The Barrister's Apprentice
By S. Faith, © 2012
Words: 34,894 (six chapters and an epilogue); this chapter: 6,079
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 4.
It took less than a day for his resolve to break. In fact, it was as he finished his lunch that he gave up fighting it altogether. As if he were some love-struck schoolboy, he couldn't get her out of his head; the echoes of the voices of Peter and Magda encouraging him to at least try did nothing to help the situation. He knew he had to act before he went mad.
Locating her telephone number was proving nigh on impossible. He'd taken the day off from chambers, so popping into Jeremy's office to ask was not an option, not that he necessarily wanted Jeremy to know how desperate he was to have her number. There were far too many 'B Jones' listings in the phone directory—assuming that her number was even in there. It occurred to him fairly quickly that he had another way, and he wasn't proud to be considering it:
Sam. He had the boy's mobile number in his phone as a 'just in case' from the work program.
It rang several times before someone picked up. "Hello?"
Mark became suddenly tongue-tied. "Hello. Is this Sam?"
"Yes," he said, dragging out the word. "Who's this?"
"Mark," he said, then elaborated, "Mark Darcy."
"Oh, hey," said Sam. "Didn't expect you to phone me. What's up?"
"Nothing urgent," he said, a blatant lie to his own ears. He cleared his throat. "I wonder if you might be able to help me."
"You know I'm in Manchester, right?"
"Yes, I do," he said. "You don't have to be here in London to do it."
"Oh, okay," Sam said. After a pause, he asked, "So what is it?"
"Yes, of course," said Mark, realising suddenly he hadn't actually said yet. "I was hoping you might be able to help me. I'm looking for a number. Actually… your mother's number."
Sam didn't answer right away. "Why?"
"Why?" echoed Mark.
"Why do you want her number?" Sam elaborated, as if the question hadn't been obvious enough. "Is this about school?"
"School? No, it's not about school. I—" He exhaled quickly. "I'd like to call—" He paused. Stupid. Of course he wanted to call; he was asking for her number, for pity's sake. "—to see if she'll meet me, rather, join—er, have supper with me."
"You want to ask my mum out," Sam said in plainer terms. Was that amusement tingeing his voice, or a bit of that protective jealousy?
"If you want to put it that way," said Mark. "Yes."
"On a date."
"Yes, I suppose it would be."
"But you have a girlfriend."
"I don't," said Mark. "I was never dating Ms Glenville. She just liked to… come on strong."
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"Sam, are you there?"
"I'm here," said Sam. "Um. Have you got a pen?"
Mentally he hit himself hard on the forehead; he dashed for a pen and notepad on the kitchen counter. "Yes," he said. "Go on."
Sam then rattled off his mother's mobile number. Mark wrote it down carefully, then read it back to ensure he hadn't transposed or missed numbers.
"Thank you, Sam," he said. "I'm sorry to bother you for this." After a pause, he added, "It's not too odd for you, that I want to… make this call, is it?"
"It is, a bit, to be honest," said Sam. "I mean, it's not odd that she might accept, because it's not like she hasn't been on dates before. I just—well, you're really unlike any of the others I've met."
Mark's thoughts went immediately to Daniel. "I hope that's a compliment," Mark said gently.
Sam went quiet again, until finally he said, "Yeah, it is."
He thanked Sam again, said he hoped he'd have a nice time in Manchester, and reminded him about any assistance he might have wanted pertaining to university.
"Mr Darcy?" Sam said just before Mark was about to hang up.
"Yes, Sam?" asked Mark.
"Promise me one thing."
"Of course," thought Mark, eager to say he would absolutely treat her well, not hurt her—
"If she says no, promise me you won't be offended."
"Pardon?"
"Well, it's a possibility," said Sam, "and I hope you and I can be friends still if she doesn't want to."
"Of course we can," said Mark, though felt a building confidence that she would; it was not that he felt too full of himself, but the facts stood for themselves: there had never been a woman he'd asked for supper who had refused, not that there were many he'd asked. With that he said goodbye then disconnected the call. He looked at the number that he had noted before dialling it and waiting for her to answer.
"Hello, Bridget Jones."
"Hello Bridget," he said. It was rather stupid how his heart was hammering in his chest. "It's Mark."
"Mark?" she said. "Mark Darcy?"
"Yes," he said with a smile. "I hope I haven't phoned at a bad time."
"No, it's fine, I'm just… I didn't know you had my number."
"I… Sam gave it to me."
"Did he?" she said, more of a statement than a question. "Well. What can I do for you?"
He recalled his verbal fumble while speaking with Sam, and vowed not to make the same gaffe. In a clear, confident voice, he said, "I'd like to invite you out for dinner."
"Oh," she said, surprise evident in her voice. "Why?"
He was stunned even as he thought, Like mother, like son. "What do you mean, 'Why'?"
She chuckled, which sent his temper flaring; how could she find this funny? "I just can't imagine any circumstance in which you'd willingly want to spend time with me, that's all."
Why would she say that? he thought, as he pursued her answer: "Will you, though?"
"Thanks, but no."
He hadn't thought he'd been rude or offensive. Maybe he had just misheard. Surely she hadn't turned him down that quickly. "Pardon?"
"I'm sorry, but I can't."
"You can't," he pressed, "or won't?"
She paused before answering. "I was trying to be polite."
"I see," he said, though he didn't really. "Well. I apologise for taking up your time." Without waiting to hear her say goodbye, he disconnected, his mind in a whirl. Refused without a moment's consideration? Infuriating. He tossed his mobile aside, feeling pent-up frustration. For what reason had she cast him off so quickly? He had adequately apologised for the Sam mix-up, been friendly during supper and throughout their interactions at Magda and Jeremy's the night before.
What had he failed to do right?
"Never mind," he said quietly to himself. Clearly destiny intended him to be doomed with the likes of Natasha Glenville.
To try to take his mind off of this failure he tidied up after his lunch-making mess, putting away the bread, meat and mustard and tossing the dirty knife and plate into the dishwasher. Unfortunately, it didn't work. Had it been arrogant to assume she'd accept? He didn't think so. His experience told him otherwise. Perhaps, given their previous encounters, he should have lent more weight to the idea that she might say no.
He had to stop obsessing on it.
As he made this resolution, the mobile rang from its askew position on the counter. He went over to it, quickly saw that it was Sam ringing back.
"Mark Darcy," he said in greeting.
"Hi. It's Sam."
"Hello Sam," he said. His voice was gruff, too gruff for Sam, but he wasn't feeling very charitable.
"Just had a call from my mum." He paused. "Sorry."
"It's not your fault," Mark said; in all honesty, Sam didn't sound all that sorry. "And, well, you did warn me."
"She gave me an earful for giving out her number, if it makes you feel any better."
Mark couldn't help laughing a short, sharp laugh. "That does not surprise me." Mark considered for a moment. "Sam, may I ask you a question, one that I want you to answer candidly?"
"What?" asked Sam, clearly intrigued.
"Are you truly sorry she turned me down?"
Sam said nothing for many moments.
"Ah," Mark said. "As I suspected."
"She's had boyfriends before," Sam said, rising to his own defence. "She's still, you know, pretty young."
"So why am I so different?"
"Because—" Sam stopped; it was tacit admission that Mark was on to something, and Sam seemed to acknowledge it in his tone when he continued. "You're not a fuckwit."
He did not understand at first what Sam meant, then it came to him: fuckwits—if he understood the context correctly, i.e. Daniel Cleaver—did not stick around. As a result, Sam still had his mother's attention even if he said he wanted her to be happy, even if he never would have admitted aloud he still needed it; why else would he have been so embarrassed to admit his mother had spontaneously bought him a present?
QED: he was worried she might find someone who might just stick around.
"Did you feel the same way about your father finding Phoebe?" Mark asked.
"But that's different. That's Dad," said Sam. Mark understood; he loved both of his own parents, but had always felt a particular bond with his mother. He heard Sam sigh, the sound of his breath amplified in the phone's mike. "I don't know. I guess I should be sorry, and I guess deep down I am—Mum doesn't deserve to be alone the rest of her life." He paused. "Maybe you should ask again."
Mark chuckled low again. "I'm not in the habit of inviting a second kick when I'm already down."
He chuckled. "I could put in a good word for you," said Sam.
"I think you're already in the doghouse with your mother," said Mark. "I don't think you want to add to your misery by recommending me."
At this Sam laughed. "Sorry," he said. "I mean, about not seeming more sorry before."
"It's all right," said Mark. "Say hello to your father for me. He seems a nice chap."
"I think he is," said Sam, "but then again, I'm a bit biased."
Once again he said his goodbyes with Sam and disconnected. He sighed, decided to try to get a little paperwork done in his home office, but barely two hours' effort in this endeavour proved futile. He realised he had to get out, had to do something physical. He would go for a jog. The day was not so hot that a jog out of doors was unthinkable.
He left the office, put on track bottoms and a tee shirt, then left the house.
Mark took his usual route; one he realised far too late would take him into Bridget's neighbourhood. It seemed his subconscious been having a bit of fun with him. It didn't matter. It was late afternoon and she was likely at work, anyhow.
Near the end of the circuit he rounded the corner down her street. To his surprise he saw none other than Bridget emerging from a taxi with a rather large box—long, thin, awkward in its obvious heaviness—that she was having trouble managing.
She leaned in to pay the taxi, stood as it drove away, and saw him crossing the street.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," she said as he drew near.
"I promise this is completely a coincidence," Mark said as he caught his breath. "This is my usual route. Do you need a hand upstairs?"
"No," she said quickly.
"What have you got there?" he asked, then saw the label on the box where it rested on edge on the ground. "Ah. Bookcase."
"Yes."
"You're sure I can't help?"
"Positive." She leaned to pick up the box, but couldn't do it. She crouched to try to get a shoulder under it, but again was unsuccessful. She looked up at him; he was fighting a laugh. She narrowed her eyes.
"Sorry," he said. "Please let me help you with that."
She rose to her full height, and with as much dignity as she could muster, she said, "Thank you."
He crouched, put his arms around it and hoisted it up. He turned to her; the apparent ease with which he'd done that seemed to silence her for a moment. "There we are," he said. "Please, lead on."
"Right."
She dug out her keys, walked to the building door, unlocked it then opened it for him. It took a little creative manoeuvring but he not only got it into the building, but up the staircase, through the flat's door and up the steps into the flat proper. He set its end by his feet. Well, Darcy, you wanted a bit of a workout… he thought, taking in a breath. "Where would you like this?"
It was not a large flat; from his position he could see the sitting room and the kitchen, and a hallway which in all likelihood led to the loo and the bedrooms. It was, however, very cosily decorated—inviting, comfortable-looking furniture in sensuous curves and warm tones. Photos of Sam, with and without his parents, as well as people Mark presumed to be her friends, hung on every wall. He also doubted he'd ever seen a flat with more books in it. Every level surface had at least one, usually three, resting on it, and that was aside from the many shelves of them. It was an easy place in which to feel at home.
"If you can bring it over by the table, I think it'll go right there."
"It'll be easiest to assemble on the floor there." He picked it up again, then brought it and leaned it against the table, which had a few stacks of books on it, as well. "There you are."
He realised when he turned back to her that she was regarding him in a most peculiar fashion. Seeming to snap out of a reverie, she said, "Thanks. You must be—I mean, do you want something to drink after that?"
"Some water would be great. Thank you."
She went towards the kitchen and into the cupboard for a glass, then fetched some ice from the freezer and filled the glass with cold water. She handed it to him. "Sorry about that before."
"Sorry? What for?" he asked, then took a long drink from the glass.
She didn't speak until he'd finished taking his drink. "Sort of staring," she said. "I just don't think I've ever seen you when you weren't meticulously dressed and every hair in place on your head."
He smiled. "Well, yes. I was jogging."
She chuckled. "If anyone could manage meticulous jogging, I'd've thought you could have done."
"I'm not perfect, by any means."
She seemed a bit perplexed by his words, then smirked. "I never said I thought you were," she said.
He couldn't tell the extent to which she might be kidding. To distract his attention, he glanced to the bookcase in a box, thought about her trying to wrangle the pieces to put it together. "Can I be of further assistance?"
"I think I'll be okay. I do appreciate it though."
"I'll at least get the box opened for you." He placed it on the broad end, flat on the floor, then pulled the edges up to reveal the unassembled bookcase.
"Oh."
He looked up to her. "What is it?"
"There are a lot more bits there than I was expecting." He handed her the instruction sheet. "And a lot more steps," she added in lament.
"I'll stay and help," he declared.
"Are you good at putting things together?" she asked, her voice sceptical.
"I've done it before," he lied; how difficult could it be to follow written and illustrated instructions?
She smiled. "Then yes. Thank you."
He took the instruction sheet back and quickly realised that the instructions seemed to assume some kind of arcane knowledge he did not possess; it was possible the odd wording was just the results of a translation from another language. Still, the drawings appeared fairly straightforward. "We'll need a little hammer and a screwdriver."
"It said no-tool assembly."
"These," he said, crouching to pick up a small bag, "are screws."
"Bloody hell. Hold on."
She went into the back of the flat, then came out a few minutes later with a little toolkit. He chuckled as he opened it. All components, including a hammer and several screwdrivers, had a floral pattern on their handles. "These will do."
"What's wrong with these?"
"They're—" he began; he did not want to insult her tools when she seemed to be warming a bit. "There's nothing at all wrong. They're very cheery."
"They're girly, I know."
"A bit," he admitted. "But they suit you."
She smiled. "All right, what's first?"
He took his duties seriously as the director of this project, and when both instructions and illustrations were vague, he chose to be decisive and just do what made sense.
"First is the frame," he said, then asked her to pull over the two longest planks and the short ones that were the top and bottom, as the diagram called for. "Hold this upright while I drop in a bit of glue, then put the screw in."
She did as asked. "I suppose they call it 'no-tool' because we're not actually, you know, sanding the wood and drilling the screw holes."
"Probably." He twisted the screwdriver, one than the other. "All right, same thing, other end."
Once that was done, they flipped it over and stood it up like a little table so that the other, fourth side could be screwed into place.
"You're winging it, aren't you?" she asked, dropping the glue into the hole.
"I don't know what you're talking about," he said, then smiled and drove in the screw.
Next the shelves went in—more glue, more screws—before the book case was laid onto its front and the back panel got affixed.
"I suppose this is where the hammer and these million little nails come in handy." She picked up the bag of nails and shook it; they made an almost pretty, shimmery metallic sound.
"Yep." He aligned the panel along the top edge, but he realised it was a bit off from square. "Hm. Give me the hammer."
"I want to do the back."
"You can do the back," he said. "I have to give it a whack. It's a bit off."
"That'd fit in around here."
He laughed, then struck the corner until it squared. "You really don't want a parallelogram bookcase."
"You'd be surprised at what I've used in the past to store my books," she said.
He held the bag of tiny framing nails and handed her one at a time to let her pound them in. "Not too close together," he advised. "You'll run out."
"There's so many of them though."
"There's not as many as it looks."
As she got part way down the third side, she started to see what he meant; the nails went in farther and farther apart. The fourth side, the bottom, ended up having no nails in it at all.
"It'll be okay," Mark assured. "The back's not really structural."
She looked sheepish. "Do you think?"
He nodded. "Absolutely."
She smiled, spirits restored.
"All right," said Mark. "Where's this going exactly?"
She pointed to a blank space by the window.
"So we can stand this upright and sort of… walk it over."
"What about the glue? Shouldn't it dry first?"
"It'll be okay—but it says not to put books on it just yet. Give it a day."
The corner of her mouth turned up. "You might have noticed we're big fans of reading here."
"Are you? Couldn't tell." He grinned too.
Slowly they lifted the bookcase upright. It was as tall as she was, and nearly as wide as her arm span. The very thought of her attempting to move this thing into place without assistance made him chuckle.
"Are you laughing," she said as they pushed it against the wall, "because you're thinking what this might have gone like if I'd done it on my own?"
"Can't lie," he said. "I am."
"It would have been a nightmare," she said. "I really wanted to be stubborn and go it alone, but I—I'm glad you helped."
Her own hair was a bit mussed from the work, but she looked really bright-eyed and happy. Even though she was dressed in everyday denims and a cotton top, once again he couldn't keep his eyes off of her. "I was glad to do it," he said, and as he did he noticed the timbre of his voice had changed. "You know, Bridget, I hope you'll reconsider coming out to dinner with me."
She blinked in confusion. "But you don't even like me," she blurted, then flushed red. "I mean… I just thought you were being pressured by Magda and Jeremy to ask me. And your mum. And mine."
"Don't know if you've noticed," he said gently, "but I don't often do what I don't want to do."
She raised her chin slightly, then smiled. "Except maybe Natasha."
At this he felt his skin tint flush with heat, but couldn't help laughing; he didn't even care it was at his own expense, because she was laughing too, and it was a pleasure to hear.
"If I agree," she said cautiously, "that woman's not going to come scratch my eyes out, is she?"
"She's already been set straight," he said. His smile faded and he became more serious. "I'm sorry if I ever made you think I didn't like you, Bridget. I do."
She reacted as if he'd struck a chord, but bristled a bit as she spoke. "You didn't always."
"Actually… I did," he said. "Even if I didn't want to admit it."
She regarded him with an unblinking gaze. "All right, Mark Darcy. I'll have dinner with you."
He smiled broadly.
She continued: "But you're not going to take me out."
"Pardon?"
"I want to thank you for helping me," she said. "I'll make you dinner."
His brows rose. "You will?" he asked; he could not keep the incredulity from his voice.
"I've managed not to kill my son all these years," she said teasingly.
"Are you sure?" he asked. "I mean, I'd be pleased to treat you to a night out."
"Take it or leave it." She was smiling again.
"But I'm…" He looked down to himself; the sweat from his run was now paired with sawdust from the bookshelf components clinging to his clothing. "I'm a wreck."
"And I'm not?" She chuckled.
"You're not, at least not to this extent."
"It's really not going to take much time to make pasta and sauce—oh, that's okay, I hope?"
"Pasta's fine."
"Whew," she said. "Anyway, you can wash up a bit in the loo—though hold on, let me make sure I didn't leave it a disaster. Be right back." She went back towards the room in question, and after a few minutes (during which he heard her closing doors; bedrooms, he would guess) she returned. "There, all clear. Avail yourself of the facilities."
He smiled warmly to her. "Thank you."
He strode back, went into the loo and closed the door behind himself. She had set a clean towel out for him; the act of her doing this made him smile. He took off his trackie bottoms in order to shake them out and, he hoped, freshen them up a little. He tried to aim the sawdust-like debris for the trash bin but wasn't sure how successful he'd been. He also took off the shirt and shook it out. After resting them on the edge of the bathtub, he turned on the sink taps, lathered up the bar of soap and washed his face thoroughly, cringing a little at the stubble that had developed over the course of the day, cursing himself for his inattentive shaving earlier that morning (he told himself he had been distracted). As he dried off, he inspected himself in the mirror, combed his untamed hair down with dampened fingers then cringed again.
He was not exactly looking the best he would have wanted for a date with her.
He left the towel hanging over a rack to dry, dressed again in his shirt and bottoms, then ventured back out. Already he could smell the scent of tomato, garlic and basil hanging lazily in the air, saw the steam of the boiling water licking up towards the ceiling, and there she stood, one hand on her hip as she stirred the sauce in the saucepan.
"I poured you some wine," she said without turning. "White." He glanced to the side, saw two glasses had been poured and were now sitting on the kitchen counter.
"That's a bit preternatural of you."
"What is?" she asked, looking over her shoulder then turning to face him.
"Knowing I was there."
She smiled. "Years of practise." She turned back to the hob, then reached for the pasta itself and dropped it in the water. She turned down the heat on the sauce, then covered it with a lid. "Six minutes until supper."
"Shall I—oh." He was about to offer to set the table, but she had already brought plates and forks to a cleared portion of the table.
"Pardon the books," she said. "They're destined for the bookcase."
"I gathered that." He walked over for the wine, had a sip. He knew he should have had more water after all of that exertion but the wine was very good. "It smells delicious," he said. "I hadn't realised quite how hungry I was."
"I'm not the greatest cook, but you know… had to hone some skills for Sam's sake. Can't feed a kid fish fingers and alphabetti spaghetti every night, much as he might want them."
Mark chuckled. "Is there anything more I can do?" he asked.
"Nope," she said. "Just feel free to sit down. Just a few minutes to go."
He took a seat, had another sip of wine, just as she brought the sauce pan over to the table, set it down on a potholder and set a ladle beside it. "Right back," she said.
After one more round in which she brought a small bowl of grated parmesan and a serving spoon, she returned to stir up the pasta, then switch off the hob, drain it in a colander, rinse it and dump it into a bowl; the action was so smooth and practised he thought she must have done it a hundred, a thousand times before. She then brought it over to the table. He forced his gaze from her and to the food as she set the pasta bowl down, then rose to his feet. "Allow me." He held out his hand for the pasta server. "The least I can do is parcel out pasta."
She smiled almost bashfully. "Thank you."
He divided the pasta into roughly equal portions, then used the ladle to spoon out sauce, first on hers, then on his own. As he did, he reflected that he could not recall a single instance, not even when he was married, when a partner cooked a meal for him. It made him wistful, and underscored to him how the simplest, most mundane moments could be so special.
"Care for some cheese?" she asked.
"Thank you, yes," he said, reaching for the parmesan, sifting some over his plate of fusilli.
After this exchange, she began to laugh under her breath. "Sorry," she said. "It just seemed too formal and proper there for a moment."
"That's the last thing I want," he said with a grin, then handed her the bowl of cheese.
As she sprinkled a bit over her own mound of pasta, he was surprised to see her blue eyes raise to meet his. "You know," she said, "this is a bit odd for me. I'm not used to serving supper to someone who isn't my son or my ex-husband."
He smiled warmly, scooping up some of his pasta. "I never would have guessed," he said, hoping that perhaps this was in its way just as special for her as it was for him, despite how commonplace a nightly supper could be. "So, as I recall, you work in publishing."
She dropped her gaze. "Actually, I don't. Not anymore."
"Oh," he said. "I'm sorry."
"I'm not," she said. "I made the foolish mistake of trying to have a relationship with a man who is a complete commitment-phobe. And… he also happened to be my boss."
"Daniel Cleaver," he said.
"Yes," she said. She looked to him again. "I suppose you tried to warn me at the Alconburys' party, when I thought you were just being a prat." He chuckled, recalling her indignant look paired with that sexy outfit. "How do you know him, anyway?"
The night was going so well that he did not wish to get into the details with her just then, so he only offered, "We were mates in university—then we had a major falling out when he proved to not be the friend I thought he was."
"Crikey," she said. "I'm sorry."
He let out a breath. "'Fool me once, shame on me' as they say," he said. "I couldn't trust him again."
She offered a smile. "It's funny—I felt much the same way. But on the bright side, I have a much better job now. I'm working in television."
"Oh, you're on a programme?"
She laughed. "Oh, lord no. I'm a researcher."
"Don't sell yourself short. I'm sure you'd be great on the air."
"I'd fall on my arse," she said, then turned pink. "Sorry."
"You don't need to apologise to me," he said. "I feel much the same way, some days, about appearing in court." At this she laughed aloud. "So, researcher for which programme?"
"Sit Up Britain."
"I think I may have seen it," he said, though wasn't honestly sure he had.
"It's ridiculous, to be honest; a mix of entertainment and current affairs," she said. "My boss is a bit of a cretin, but he's harmless." She laughed. "And I have no interest in him at all." As she said this, she seemed to regret it. "Ah, you're out of wine. Let me get the bottle."
She rose before he had a chance to offer to get it himself. She returned promptly and poured more for him, topping up her own in the process.
"I don't mean to flog the proverbial dead horse," he said, "but I wanted to apologise again (without threat of your immediate departure) for any misapprehensions I may have had about you, or any I led you to have about me, about Sam."
She smiled, then began to laugh. "Yes, you are in fact a barrister," she said, sipping at her wine again. "I think you can consider yourself adequately forgiven for thinking I was a cradle robber. You looked positively white when you realised your mistake."
"I admit the notion perplexed me," he said. "I mean, here you are—" He stopped, cursing his loosened tongue before actually saying "a beautiful woman"; he did not want to come on too strongly, ply her with compliments (heartfelt as they were) when he'd only just gotten her to accept a dinner date, such as it was.
"Here I am what?" she asked with a smirk.
He glanced down. "Suffice it to say, I might have been a bit… jealous," he confessed.
"Jealous?"
He dared to look up again. "I thought it unjust that a mere boy could succeed where I did not have a chance."
At this she seemed a bit stunned. "I see," she said; she looked to the table, to nothing in particular, focusing as she turned thoughts around in her mind. "But—that means you've liked me all this time, then. I mean, longer than just a few weeks."
"Longer than just a few weeks," he repeated. "Yes."
He watched an expression of amusement play upon her lips. "Even though you didn't want to admit it."
"As I've said."
"That's not exactly flattering, you know," she said, teasing him.
"It's not meant to insult you at all," he said. "That's the last thing I ever intended to do." He picked up his wine, took in a long draw, then stared at how the light refracted through the round stem before continuing. "I had this fairly precise notion for the whole of my adult life, the sort of woman I should find attractive, fall in love with and marry—and even though it's not worked out for me it was very difficult to let it go because otherwise… I'd just be flailing wildly."
"We all do to an extent, I think," she said.
"But I don't do 'flailing wildly' in any other aspect of my life," he said. "For this—for you—it was worth giving it a shot."
There was a long silence following this admission; she seemed fascinated (in much the same way he had been) with the stem of her wineglass.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to… I don't know. Overwhelm you."
She shook her head. "Please don't apologise," she said quietly, then raised her eyes to meet his. "I guess this means I'm forgiven for assuming you didn't like me for having a child as a child."
"There was nothing to forgive," he said. "I was a prat."
She smiled. "And you… well, Sam doesn't scare you off?"
"He's the icing on the cake."
"You like him," she restated.
"I think I've made that very clear."
"You can see that's pretty important to me," she said. "Daniel, well…"
"Yes, Daniel," Mark said dismissively. "Consider the source."
This made her smile then laugh again. "Okay," she said. "You've convinced me."
"Of what?"
"To go out to a proper dinner with you."
"Bridget," he said. "This is a proper dinner."
"You know what I mean," she said.
He did, and it filled his heart with joy; she was telling him in so many words that she would see him again, that he was, quite possibly, worth giving a shot, too. He smiled, then nodded. "I'll hold you to that," he said.
"Oh, twist my arm, take me to a posh restaurant," she said with a laugh.
Quite without his realising it, Mark had finished his pasta and his second glass of wine. The sky was starting to darken ever so slightly, and with a jog home to go yet, he knew he had to go. He pushed back from the table. "I'm sorry to say this," he said, "but I'm afraid I must leave. I have an early appointment."
She nodded. "I'm working, too."
He stood just as she did. "Thank you again for dinner."
"It was nothing."
It wasn't nothing, not by any stretch. He smiled. "So, how about Friday night for dinner?"
She grinned. "Okay," she said. "Great."
"I'll come for you at seven."
"Perfect."
"Perfect," he repeated. "Well, goodnight."
"I'll walk you to the door."
He descended the few stairs to the flat door, then turned when he reached it; she was still a step up and it put them nearly eye to eye, or at least closer than usual.
"Goodnight," she said quietly, a smile playing on her lips.
He wasn't sure if he dared kiss her goodnight, then thought he might just brave it, given the wine in his system and how far bravery had gotten him that day already. He leaned forward, intending on wishing her another 'goodnight' before pecking her on the cheek, but the proximity of her blue gaze took the words from his mouth.
Instead, he placed his lips tenderly on her own, touching his fingers to her cheek and lingering perhaps a moment too long before pulling back with a smile. "Until Friday."
She nodded. "Okay," she said in a breathless voice. He didn't think it was his imagination; she looked about as dazzled as he felt by their brief contact.
Before he knew it he was on the street again. The suddenness of the cool evening air brought him back to reality, and as he jogged home at a much slower pace than usual given the drinks and the dinner, he found that that chill in the air helped calm him in more than one way.