost exaggerated fashion, then looked up to him. "Everything's just peachy," she said, slurring her words a bit.
"I was thinking… Ben's got school, so we should get going." It was barely nine in the evening, but he wanted to spare her the embarrassment of pointing out the obvious: that she was pissed.
"I'll get 'im," said Mary, standing, weaving a bit as she did.
"No need." It was Bridget, returning with Ben. "Here you are."
"Thank you," Mark said, then held out his hand towards his wife. "Come on. Let's get your things."
"Fine," she said gruffly, though took his hand.
"I'm glad you made it," said Daniel, which was followed up by "Yes, very nice to see you again" and "It's been far too long" and other statements of regret in not having seen each other in so many years.
Mary had only brought a handbag and the cardigan she was wearing, so he led her around the shoulders and followed Bridget, still holding Ben's hand, to the front door, picking up the handbag along the way.
"I'm sorry," said Mary, whose eyes were now glossy with tears.
"It's all right," Bridget said softly.
"Come on," said Mark. "Off to the car."
"Okay."
He got Mary settled into the front seat, Ben in the back, then stood upright. Bridget was still there. "Thanks."
She nodded. "No problem."
The car ride home was fairly quiet; Ben dozed almost immediately to sleep and when Mary did speak it was only to say, more than once, "I'm sorry." Mark patted her hand and told her every time that it was all right.
It was a bit of a challenge both carrying a sleeping Ben and shepherding a woozy, morose Mary from the house into the car, but he did it; once inside, he helped both of them up the stairs, directed her towards their bedroom, then took Ben to change him into his pyjamas then tuck him in.
When he returned to his own bedroom, Mary was lying on her pillow, having sunk sideways from a sitting position and now apparently asleep; the tell-tale sign of a few shed tears darkened the pillow next to her. He shook her shoulder and called her name, but she did not rouse. He decided to let her be; he lifted her legs to the bed and pulled the turned-down sheets over her.
Mark had a difficult time sleeping that evening, but when the morning came, he found Mary had already awakened and was gone from the bed. He expected to find her in the kitchen nursing some coffee (which she rarely even drank, but then again, she was rarely if ever hung over), but she had, in fact, gone from the house. There was a note left on the breakfast nook to let him know she had a big early morning meeting and had to go before he'd awakened.
Strangely there was no mention of the party the night before or of her having a bit too much wine; not that he cared, not that he thought Bridget or her friends thought less of her (after all, they had all had many of their own drunken nights much worse than that), but for her to not mention it struck him as unusual. He hoped he could talk to her at some point during the day, ensure she was all right, but every time he rang her phone that morning—desk or mobile—he got no response.
He supposed she could just be in a very long meeting, but it still seemed very odd—and the day would get odder still. He went out into the grey chill of the afternoon to pick up a sandwich and a coffee to read over his briefs—the glamorous life of a high-profile barrister, he mused—when he saw something that literally stopped him where he stood:
Sitting at a window seat in a bistro across the street was Daniel, and across the table from him was a beautiful woman with café au lait skin, long, dark curled hair pulled back into a pony tail, and a bright, beaming smile. That he was having lunch with this woman was not the surprise; it was that he was holding her hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss the back.
Against his better judgment, Mark went into the bistro and marched up to Daniel's table. The woman noticed him first, looked up, scowled. "Daniel," she said; from this closer distance, Mark could see she was not as young as he'd originally thought, could see the stray greys in her dark hair, the smattering of subtle laugh lines around her coal-dark eyes.
Daniel looked up, smiled, then frowned at seeing Mark's expression. "Mark. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me what the hell you're doing," he said, trying to keep his tone quiet, but feeling too indignant on Bridget's behalf. "Are you out of your mind?"
"Sorry, I don't follow," said Daniel. He looked utterly bewildered.
"What about Bridget?" Mark asked.
"What about her?" Daniel asked. "She and Jennifer get along very well." Jennifer, his lunch companion, nodded.
Too dumbfounded to continue, Mark gritted his teeth to prevent saying something he'd regret; he took a step back, then another, then turned and walked back towards his building, clenching the paper carrier bag with a bit more force than required. Upon returning to his office, he tried to resume his work, eating a lunch he could barely taste, but his heart just wasn't in it; he wondered how he was going to bring this up with Bridget.
He felt he had a moral duty to do so.
As Mark packed his attaché in preparation to leave for the day, his mobile rang. He palmed the phone, and his heart did a little leap: it was Bridget.
"Mark Darcy speaking," he said as he answered.
"I know you know it's me calling," she said in obvious amusement, "and I know it's you I'm calling. You don't have to answer like that."
"Habit, I guess," he said with a chuckle, momentarily forgetting the reason why he wanted to speak to her. "Everything okay?"
"Oh, yes, it's fine, but your wife seems to have left her mobile behind last night."
It explained why she didn't pick up that morning. "Oh, sorry."
"I'm sure it wasn't done on purpose," she said. "Anyway, I was wondering if I could bring it by, to the house, or—"
"Do you have time for a quick drink, instead?" he asked.
"Um, sure," she said. "Daniel's picking Brian up from school, anyway." There was a long pause. "Is everything okay?"
"I just wanted to talk to you, that's all."
"Sounds serious," she said.
"I'm sure it's nothing," he said, though didn't honestly feel it. "Where shall we meet?"
"Mmm, how about The Marylebone?"
"That sounds fine. See you at six?"
He glanced to his watch; forty-five minutes away. "Yes. See you then."
Mark knew that Mary would not be home, and she didn't have her mobile anyway; he instead rang up Lynn and told her that he had to take care of a few things before he came home.
She didn't respond right away, then offered a confused, "All right."
"I can't reach Mary," he explained, "or I would have just rung her directly."
"Oh, I understand," she said. "Hope everything goes quickly. Dinner will be waiting, I'm sure."
"I know. I'll be as quick as I can."
He made it to the bar with time to spare, and only hoped that Bridget would make it reasonably on time. He waited until six to order his gin and tonic, nursed it slowly. With her hair loose about her shoulders, she came into the place at about ten past the hour, looking a bit day-weary but otherwise sharp in her overcoat; through the unbuttoned front he could see a pale blue blouse and black skirt with those high black boots she always liked to—
"Sorry I'm late," she said tiredly.
He chuckled, snapping himself from his train of thought. "I figured you probably would be."
"I meant to be early. Well, earlier than my usual lateness."
After she ordered herself a Bloody Mary, she slipped out of the overcoat then dug into her handbag. She then set down Mary's mobile beside his hand. "Before I forget, here's the mobile."
He reached for it—accidentally, or possibly not, brushing her fingers as he did—then slipped it into his suit breast pocket. "Thanks."
"So what's this drinks business all about? This seems so—" She giggled a little. "—secretive."
Despite his mulling about it earlier, he decided on the spot it was best to be direct. "I saw Daniel out for lunch today."
"Oh?"
Mark nodded, then took a sip of his cocktail. "I don't know how to break this to you, Bridget, but he was there with a woman, and they looked very intimate."
She didn't say anything, and when he turned to look at her he expected betrayal, shock… not confusion. "Someone besides Jennifer, you mean?" she asked at last.
"Yes… No… I mean, yes, it was someone called Jennifer; no, not someone else," Mark said. "Wait a minute. What is going on? How do you know about this?"
She laughed. "Why wouldn't I know? He's been seeing her for almost a year; she comes over a lot, Brian adores her and she's not a brainless…" She trailed off, staring at him in disbelief. "Mark, did you think… he was cheating on me?"
"He isn't?"
"No!" she said, half-exasperation, half-amusement.
"So, you aren't married to Daniel?"
She laughed. "No."
"And you never were?"
"No. Mark. This feels like twenty questions," she said.
"I'm sorry, I… just assumed you were," Mark said, "because you're living together."
"No, we're not," she said. "The house is semi-detached. I live on one side, Daniel on the other. We've put in a pass-through, and Brian has a room in both."
He thought back to the house, the double front doors on the porch… he had never given a thought to who lived in the other half. "Oh," he said stupidly.
"How did you not know—oh," she said abruptly. "I assumed she'd told you."
"What?"
Bridget paused to sip her drink. "The day of the Dulwich garden party, when you and Daniel went off to talk to that old teacher of yours, she asked if Daniel and I were together, and I told her no. I assumed she would have said something since it was practically the only thing we talked about."
"She didn't."
Bridget smiled, patting his hand. "Well, no harm, no foul," she said, stirring the half-imbibed cocktail with the celery stick. She then cast a sideways glance towards him. "I do appreciate your looking out for me, though."
Mark focused on responding; his head was in a whirl trying to process this new information. "Anytime," he said.
Mark paid the bar tab since he had invited her—"Next one is on me," Bridget said—and they left. He asked if she needed a lift and she didn't; for that he was secretly grateful, because he would have been poor company. Daniel and Bridget not married? How had he never come to hear this from his mother? It must have been that they didn't want him to know; there did not seem to be any other logical explanation.
Unless they all thought he already knew.
He made it home in time for dinner. Neither Ben nor Mary had any idea of the bombshell that had struck and scattered him to bits inside; he tried earnestly to keep the mask of normalcy in place. He was so distracted by his own thoughts, though, that he completely forgot to ask Mary about the night before, how she felt today, until he was in bed with the light off. It was probably for the best, as he was in no frame of mind to be a sympathetic husband—and he comforted himself with the fact that if something was really wrong, she'd tell him. She had never been shy about doing so in the past.
…
A week after Bonfire Night
Circumstances seemed to align and converge in a most unusual way. The following week Mark got a call about his involvement with Bridget's show, though it took him an interminable amount of time to determine who it was that was actually calling, since he was greeted with a lilting, sing-songy voice that turned every sentence into a question, which utterly perplexed him:
"Hello, Mr Darcy? This is Patchouli, right? From Cinnamon Studios? I'm calling because Bridget's busy taping the book show?"
"Oh, yes," he said, remembering at last the name of the production company for which Bridget worked. "Is this about the… book show?"
"Yeah, right? Can you be available this Saturday for a production meeting?"
"Saturday? Yes, I think that's fine," said Mark, glancing to his calendar; the only thing he saw was a pencilled-in play date for Ben and Brian at the house—which allowed his mind to wander, albeit briefly, to the weekend before. "Any particular time?"
"Like, all day, I think? You could ask Bridget?"
"I will."
"Great, okay? I've got you down?"
"Thank you… Patchouli." He put down the phone, wondering how on God's green earth that woman was working as a PA.
The weekend, he thought. His mind wandered again to the day in the house, Bridget's, with the four of them—Ben, Brian, Bridget and himself—playing all Saturday afternoon together; five, if he were to count Valmont the cat. He hadn't intended on staying, but Daniel had to go for the day, and the boys had begged him to remain so that they could play Snakes and Ladders as teams. He'd phoned Mary to let her know of the change of plan.
"Oh," she'd said. "That's fine."
"You're sure?"
"Of course. Have fun."
They did have fun, evidenced by the fact he'd had to practically carry a drowsy, exhausted Ben from the house, to the car and home again for dinner.
With these thoughts fresh in mind, and the weekend only two short working days away, Mark planned to tell Mary of this weekend's change of plans the moment he got home—at the very least to ensure that the boys would have supervision—but Mary beat him to the proverbial punch by saying, "Mark, I'm taking Ben with me this weekend to visit my father."
"Oh," he said, stunned. "Is… everything okay?"
"Everything's fine," she said, though her appearance—weary, slightly ragged, with circles beneath her eyes—suggested otherwise.
"Your father's not ill, is he?"
"No, he's fine, it's just been a while since I've been to see him," she said. "He asked to see Ben, too."
Mark wondered about his own lack of inclusion in this visit. "All right."
She added quickly, "If you want to come as well, you can."
"Actually, I've got to work on the weekend."
"Oh," she said.
As she moved on to talk about dinner, Mark considered her simple, monosyllabic response, and the more he considered it, the more he'd swear that she seemed relieved.
After they ate, after he made sure Ben was tucked into bed, after Mary retired for the night, he went down to his office, closed the door, and dialled Bridget on the mobile. He hated the fact that he felt so, as Bridget had put it, secretive.
"Hey Mark," she said. "Glad you have time on Saturday, and sorry I couldn't call you myself."
He took back what he'd thought about Patchouli; despite the annoying speech patterns, she had efficiently done her job and had kept Bridget apprised of his response. "It's okay," he said. "I understand. I was ringing up to ask what time on Saturday."
"I could bring over Brian mid-morning, and we could head to my office from there."
"Oh, sorry, change of plan on that," he said, mentally smacking himself on the forehead. "Mary's taking Ben to see her father so the play date's off."
"That's fine… I think Daniel can rearrange his schedule." He heard her tapping on a keyboard. "How about you meet me at my office, we have lunch, spend the afternoon working, then… I don't know, you could come have dinner with Brian and me? That way, you don't have to eat on your own."
He smiled. "That sounds quite perfect," he said. "I'll bring lunch. Any preference?"
"Hmm," she said. "I'll leave it up to you. My tastes in food haven't changed that much."
"All right." He grinned; he knew exactly what to bring.
