The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister

By S. Faith, © 2012
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.


Chapter 4: 1 Oct – 9 Oct

Sun, 1 Oct

Now I've had some time to process… it's still unbelievable. I've decided to document as much of it as I can.

Most of yesterday afternoon was spent ensuring all was going smoothly, but I needn't have bothered. Natasha was there and was bossing everyone around, for which I was unexpectedly grateful. I milled around downstairs (below the ground floor) and mingled a little as guests began to arrive; crew from the caterers ushered them down, where there were hors d'oeuvres and champagne being served. I partook of a flute myself to calm my nerves.

I spotted the black dress before it registered who was wearing it, but I should have guessed it was not going to turn out to be Audrey Coles or Mavis Enderby. The dress was black, elegant, longish sleeves and had a sheen that looked to me like silk and some kind of under-skirt that caused it to flare a bit. The dress went down to about her knees and, quite frankly, looked like it was made for her; very flattering to her figure. She wore shimmery black tights and black suede shoes and looked absolutely, positively ravishing. Easily the most beautiful woman there. I knew it was going to make N. absolutely mental, and I sort of looked forward to the steam coming out of her ears.

"Who's she?" My brother, close to my side.

I felt my face blaze red. "That's Bridget." I cleared my throat quietly and turned to look at him; he was smirking. "Jones. Daughter of one of Mother's friends."

He lifted a brow. "Pretty," he said as if in summary judgment, then moved back just as the vicar came forward to thank me for inviting him. I said (as I had many times already) that it was my mother who had done so, so the thanks ultimately should go to her. Then my attention fixed on Bridget and her father again.

My parents' friends seemed stunned at the party—and it was, truthfully, quite unlike the turkey curry buffet or the summer garden barbecue at the Alconburys'. I'm afraid I may have raised the bar a little higher than they all had expected; perhaps too high, even. I only wanted to throw a nice party. I gave no thought to anything more. It hurt a little to overhear Pam Jones and Una Alconbury suggest I was doing this for show.

That's when Bridget saw me, and she nearly started when she did. She seemed to know I'd overheard the commentary (perhaps something about my expression gave it away), but I didn't really want her to talk to me only out of pity, so I walked away.

It wasn't until we queued up to sit for dinner that I saw her again, approaching the stairs; I turned and faced forward, as I was still stinging a bit from the insult. I hoped she wouldn't notice I was there. When she said "Hi" I pretended not to see her, but when she said it a second time—and poked me in the shoulder—it became pretty clear I couldn't get away with such a ruse.

"Oh, hi. I'm sorry. I didn't see you," I offered weakly.

She was smiling brightly up at me. "It's a great party. Thanks for inviting me."

For some reason I said (due to rote repetition, I'm sure), "Oh, I didn't. My mother invited you. Anyway. Must see to the, er—" I flailed. "—placement. Very much enjoyed your Lewisham fire station report, by the way." She looked stunned, and I took advantage of her momentary silence to follow up on my own fib; I dashed up the stairs towards the ground floor (and the dining room). Too late I noticed that N. was at the top of the stairs, dressed in her too-long gold gown, the hem of which was dangerously close to one of the candles adorning the stair. She grabbed my elbow (oh, how I wished I could have pushed her away—but there was a staircase to worry about) and turned with me.

N. then swore for the first time since I'd known her. She'd gotten red wax on her hem. As she bitched at me for paying more attention to the candles than the seating, I could only think she was lucky she hadn't actually set the dress on fire.

As we ate, my gaze kept wandering back to where Bridget sat. Placing her between Geoffrey Alconbury and the vicar seemed to not be keeping her from having a great time, which was good. Repeatedly, N. (who had placed herself across from me) would attempt to corral my attention back to her. I don't care to counter rudeness with more rudeness, so I started to just flat out ignore her. Not even Roger, whom I'd placed next to N. to keep him within my sight, wanted anything to do with N. and he usually hits on any female with a pulse.

It was at the end of the meal (a superb job by the caterer), as people started to go downstairs for socialising and dancing, that I saw Bridget nick something from the table then slip out towards the front of the house. I didn't think she was trying to steal the cutlery or anything, but I was dead curious as to why she was sneaking away from the party.

I then saw her slip into the front room, where the presents had been taken and stored after they'd been unwrapped (and documented from whom each present had come). Now, I didn't really think she was out to thief a gift, but my curiosity at this point was too piqued not to look.

She was leaning over the table, her back to me. I couldn't quite see what was happening; I thought at the time that perhaps she was trying to sniff something. Suddenly she gasped. "Oh my God, it's a miracle!"

I shifted my weight, leaned against the doorframe. "What are you doing?" She started a little at the sound of my voice and turned to face me, but didn't answer me, so I prompted, "Mmm?"

Hesitantly, she said, "The essential oil burner I bought your mother is taking in milk." I realised what she nicked from the table was a small pitcher of milk and a spoon.

I couldn't help laughing. "Oh, don't be ridiculous."

Now she looked offended. "It is taking in milk. Look."

She repeated for me what she had just done outside of my view: she tipped the milk up and into a teaspoon, then turned to what looked like a terra cotta candle holder; the large opening in the front looked like a giant gaping mouth. It was in front of this 'mouth' that she placed the spoon. Astonished, I watched as the milk slowly disappeared; it was not dripping to the table. The oil burner was in fact taking on milk, though I'm sure there was some scientific explanation involving the porosity of the terra cotta.

"You see," she said with great satisfaction. "It's a miracle."

I managed quietly, "You're right. It is a miracle."

For a split-second she looked very pleased, and in that split-second I realised that the miracle was more than disappearing milk; her delighted wonder at the discovery had suddenly and radically shifted my perspective. I was lost in my thoughts for that moment, until—

"Oh, hi. Not in your bunny girl outfit today, then?"

It was N. who'd come up next to me; this was directed to Bridget, of course, followed up with a laugh as if it were nothing more than friendly banter.

Instantly Bridget came back with, "Actually we bunnies wear these in the winter for warmth."

N.'s eyes narrowed as they looked her up and down. "John Rocha?" she asked. "Last autumn? I recognise the hem."

This seemed to stump her for a moment, as it did me; context suggested she was referring to the dress. Brightly (and, I noted, completely disregarding the comment), Bridget said, "Anyway, I'm sure you're longing to circulate. Nice to see you again. Bye!"

She then made her way past us; N. backed up a step in order to allow her through. I caught a whiff of Bridget's perfume.

"What was she trying to do, steal the presents?" N. said cattily once she'd gone.

I stared wordlessly at her, wondering how I'd ever allowed myself to become personally involved with her. Then I walked away from her without deigning to acknowledge the insult, and went back downstairs.

As I approached I could immediately hear the string quartet playing, and the sound of the waltz was soothing to my frayed nerves. I looked around for Bridget, but did not see her; for a moment I thought perhaps she'd gone, but I didn't think she'd abandon her father, and he was still here, chatting amiably with my aunt Harriet, whom I'd sat next to him.

"She went into the garden."

It was Peter again, and I was beginning to wonder if he could read my mind. He stood there with Kate, who was also smiling. I glanced to the garden, saw the spark of a lighter, then the brightening orange of a cigarette tip as someone drew in the smoke.

"Well," he continued, "I saw you looking for someone, and…"

"And what?"

"You've been looking at her all night," he said, then leaned in close. "Mark, why is Natasha here? Are you seeing her again?"

"No," I said, a little too vehemently.

"So ask this Bridget out," Peter said. "You're obviously drawn to her."

"She doesn't seem to be the biting type," added Kate. "In fact, she insisted I have the last of the prawn wontons."

I thought it best to pardon myself with a quick "Thank you" (and nothing more incriminating than that), before I threaded my way through the crowd and around the dancing couples towards the doors. (I admit to a fleeting thought, a bit of surprise that we'd run through all the prawn wontons.)

When I arrived in the garden I could hardly believe my eyes:

Turning about the garden in small circles was my cousin Simon, and in his arms, dancing the waltz with him, was Bridget. I watched for a moment or two more, completely transfixed, before I spoke.

"I'll take over, now, Simon."

Bridget's eyes flashed to me. Simon looked mortified.

"Come along. Back inside. You should be in bed now."

Simon scurried away, up the stairs and back into the party; as he did I realised the true reason for his mortification, which I tried not to think too much about, as I hoped to shortly dance with Bridget myself.

"May I?" I asked. I held out a hand.

"No," she said, decidedly and firmly.

I was taken aback once more. I dropped the proffered hand. "What's the matter?"

"Um," she said, suddenly not so sure of herself. "That was a horrible thing to do to a young whippersnapper, throwing your weight about and humiliating him like that at a sensitive age." I was thinking about how to respond—particularly I was surprised she was showing concern for a boy she'd only just met—when she continued. "Though I do appreciate your asking me to your party. Marvellous. Thank you very much. Fantastic party."

Try as I might, I could not gauge the situation. "Yes. I think you've said that." I looked up at her again, and realised it was my chance to try again, but stubbornly my brain was providing me with nothing to say. "I…" I felt restless, took a few steps back and forth, ran my fingers through my hair. "How's the…" I began again, thinking of her new job, before stopping myself and remembering that she was a literary wizard. "Have you read any good books lately?"

I believe her mouth actually, literally fell open. "Mark," she said in a dangerous tone. "If you ask me once more if I've read any good books lately I'm going to eat my head. Why don't you ask me something else? Ring the changes a bit. Ask me if I've got any hobbies, or a view on the single European currency, or if I've had any particularly disturbing experiences with rubber."

My head was spinning. "I…"

"Or if I had to sleep with Douglas Hurd, Michael Howard or Jim Davidson which one I'd choose." She touched her fingers to her chin in a thoughtful manner. "Actually, no contest, Douglas Hurd."

"Douglas Hurd?" I repeated, a bit gobsmacked. The Conservative Foreign Secretary?

"Mmm. Yes. So deliciously strict, but fair."

"Hmmm," I said. "You say that, but Michael Howard's got an extremely attractive and intelligent wife. He must have some sort of hidden charms." As soon as I said it, I realised I'd unwittingly unleashed a double entendre. She picked up on it instantly, grinning as she asked:

"Like what, you mean?"

"Well…" I demurred.

"He might be a good shag, I suppose," she said offhandedly, still smirking a little.

"Or a fantastically skilful potter," I said, hoping to prove I'd had other things in mind beside sex.

"Or a qualified aromatherapist."

I thought back to earlier that evening, with the terra cotta oil burner, to the Lewisham fire station, to my brother's urging… and now we were actually talking, I knew I had to take the chance. Quite suddenly and a bit more curtly than I'd've liked, I asked, "Will you have dinner with me, Bridget?" (I mean, I'd wanted to ask like a gentleman, then she had to go and put thoughts in my head of Douglas Hurd and Michael Howard as sexual creatures. That throws a man off.)

She blinked in surprise. "Has my mum put you up to this?"

"No… I…"

"Una Alconbury?"

This was going all wrong. "No, no..."

"It's your mum, isn't it?" she asked, almost as if an accusation.

"Well, my mother has…"

She interrupted. "I don't want to be asked out to dinner just because your mum wants you to. Anyway, what would we talk about? You'd just ask me if I've read any good books lately and then I'd have to make up some pathetic lie and—"

I was confused. "But Una Alconbury told me you were a sort of literary whiz-woman, completely obsessed with books."

It was her turn to look surprised. "Did she? What else did she tell you?"

I mentioned "radical feminist" and "incredibly glamorous life" and "millions of men" taking her out—the first two elicited a pleased reaction; the latter a confused "Huh"—before I thought about the one man with whom I knew she'd definitely been out. "I heard about Daniel. I'm sorry."

She pursed her lips at this. "I suppose you did try to warn me. What have you got against him, anyway?"

"He slept with my wife," I said. "Two weeks after our wedding."

I'm not sure if she thought I was taking the mickey—her look of horror suggested she believed me—and seemed about to speak when another voice sounded out:

"Markee!"

Bloody N. She'd never called me anything approaching an endearment in the time we'd spent sleeping together.

"Markee! What are you doing down there?"

I decided to get it out, as quickly as possible. "Last Christmas, I thought if my mother said the words 'Bridget Jones' just once more I would go to the Sunday People and accuse her of abusing me as a child with a bicycle pump. Then when I met you… and I was wearing that ridiculous diamond-patterned jumper that Una had bought me for Christmas…." I paused to take in a steadying breath—I couldn't believe I was saying this all to her. "Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or…"

N. was coming closer. "Mark!"

"But you're going out with somebody," she said quietly.

"I'm not any more, actually," I said emphatically. "Just dinner? Sometime?"

"Okay," she said in that equally quiet tone. "Okay."

I smiled, relieved and pleased beyond measure. I then glanced up at the retreating N. "Your number?"

I don't know if she too remembered that moment at New Years when I'd politely refused the same, out of deference to her feelings. The smile she offered in return suggested she did remember—and that perhaps I'd been totally wrong then. "Okay," she said again, then dug into her handbag. She happened to have a slip of paper and a pen, on which she hastily jotted down not only her phone number, but her address.

"How about—" I thought about the oncoming trial. "How about next Tuesday, eight in the evening? I'll pick you up."

She agreed.

The remainder of the night went by in a blur. I did not mention the planned dinner date to anyone, least of all my mother; I didn't want to jinx it. I did however speak to them about the evening, about forty years of wedded bliss. I felt very sociable about the subject just then.

As things wound down, N. approached again, cornering me in the room where the coats and wraps had been stowed. "Mark," she said. "You've been—"

I turned and set the full fury of my gaze onto N., instantly silencing her.

"What were you trying to do earlier?" I asked.

"I don't know what you mean."

"You bloody well do," I said. "You and I are colleagues. I thought we were friends—"

"Mark," she interrupted, attempting unsuccessfully to soften her features. I barrelled on.

"—and I thought we had an understanding that that's all we were."

She drew her lips into a thin line, standing so still she looked like a statue. Satisfied I would no longer be interrupted, I continued.

"I appreciate all of your assistance with the party," I said. "It would have been very challenging to handle this all on my own, especially with the trial."

"As I've said before, we make such a good team."

I thought of a time, what felt like long ago, when I'd felt the same way. Now I could only shake my head. "You have skated on thin ice once too often. I can no longer tolerate your mean-spirited interference. I think you should leave."

She had that expression of concentration on her face that told me she was trying to comprehend what I was saying to her. She lifted her chin haughtily. I could tell she wanted to get in the last word, but knowing her, she did not want to burn any bridges. She reached for the hideous little shrug that went with her dress. "I'll just say good-bye to your mother and father and wish them well," she said at last, turned on her heel, and went to find them.

I didn't care.

I could only think: I'm having dinner with Bridget on Tuesday.

Mon, 2 Oct

Slept moderately well—therapeutic documentation of ruby wedding party, however, counteracted by the slight thrum of nerves for tomorrow's date.

Wrapping up the murder trial doesn't have me nearly as concerned as this dinner does. Elena Rossini's case is cut and dried, and the law's pretty clear. This… is far more amorphous. I hope we'll have something to talk about. I would hate to think I'm boring her rigid.

Peter took me aside on his way out the door to the airport, asked me how things had gone out there amongst the rhododendrons. I told him about the planned dinner date. He gave me a thumbs up. I didn't get a chance to ask him to keep it between himself and Kate. If my mother finds out and tells her friends… I can't bear the thought that we might be the subject of further discussion over tea.

Maybe I should bring flowers.

Tues, 3 Oct

I am the world's biggest fool.

I went to the address she'd given, rang the bell at five minutes past the prearranged time, but… nothing. Continued to ring until it became obvious I would be getting no answer. From my pocket I dug the paper she'd given me on the off-chance I'd misread the address—no, the printing was surprisingly clear as day. Then I thought maybe she had meant not today but a week from today—but no, that's a quirk that Americans say.

She could have had the courtesy to call to cancel if she'd changed her mind. I am disappointed and, yes, a little angry. If she'd never intended on meeting me for dinner then why agree in the first place?

I crumpled up the paper and shoved it deep into my jacket pocket; my pride was hurt and I was not going to rub salt in the wound by ringing her up. I tossed the flowers into a rubbish bin and went to the restaurant on my own. Didn't even have my copy of The Famished Road with me.

Weds, 4 Oct

Verdict tomorrow in case. Confident in acquittal.

Thurs, 5 Oct

A day of good news, all around.

Acquittal secured as expected. Hounded for interviews despite not giving the press any warning of our exit. Ms Rossini—Elena—was released and I offered to escort her to the hotel where she is staying before she boards a plane for her native Italy at the soonest opportunity. I thought if she remained in my company that she couldn't be bullied into an interview. Once I got her in the car, however, she begged me to get her some chocolate. "Haven't had chocolate in weeks," she said, looking quite desperate. "Quality Street?" I acquiesced.

I left her in the car at the kerb outside of the shop nearest the High Court. Upon my rather rushed entrance I saw someone was in the queue at the till, sorting through change. I called to the shopkeeper, "Could you let me have a box of Quality Street?"

"Excuse me, does the word 'queue' mean anything to you?" I knew the voice, then she turned to face me, making an oddly endearing squeak at the back of her throat. I could only stand there slightly slack-jawed. It was the very woman who'd stood me up—Bridget—who (after looking at me curiously, as I was still in my barrister garb) then asked rather defensively, "Where in the name of arse were you last night?"

"I might ask the same question of you," I said, still residually angry with her.

At that moment a rather burly looking man came in. "Bridget!" this fellow yelled. "We've missed the interview. Elena Rossini's come out and gone. Did you get my Minstrels?"

She looked horrified, leaning against the counter. "Missed it?" she said in a panicky voice. "Missed it? Oh God. This was my last chance after the fireman's pole and I was buying sweets. I'll be sacked." She turned to the burly man. "Did the others get interviews?"

I stepped in. "Actually, nobody got any interviews with her."

She looked up at me with wide blue eyes; I felt my anger with her over the date dissipating. "Didn't they? But how do you know?"

"Because I was defending her," I said matter-of-factly, "and I told her not to give any." I pointed out to the street. "Look, she's out there in my car."

As she did, I noticed that Elena had put down the car window. Now she called out to me, "Mark, sorry. You bring me Dairy Box, please, instead of Quality Street?"

A camera crew pulled up and called to the burly man (Derek was his name, apparently) for some sweets. I took the opportunity to get to the bottom of the date fiasco: "So where were you last night?"

"Waiting for bloody you," she said under her breath.

"What, at five past eight?" I enquired, as if back in the courtroom, engaging her gaze. "When I rang on your doorbell twelve times?"

"Yes, I was…" She trailed off, looking increasingly pale. "…drying my hair."

"Big hairdryer?" I asked, realising what a comedy of errors had actually occurred.

"Yes," she said; "1600 volts, Salon Selectives. Why?"

I began to laugh. "Maybe you should get a quieter hairdryer or begin your toilette a little earlier. Anyway. Come on." She looked puzzled. "Get your cameraman ready; I'll see what I can do for you."

I made a quick decision to divert us to my office in chambers, and told Bridget and her "Good Afternoon!" camera crew to follow close behind. I explained to Elena as we made the short trip. She looked confused and a little betrayed, as I had been so adamant against interviews.

"It'll be all right," I said, feeling a sinking pit in my stomach—bloody irresponsible and unprofessional, giving an interview because I fancied the interviewer. What if it turned into a disaster?

I took a seat next to Elena at her request; after all, I was her legal advocate and friend. Bridget had jotted a few questions down, which she reviewed before signalling she was ready to begin; I suddenly panicked and thought that maybe I should have asked to see the questions in advance. After a few false starts the interview got underway. I needn't have worried. The type of questions I was expecting were exactly the sort of questions she did not ask. Nothing about the intolerable situation in which she'd had to live, all alone in a foreign country; no inquiries into the events of that night. Instead, with immense sympathy and sincere kindness, Bridget asked how she was doing, how she was feeling about being free again (and how it felt to be vindicated), what her plans were for the future and whether her opinion of the UK overall was unchanged from when she'd first arrived on our shores, after what had happened.

"No, no, I have met Mr Darcy and so many people who are kind—they are the real UK." Elena smiled. "And now you, Ms Jones."

"Oh, please call me Bridget," she said.

"Then you must call me Elena."

Bridget's final question was, to my great surprise, directed towards me, rousing me from my reverie. "And Mr Darcy," she said, pointing the microphone in my direction, "what might you say to those people who thought the verdict was unjust?"

"The evidence supports her account," I said automatically; I then willed myself to snap out of barrister-lecture mode. "It was strong evidence and enough to convince a court and a jury. That should be good enough for anyone else."

"And Elena?" Bridget asked.

Given what I knew of Elena's patient temperament (an absolute necessity to be a nanny) I shouldn't have worried about what she'd say, but the truth was, I did, at least a little. "I feel very bad that they can't see the truth. I hope that someday they will understand that the verdict was just."

Bridget nodded.

"But I don't wish them ill," Elena said. "Just peace and happiness."

Bridget turned back to the camera with a beaming smile. "This is Bridget Jones for "Good Afternoon!' And now, back to the studio."

The lights went down and the cameraman began to pack up, signalling that the interview was done. Bridget sighed with relief, sinking back into the chair. "Wow," she said. "Total grace under pressure. In your place I'd've wanted to tell them all to go fuck themselves."

The room fell silent. Bridget looked mortified, at least until Elena began to laugh. Then I did. Then the crew did too. As the crew finished packing up, Bridget thanked me again for the opportunity to interview Elena. I realised in that moment that, as much as I dearly wished to ask her if she'd like to make up that dinner date, it was not the time or the place. I did not want to ask in front of her colleagues, but more importantly, I didn't want her to accept only in gratitude for the exclusive interview.

"It was my pleasure," I said before I showed them all out. Elena and I then went back to the car.

"She was very nice," Elena said as we drove to her hotel. "So friendly and genuine. Not like other reporters." Probably, I thought, because she's so new at it. She furrowed her brow. "You don't suppose she will twist my words?"

I shook my head. "I think we can trust her," I said. "That's the only reason I allowed it. We knew each other as children."

"Oh! You're friends!"

I smiled a little. "Yes," I said, though in reality we were barely acquaintances.

After getting Elena settled in at the hotel I told her I'd call her tomorrow, I went back down to the car and told the driver to take me home.

Fri, 6 Oct

The interview seems to have become the talk of chambers, a side effect I had failed to take into consideration. Most of it was good-natured teasing over my apparent abandonment of the 'no interviews' policy; Giles commented to me that he thought the interview was a wise decision, as it really humanised the whole case. Natasha, on the other hand, looked at me with a sort of disgust, and she made no effort to hide it.

"So the bunny girl gets the exclusive," she said. "What did she give you in exchange? You must have been looking forward to it a great deal."

Her comment made me furious, but Giles stepped in: "I've no idea what you're going on about, but that gal was smashing. Totally the right person for the job. She handled it exactly as I would have wanted it handled."

I snuck a glance at Natasha. She said nothing more, just sniffed haughtily and walked away. I was certain at that moment that had she not been in Giles' presence she might have been a lot more vulgar.

I would be proven correct in very short order. After a few minutes I returned to my office and found that Natasha had preceded me there, arms folded across her chest.

"Can I help you with something?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

"It's obvious why I'm here, Mark," she seethed. "If you continue with this, you'll make a fool of yourself at the very least, and at the worst, get in trouble with—"

I could hold back no more and interrupted her with the most restrained bellow I could manage. "Are you seriously continuing to suggest that I gave Bridget the interview in exchange for sex?"

"I saw the way you looked at her. At the book launch, the party, and your parents' ruby wedding," she retorted, moving her hands to her hips. "While she looked like she couldn't be bothered to give you the time of day… and suddenly, she asks for a favour. A little tit for tat isn't outside the realm of possibility, if you wanted to get in her pants—"

The gloves were off now; however, I neither owed her an explanation, nor did she deserve one. I interrupted once more, in a cool, professional tone: "If you ever insinuate again that I improperly solicited sexual favours for exclusive media access, I will proceed as I would with any other case of slander… and ensure you are drummed out of chambers."

She said nothing; her face went deep crimson, then she stormed past me and out of my office. Good riddance, I thought.

Sat, 7 Oct

12.30

Cannot sleep. I don't know why I take any stock in anything that bloody woman says to me, but maybe, in this case… maybe N.'s right. Maybe the hairdryer was just something she said because she was too embarrassed to admit she'd changed her mind—or because she'd been too nice to refuse in the first place.

I shall try instead to think of the staggering implications of the discovery of the first planet outside of our solar system, announced today (well, the 6th). Again… perspective.

Mon, 9 Oct

Spent the weekend making arrangements for Elena to return home. I met her at the hotel very early this morning and rode with her in the car to the airport to see her off. I told her to keep in touch, and wished her all the best. Fortunately, there was no press there to make a scene—I think the departure was so sudden there wasn't time for anyone to find out, plus… there's not really a story anymore. Thank goodness.

The rest of the day was tedious and trying. One of those literary adaptations of the classics that Natasha derided so much so many months ago is evidently airing on Sunday nights lately on BBC One. I overheard her speaking on the telephone about it (not intentionally eavesdropping… when I hear what I think is my name, I pay attention). I felt like asking her if she has read the book, but I have no desire to engage her in conversation, especially when she seemingly has chosen to pretend I don't exist.

Seems to be the fashion to do so.