The Lost Boy
Part 4 of 4
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 28,821 (Part 4: 8,438)
Rating: M / R
Summary, etc.: See Part 1.
Thanks, all, who have been along for the ride. Big thanks to C. as always, and to my roommate, who betaed for spelling, grammar, etc.
Part 4
Surprisingly, despite working for the same production company in rather close quarters, Daniel did not often run into Bridget. On those occasions when they passed in the hall or shared a lift with other people, she was stonily silent and looked at imaginary cobwebs in the highest corners rather than lock gazes with him.
It was not as if he was lacking in female attention; quite the opposite, he had women phoning, emailing and writing letters on a scale that even he (in his career as a womaniser) had never seen before. To say his television show had garnered him a bit of a following was an understatement, and he had to admit that despite his efforts to change his wicked ways, he really liked it. It didn't mean that he didn't still think about the one who'd gotten away… or rather, he'd driven away.
As March dawned, he realised that she seemed a little less bubbly, a little more introspective. She still did not look at or speak to him, but he could not help but wonder what the matter was. He did not want to ask. His biggest fear was that Mark's dour, stern ways had finally crushed her spirit.
An enlightening comment at lunch set him straight.
"We're thinking of adding a second Guide," said Eric as he pushed a couple of chips into his mouth. Daniel feared for the man's finger, so enthusiastic was he eating his lunch. They were dining with Richard Finch, and Eric was referring to the show that Daniel hosted, The Smooth Guide.
"Oh?" asked Daniel. "Any particular reason? Am I not up to snuff?"
His friend laughed. "Not at all," he said. "We've been quite pleased with your ratings. No, what we'd like to do is balance the scales and boost our male viewership."
Daniel raised a brow. "Bringing on a lady Guide. I like it. Anyone in mind?"
"You said you were familiar with Sit Up Britain, right?" asked Eric between ravenous bites, pointing to Finch. "What do you think of Bridget Jones?"
Think she might just be the best shag I ever had was the thought that popped unbidden into his head, but he said, "I think she'd make a fine choice—as you know, Richard, I'm quite fond of her despite her chucking me—but I… hear she has a boyfriend who would be disinclined to let her go off on her own with me like that."
"Bah," said Eric with a laugh.
"She doesn't have a boyfriend any longer," said Richard with rather more glee than the news warranted. "They've split up."
At this, Daniel raised both brows. "Split up?"
Richard nodded. "Yup. She says they split, wouldn't say why, but I suspect at how upset she's been that it's because he was seeing another woman. I tell you, would you cheat on something that cute?"
Daniel smiled wanly, not wanting to admit he already had. "Not even I could have carried on indefinitely with someone who thinks Iran is David Bowie's wife, and doesn't know where Germany actually is," he said jauntily, his defences kicking in when he was otherwise at a loss for words.
This caused both of them to howl with laughter; he imagined how she might react when this proclamation got back to her, and he smirked. He suddenly found himself wanting to be in earshot to hear it.
"We've already got the green light from the boys upstairs to approach her with this, just wanted to ensure you were on board first," Eric said. "Would not do to make the star of my show cranky."
"Appreciate it, mate." After a moment, he added, "Do you mind if I attend the meeting?"
"Not at all."
He decided to take a seat at the desk in the room and turn around so that he was hidden from view; he wanted to hear what she had to say about him, what she really thought about him, without her realising he was there, at least at first. As expected, she was not at all pleased at the suggestion, was not at all kind to him, and was incensed at the insinuation that she didn't know where Germany was. When she realised Daniel was there, she got very flustered and left the meeting, insisting she would not do it.
He had to admit that on some level, her words stung. After all, she had hinted once she loved him. He followed her out of the office and to her desk, where he caught her looking at her screen and at what he suspected a map of Europe. "Oh, come on, Jones," he said. "it was just a silly joke."
"Not a very funny one," she said, scowling at him.
"Go on then," he dared.
"What?" she asked.
"Where is it? Where's Germany?"
Her eyes flitted down. Ha. He'd been right. "Next to France."
"And?"
She looked down once more. "And also Belgium… Poland. And it has a sea coast."
He smirked. "Which sea?"
He saw the reflection on her face of the screen changing colour; quite possibly that same silly aquarium screensaver she always liked had just kicked in. "Oh, sod it," he said. Her posture eased. "Now, look, I think we should have a serious talk about Finch's suggestion. I am going to Thailand, Jones. Wouldn't you like to be my little Girl Guide? Hmm?"
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips.
………
"I might have to go to Prague," Daniel said lazily, reclining in bed. "If I do, it's going to be long and dull. Maybe you can come with me."
She turned over to look at him. "Prague?"
"Yes. Prague. You know."
She brought her brows together. "Yes," she said, rather unconvincingly.
He smirked, a suspicion forming. "You're familiar with Prague?"
"Of course," she said defensively. "Lovely country."
He laughed. "It's not a country, Bridge. It's a city. A Czech city." At her blank look, he continued. "Near to Germany. You do know where Germany is, don't you?"
"Of course I do!" she said huffily. "It's in eastern Europe."
At this he laughed out loud.
"Well, honestly," she said with a pout. "It's not like I would be required to list which countries I would be flying over in order to get a plane ticket to Prague, would I?"
"What if we were doing a road tour of Europe?" he asked. "Wouldn't you want to know if we were near to, say—" He plucked a country name at random. "—Iran?"
"What does she have to do with it?"
Daniel blinked in disbelief. "What in the name of arse are you talking about?"
"Iran," she said. "You know. David Bowie's wife."
At that he let out gales of laughter. "Oh, Jones," he said, reaching for her. "I wish I could believe you were teasing me."
"What?" she asked insistently. "What?!"
He kissed her. "Nothing. Nothing at all."
………
It was totally dark save for the stray light coming in from the air hostess station, and the pervasive thrumming of jet engines provided a level of white noise that Daniel supposed would have made it easier to sleep if he wasn't so bloody distracted. He wasn't sure what series of miracles had to have occurred to put Bridget on the plane with him to Thailand, that she had agreed at all to go to Thailand and be his Girl Guide, but he was thankful for them. He could not resist lifting his sleep mask to look at her, her own eyes covered with a mask, her skin highlighted a weird blue from those remote lights. He slipped it back over his eyes and vowed to try to sleep, to try not to think about her.
He had seen the blonde from the sex-addicts meetings a few more times for a quick shag before dropping her. She didn't seen overly distraught. Now he was sporadically seeing another woman from the meetings, a brunette with intense dark eyes who was not afraid to accommodate his strangest kinks. She smirked when he asked if they could role-play, and if he could call her Bridget.
At least it wasn't a different girl every night.
It was so good to be so near Bridget, just as much as it tore him up inside. He did love her, but he knew that love was no good for him, and it would only end in pain for both of them. He also knew that if anyone could change him, though, it would be her.
He learned soon after landing that she would not be staying in the same hotel that he was; like some kind of dour-faced chaperone, her blonde friend Sharon had come with her, and they were staying together in huts on the beach. Not having her near, however, did make it easier for him to drown his disappointment with a private full body-to-body massage session—in other words, sex—in his room without risk of her discovering it.
Their days filming together were long but fun; it was so good to see her smiling and laughing (even as they shared some of the area's questionable gastronomic delicacies), and she was such a natural in front of the camera. The chill she had reserved for him had begun to thaw, and after filming wrapped, she even agreed to a boat ride to Ko Panyi with him.
The air was as calm and sultry as it always seemed to be in Thailand, even with the sun lowering ever closer to the horizon. The water was perfect and blue and the sky was shimmering as it darkened. As the boat glided soundlessly over the water, the air blowing her hair back, Daniel pointed to the small island. "Now, that is Ko Panyi, which is the setting for a very famous Thai poem which I think you'd like very much, Jones." She looked at him doubtfully. "It's all about a badly-behaved prince who finds true love with a beautiful and, as it happens, very slightly overweight princess."
She was clearly unconvinced. "You're teasing me."
He was the picture of seriousness. "I never tease about poetry. 'O, Suvarnamali!'" he quoted dramatically. "'Why can you not see that I adore you? Why do you avoid and scorn me? If you cast me off and leave me, how shall I live another day?'" She was clearly stunned. Racking it up as a victory, he said almost smugly, "And you thought all I knew about Thailand was pussies and Ping-Pong balls."
She lifted her chin and looked out over the water. As the minutes passed, her expression became wistful; her posture, melancholy.
"Have dinner with me?" he asked suddenly.
She did not answer him right away, which actually gave him hope, at least until she actually spoke. "No," she said. She looked to him once more. "I think we should go back to shore now."
He nodded. He could be patient if he needed to be.
………
The following day was a day off before they were to return to England. He had not yet seen nor heard from Bridget as the noon hour came and went, he decided to walk down to her little hut. He did not expect to find her waist-deep in the ocean, flailing her arms around as if doing an interpretive dance. He called out her name. She paused momentarily as if expecting him to be right beside her, and she turned around, searching for him. He called for her again.
She finally saw him and she smiled broadly, her big floppy hat wobbling as she tilted her head back, her cheeks ruddy from the sun.
"Jones, what the hell are you doing?" he shouted.
"You are lovely colours! Here. Here I am." She held out her arms, wandering closer to the shore. She was also making absolutely no sense, and was frankly acting like she'd already had a few glasses of wine in her.
"I think you're completely off your face. Hey!" She fell forward, too far for him to catch her. She dropped down to the sand, apparently none the worse for wear, before turning over onto her back and making angels in the sand. "Hang on."
"I'm an angel," she said disconnectedly. "Lovely, glorious sand. Oh, I want to be naked. Naked as a baby."
He pushed away thoughts of her lovely naked form—it was not the time nor place—and reached down to help her up. "Come on, then, angel. Up you get."
He walked with his arm around her waist; it was like trying to manoeuver and guide a bundle of wet noodles. He had no idea what she'd done to get herself into this state.
"Where's your hut, Bridge?"
"Just there, and there, and there," she said, pointing randomly down the beach.
"Bit early to be drinking, isn't it?" he asked.
"No, no," she slurred. "Best omelette ever, better even than Mark's, with all kinds of bits of wonderful, magical mushrooms."
He did not quite understand the reference to Darcy, but the magic mushroom reference certainly clarified things to him. He'd tried one of the area's famous omelettes on a previous trip to Thailand, and vowed never to have anything harder than liquor again. "Come on, Jones. You need a bit of a lie down until you return to Earth."
She giggled.
He then saw Sharon sitting on the steps of one of the huts, crying uncontrollably, and steered his wet little noodle towards her. "Sharon, is this your hut?"
"I want to die," Sharon sobbed, clutching onto a horrible bowl that appeared to be made from a mummified snake. "My face is melting."
He glanced into the hut and saw what he knew to be Bridget's overnight bag. "Here we are," he said, sitting her down on one of the beds; she landed as if she were a sack of laundry. She laid back, her hat falling back, and she laughed again, amused by something he could not see. He smoothed her skirt down over her leg.
He found a sheet of paper and a pencil and wrote her a note: When you're yourself again, come to the dock near my hotel. I can't wait to hear all about how you've been scared straight. He signed his name and put the note on her bedside table.
He sat at the hotel bar and had a couple of drinks—perhaps an hour had passed, two at most—when he saw her approaching the dock unsurely. He was a little surprised that she'd come at all, and quickly he paid his bar tab then went down to meet her. "Jones," he said.
She looked down. "Daniel."
"Dinner. I insist. Very lovely new little place out on that island, highly recommended." He pointed. "Come on. We'll have one of these little boats take us over." He led her to the dock, and before he knew it, they were skimming over the water and landing on the dock on the opposite shore.
They were seated and had ordered when he regarded her seriously.
"So, how are you feeling?"
She glanced down. "Completely embarrassed."
"Don't be. You're charming on drugs. In future, just say yes."
With a reserved smile, she looked at him again. "Do you know, I never really understood why you wanted to go out with me. It seemed so unlikely."
He was surprised at the sudden veering-off from small talk into serious discussion, but worked hard not to let it show. "Come on, Jones. For God's sake. You're sexy. You make me laugh. At you, of course, not with you," he did not hesitate to add in jest. She laughed lightly. "And you were, incidentally, the best shag I ever had."
"The best?" she asked, looking suspicious.
"Aside from Simon Reade in the fifth form locker room, yeah," he joked.
She smirked again, then looked up at him through her lashes. "Suppose I said you were pretty good, too?"
"'Pretty good?'" he asked in mock surprise. "Was I better than Mark Darcy? By the way, is it true he always says, 'I'm sorry, but I think I need to come'?"
Her mouth dropped open, and her voice was all astonishment as she asked, "Who told you that?"
"It's common knowledge, isn't it? Come on, Jones," he said; with this new level of candour, he decided to ask, as he could not in truth believe the story Finch had told him, "Who gave who the hoof? And why?"
She didn't respond right away, and that thoughtful, bittersweet expression swept over her face again. "Let's just say that we suffer from a fatal incompatibility."
Daniel figured he had pushed that particular envelope far enough, and decided to change the subject, his voice turning solemn again. "I have missed you, Jones. I don't suppose there's any circumstances in which you would ever consider thinking about trusting me again?"
"Absolutely not," she said without hesitation. Their meals were brought to them. "So," she said brightly. "I think the filming went well, didn't you? Well, except for that horrible bit of food I had to choke down."
"Are you saying you preferred the locusts?"
She laughed. "Only marginally," she said, her smile restored, as she ate her noodle dish.
With conversation thusly redirected within safer bounds, they continued eating, partaking in delicious regional cocktails and even splurging in dessert. She was smiling contentedly, a far cry from her previous woeful state, as they took the boat back to the peninsula.
"Well, I suppose I'll be getting back to my little hut now. Thank you very much, Daniel. I had a nice time." She glanced up into the twilit sky. "Is that the Big Dipper or the little one? I can never tell them apart."
Bridget must have been spending a lot of time watching American telly or movies to be calling the Plough by that name, perhaps not doing much else than mindless viewing in the evenings, or so he hoped. "Definitely the big one. You can't see the little one this close to the Equator."
She turned to him, incredulous. "Oh, please. You don't know about astronomy."
"I most certainly do. Passion of mine," he said. "You know, Jones, if stargazing is something that interests you, it has to be said that the view from my balcony is quite outstanding. Perhaps you'd like to come up and have a bit of a look."
"I don't think so," she said reluctantly, seeming to sense it was a line to get her upstairs.
He reached or her hand and tugged her forward. "Come on," he said earnestly. "Best behaviour. Promise I won't bite."
She allowed herself to be led up to his room. It was a good sign; previous to the trip, she'd barely given him the time of day. She seemed appropriately impressed with his room as they passed through it and onto the balcony.
"All right, Professor Cleaver. Let's have a little astronomy lesson."
He pointed up and out into the sky, bending nearer to her to level his eyes with hers. He didn't know much about the stars in actual fact, but was willing to say or do whatever it took to have her under them. "See over there? A long way off. That's it, over there. That is Orion's belt. And, there, right next to that is a very sexy little constellation called Ursa's Maiden. You see, she's being very naughty and trying to undo Orion's belt."
He heard her chuckle under her breath. "All right. What about that one?" she asked, pointing in another direction. He didn't think he was imagining it that she was leaning a little bit into him; it felt so good to have her against him again.
"Yes, well, that is a very, very famous star, um, right next to, of course, um…" His stamina for faking knowledge of the night skies was fading fast, and coupled with the distraction of the nearness of her, he started to stumble a bit. "…some other fucking star that's been there for years and years without anyone giving a toss. Seen one star, seen the lot of them, that's what I say, Jones." She turned and their eyes met again. "Different with girls, though. Some girls are special."
"Are they?"
"I think so." He pulled her into his arms, his lips hovering just over hers. As he asked, he truly wished to know: "What is this special power you hold over me, Jones?"
He leaned in to kiss her, but she pulled back. "What about your therapy?" she asked, concerned.
He murmured in response: "I think you might be it."
With that her reserve seemed to break; he kissed her ravenously, and she let him. It was wonderful to have his arms around her once more, to smell the faded scent of her perfume or whatever it was that smelled so familiar and undeniably like her. He walked her back towards the bed until they fell upon the mattress. "Oh, God, I hope you're wearing those giant panties. Please." He could hear her chuckling. "Please be wearing the giant panties. Please." He raised the hem of her skirt to see her granny-style pants, and he smiled, gasping with exaggerated pleasure. "Oh, my old friends, ohhh. Daddy's home!" He bent to place kisses on her abdomen. "Did you miss me? Because Daddy missed you. Yes, he did."
Before she even spoke he knew something was wrong with the way she froze up under his ministrations. "Wait. Sorry." He pulled back to look at her, could see the conflict playing on her face. "Can I just have a minute? Just a minute."
He backed away from her and rose to sit on the bed as she went into the loo. Clearly she was having doubts, but not doubts so large that she was running from his room. He wondered if she could still possibly be thinking about Mark, if she could possibly still have feelings for him.
The door opened, surprising him. He got to his feet and went near to her. "Everything all right?"
She looked a bit skittish, and smiled unconvincingly. "Yeah, sure. Just a bit nervous. I mean, you see, if I…" Her voice faltered. "If I stay with you tonight, uh, it's definitely the end of something, um, important with someone. Which has probably ended already, but…"
She had been thinking of Mark, after all. He strengthened his resolve to make her forget. Tenderly he took her in his arms again, held her to him reassuringly. They were so close, so close; he did not want anything to spoil his getting her into bed again or ruining his chances of bringing her back into his life on a permanent basis, despite everything of which he had tried to convince himself regarding love, relationships and commitment. "Bridge, Bridge, Bridge, Bridge. Doesn't everyone deserve a second chance? Hmm?"
She chuckled quietly. He began placing kisses on her neck. Unexpectedly she said, "Except Hitler."
He stopped momentarily, inwardly amused at her comment; he couldn't think of any other woman he'd ever known that might mention Hitler during an intimate moment. "Well, he was very, very, very naughty," he said throatily, punctuating his 'very's with more kisses to her soft skin.
With perhaps the worst possible timing in the whole of the world, there was a knock at the door.
………
He'd had a feeling it'd be a sure thing.
They'd been dancing around each other for weeks at the office, resorting to flirting via instant messaging, and coy looks (and bottom patting) in the elevator. Tonight, during the launch of a book he privately referred to as 'possibly the worst book ever published' he thought he might steal her away to a late supper… and possibly more.
He'd seen her talking with Mark Darcy, which put a little panic in his heart—How did they know each other? How close were they?—but that was quickly quieted when Mark locked eyes with his own and their conversation seemed to end.
After an embarrassing public speaking turn, Bridget was veritably ripe for the picking, standing on her own, looking humiliated and morose, much like his lovely Iris all those years ago. He sidled up to her and purred in her ear, demanding that she come to dinner with him. Without words she acquiesced.
He caught Mark looking at the two of them. What on earth was his interest in her, anyway?
During the course of dinner he did learn how well Bridget knew Mark—'he's no friend of mine', she declared—and having ascertained she did not know of his and Mark's history, he offered a story to explain their obvious animosity, that Mark had swooped in and stolen away Daniel's fiancée. It was just close enough to the truth to be believable, and ironic in that Daniel had never actually in his life been engaged.
After dinner he was able to persuade her to come home with him with a lengthy, passionate kiss. He hadn't expected kissing her to be quite as enjoyable as it was; she gave as good as she got, which made the promise of sex even more appealing.
As soon as they got into his flat, they were on one another; he carried her in, her legs around his waist, and laid her down on the floor, peeling off her boots, reaching to divest her of her pantyhose… that's when he saw them.
In his surprise he exclaimed, "Fuck me, absolutely enormous panties."
"Jesus," she breathed out, "fuck."
He hastened to assure her, "No, no, don't apologise. I like them. Hello, Mummy." She chuckled. He bent to kiss her then reared back again. "I'm sorry, I have to have another look. They're too good to be true."
Her initial horror was definitely waning in her assurance that he was not at all turned off by the presence of granny panties. "No," she protested.
He continued, "There's nothing to be embarrassed about. I'm wearing something quite similar myself. Here, I'll show you."
With that he got down to the very serious business of shagging her; he did not know what he had been expecting, but what he'd gotten was far more. She was curvy and responsive, again giving as good as she got. He never would have expected she might be the best sex of his life just from looking at her. As cute as she was, he did not exactly anticipate a total sex kitten lurking within those ridiculously short skirts.
He had her once on the living room floor, once upstairs before they could fully undress, then once more after undressing completely. They were at it well into the wee hours despite the next day being a working day, and when he fell off to sleep, it was the sleep of the dead.
His alarm went off at its usual time. He realised as he reached to switch it off that he was still holding her in his arms. He moved to hit the snooze. She did not wake; fleetingly he wondered what her own alarm must have sounded like, air raid sirens, fire station bells or similar. She looked like an angel in her repose, which was rather a troubling thought for him to have. It was also troubling that he was quite enjoying holding her like this. The women who shared his bed were often not the sort that stayed until morning.
He bent to press his lips to her temple, disbelieving he was capable of such a tender gesture even as he was doing it, and instead of waking she turned over and embraced him more tightly. She was wonderfully warm and the lingering scent of her perfume immediately turned him on. He woke her with an ardent kiss and, unable to stop himself, pulled her into another round of steaming hot sex.
At its conclusion, he teasingly growled into her ear, "No wonder you're always bloody late to work."
………
Whisky at sunrise was never a good idea. As the sun lightened the morning sky Daniel realised it was an especially bad idea after spending a night drinking whisky and smoking cigarettes, coupled with a lengthy flight back to the UK ahead of him. It was hard not to wallow in self-pity and regret when the truth was hard to deny: Daniel was never going to learn, and he was never going to be able to change… and he had just blown it again with the only girl he had ever sincerely loved.
Subconsciously he must have wanted to get caught; that's the only explanation he could come up with for why he would have neglected to cancel his ten-thirty appointment with one of the local girls. From what the girl was wearing beneath her coat (a small black bikini), it was impossible to try to explain her away as being nothing more than a masseuse. Understandably furious and hurt at being lied to, Bridget had stormed out.
He deserved it.
He decided to keep the appointment, because at the very least he could have physical satisfaction to get his mind off of Bridget. Partway into his massage, however, he made the awkward discovery that his masseuse was actually a masseur. Politely he dismissed the young man, assuring he would still get paid, feeling that somehow, he deserved this too.
Exhaling a plume of smoke, he looked to his watch and sighed. They'd be there to fetch him for the airport in a little under two hours. Time to shower and pack his things up.
The shower and shave helped to sober and perk him a little, as did the crisp, clean clothes. He still felt like utter hell, and hoped to be able to sleep for most of the plane ride. Alone in first class with Mrs Dalloway, he thought with just a hint of melancholy.
His car was right on time, whisking him away towards Bangkok airport. It took all of his will to stay awake and focused during the relatively short drive. After checking his bag, he headed towards his gate. He could see a bit of a commotion ahead: airport security and their overzealous dogs had a woman surrounded. As he got closer, he realised the woman was Bridget. As he watched her being led away to a private room, he could not help but smirk. If anyone was going to get pulled aside for a random search, it would be her, probably for trying to bring back more than her share of sarongs and shoes.
As hoped, he did sleep for the majority of the long flight, and when he woke, he felt much refreshed, if a little hungover. He asked for a couple of headache tablets and some water, and within short order the pain had lessened. He thought about Bridget back in coach, wondered if even the lure of first class could overcome her disgust of him. He did want to apologise and try to explain, even if she never did want to speak to him again, so he called over the steward again and asked him to go and fetch her for him.
"I'm sorry, sir," said the steward upon his return. "Passenger Jones never boarded."
He laughed, though felt the first pangs of cold dread. "What do you mean, never boarded? I saw her in the terminal."
"She's not on board, sir," he reiterated. "That's all I know."
He considered asking the steward to bring her friend Sharon forward, but he didn't know her full name, and didn't think she would know anything more than he did, as he had seen her boarding the plane before he had. "Thank you for trying, Alan. Much appreciated."
Alan smiled. "My pleasure."
"If you don't mind," he said, "I'd like some coffee."
"Certainly. And dinner will be served soon."
"Fantastic." He pulled his book out and began to read, but even the shorter amount of time he was awake for this flight (compared to the last) seemed longer for her absence.
………
No one had been happier about his acceptance to Cambridge than his parents, who, despite their ongoing feud with each other, had come together to move heaven and earth itself to make attending a reality. Arriving on the grounds, surrounded by so much history, he felt the responsibility of what was expected of him settle on his shoulders like a mantle.
Like everything else he did, he would excel. He did not have a doubt of that. He had never had difficulty with schoolwork, he made friends quickly, and his horizons regarding women were broadened exponentially. Within just a few weeks he had attracted a girlfriend, or at least, someone he regularly took out and had sex with. Unfortunately, he had made enemies of his older classmates by managing to snag this particular girl. It was not something he wasn't used to, and it meant very little to him to have earned their dislike.
He did notice one fellow student around the college with outdated bushy hair and a quiet demeanour. He didn't know the chap's name, but he never saw the man without an open book under his nose, never saw him with anyone but study partners. He did not know what drew him to this utter bookworm, but he did know that all work and no play made Jack a dull boy, and he felt pity for anyone who got to university age without having shagged a girl.
As he sat reading through a very thick tome in the common area, Daniel approached him. The first thing Daniel noticed was the shoes. They were dreadful, two-toned wingtips, stark black and white, which did not go at all with the trousers and button-down shirt he wore.
He looked up to Daniel suddenly. "Yes?"
Daniel noticed the book he was reading was some sort of introduction to legal procedure. "Just the thing for a little light Saturday afternoon reading, eh?" He held out his hand. "Thought I would introduce myself. I'm Daniel. Daniel Cleaver."
His new acquaintance looked up at him as if he were mad. Reluctantly he took the proffered hand for a shake. "Mark Darcy." He narrowed his eyes. "I've heard about you."
"Probably all true," quipped Daniel with his most charming smile.
"What can I help you with?" asked Mark impatiently.
"I think the question is, what can I help you with?" parried Daniel as he took a seat at the table. "One does not need to spend one's entire Cambridge career nose deep in a book. One needs, for example, time in front of a telly watching a Newcastle United match."
Mention of football unexpectedly piqued Mark's interest. "Do you support Newcastle U?"
"I do. And watching a match alone is a bit too depressing for words. Meant to be a group effort." Daniel glanced down. "One thing though. Those shoes entering my room might cause a rip in the space-time continuum."
Mark looked to his shoes and said defensively, "What's wrong with my shoes?"
Daniel sighed dramatically, still grinning. "We have a lot of work to do, Mark."
After quite a few matches on that and subsequent weekends, the shell of Mark's taciturn demeanour cracked, and Mark turned out to be fairly witty and very intelligent. Daniel hadn't met another mate who was quite as skilled at verbal debate as Mark was, and Daniel quite enjoyed their spirited discussions.
A few weeks into their friendship, Daniel broached the haircut issue. Mark was surprisingly not offended, and was in fact quite receptive to the idea. Upon their return to campus post-barber visit, Daniel pointed out the women who were giving him second looks. Mark dismissed it as Daniel's imagination, but seemed to be secretly pleased at the notion.
The next step was a double date. Daniel quite looked forward to it, especially since he thought his girl's shyer best friend would be perfect for Mark's date. He turned out to be correct and they hit it off quite splendidly.
Daniel had expected a charity case; he'd found a real friend.
………
Upon landing at Heathrow, Daniel learned how very wrong he'd been about Bridget's detainment. Splashed on all of the newspapers and television screens was the story of how Sit Up Britain's cute little blonde presenter had been snagged for alleged drug smuggling in Bangkok Airport. He felt sick to his stomach, mostly because he did not know what on earth he could do to help.
As the days passed and more information came out, he came to realise that even if there were something he could do to help, he doubted his help would be welcomed, because it soon came to light who had taken up the fight for her: Mark Darcy himself. It was difficult to tell if it was because of the man's noble nature, or because he still loved her, but either way, Daniel felt he was the last person Mark wanted to see.
Until things could be straightened out—because it was pretty obvious to everyone that Bridget was not at all involved in the seedy underground world of drug muling—they decided to keep The Smooth Guide close to home. He was pretty okay with that, as he wanted very much to know Bridget's fate, and he felt news about her was better obtained on home soil.
Relatively speaking, he did not have to wait long for an update, particularly working for the same production company as Sit Up Britain. It was being kept hush-hush in the public arena so as not to potentially cause the whole situation to blow up in everyone's faces, but from what Daniel heard around the office, Bridget would be freed because Mark and his team were able to corral the real culprit, someone called Jed.
In staying close to home, the producers decided on a piece on the many galleries of London; they felt that Londoners would appreciate a piece on something in their own backyard with the summer kicking into full gear. Their first stop was the Serpentine, at which there was a gallery showing of John Currin's paintings. Daniel had always been very fond of the painter's talents and sensibilities, as well as this show's subject matter: gorgeous, curvaceous, mostly nude women.
As the camera rolled, Daniel strolled through the gallery as he spoke. "If you want something smooth to put on your wall, you could do a lot worse than John Currin. He is just about the only contemporary painter who can actually paint. He's usually got something interesting and allegorical going on. Plus, of course, there is a very high perv quotient—"
Another voice cut through the silence.
"Did you see her?"
To Daniel's astonishment, it was Mark Darcy, and he was obviously here about her, about Bridget. The director called cut.
"Sorry, everyone, sorry. It's my stalker," he said, addressing his crew. Turning to Mark, he said, "Fuck off, Darcy. Some people have jobs to do, you know."
Undeterred, Mark continued, "Did you see her, surrounded by police? Dogs, handcuffs, that sort of thing?"
"Oh, come on," he scoffed. "She's a big girl. She can take care of herself."
He had rarely seen Mark so serious or such fury simmering beneath the cool exterior. "I'm only going to ask you one more time. Did you see her?"
"What do you mean, you're only going to ask me one more time?" he asked cockily. "You haven't got your wig on now, dear."
"I'll take that as a yes."
Daniel felt quite as if he were being interrogated in a courtroom. Resignedly, he said, "Yes, I did see her. I don't know; I thought she was smuggling seashells or mangoes or something."
Mark looked thoughtful. "Right. Right, good." After a moment, he asked with complete solemnity, "Will you step outside, please?"
Daniel could not believe his ears. Being called out by Mark Darcy not once but twice in a lifetime? He chuckled. "Oh, no, it's not possible. Darcy, do you have any idea what century we actually live in?"
Mark was not kidding. "Are you going to step outside or am I going to have to drag you?"
Daniel bristled and dared Mark with, "I think you're gonna have to drag me."
Mark stepped closer; Daniel stepped back. Before he knew it, he was being chased out of the gallery, and run he did, a crazed human rights lawyer hot on his heels. Daniel headed out into a crowd of people, which did not deter Mark at all. After circling the fountain, Mark caught up to Daniel at last, and after clumsily sparring, Daniel realised that Mark was doing his level best to push him into the water.
"I'm not going in the sodding water. Fuck off!"
Mark pushed harder. "No, you're going in, Cleaver."
Clutching Mark's suit, Daniel said, "If I'm going in, you're coming with me, you smug bastard."
With that they both toppled over into the water.
Daniel surfaced to find Mark was already on his feet, water pouring down him. Having had the wind knocked out of him, Daniel gasped, "Oh my God."
Mark hissed back, "Get up."
As Daniel rose, his clothing heavy and dripping with water, he said cockily, "Well, what are you gonna do now? Drown me in sixteen inches of water?"
Mark retorted, "Yes, good idea." He then lunged forward.
It was pretty ridiculous to be chased around the fountain in front of the Serpentine Gallery, particularly as his camera crew had followed him out and were filming this humiliation. With the heat of the day and the weight of his wet clothes, Daniel realised he could not keep this up for long, and Mark would surely catch him and punch him but good just as he had out in the street in front of Bridget's building. While his life did not exactly flash before his eyes as he ran, he did have something of an epiphany:
Mark was fighting for Bridget yet again; for him to do so, he must have had strong feelings for her, stronger feelings than Daniel ever imagined Mark capable of having for a woman. Although his friendship with Mark had never recovered from their falling-out, Daniel thought of their shared past fondly, and because of that shared past he did want Mark to be happy when all was said and done. Daniel was also well aware that he'd pretty much had his last chance with Bridget, yet he wanted Bridget to be happy, too; clearly the level of turmoil she'd experienced that night in his room in Thailand meant she must have had feelings for Mark, too, quite possibly even loved him.
He knew then what he had to do.
"Fuck! Stop, stop!" he said, holding his arm out, panting for air. "Listen, listen, listen… okay, I left her at the airport. I shouldn't have done that. But she bumped into Jed herself and I didn't fucking well seduce her, all right?"
Mark looked absolutely stunned. "You didn't?"
Affecting a nonchalant tone, he said, "There's something wrong with her. She's gone all frigid. I spent the night with a gorgeous Thai girl, who in fact turned out to be a gorgeous Thai boy. Satisfied?"
While not entirely the truth, it had served its purpose. Mark had calmed considerably, and knew now that she had not slept with him. "Yes. Thank you." Mark then climbed up and out of the fountain. Much to his dismay, they still had an audience.
Daniel, however, could not resist a parting shot; it would not, after all, do to show too much weakness or sentimentality: "You know what, mate? If you're so obsessed with Bridget Jones, why don't you just marry her? 'Cause then she'd definitely shag me."
Mark turned around, his eyes flashing angrily, before he hopped back into the fountain and lunged after Daniel. Mark was as determined to catch him as Daniel was determined not to be drowned in sixteen inches of water. With that thought in mind, Daniel jumped up and out of the fountain and ran as fast as his sodden legs could carry him.
Some distance from the fountain, Daniel panted back over his shoulder, still running, "I was kidding. Just kidding. Truce, mate. Truce."
Mark was heaving for air, too. As he slowed down then stopped moving, Daniel did too. Mark bent over, and as he braced himself on his own upper legs, he nodded. "Right."
Without another word, they both hauled themselves over to sit on a park bench in the shade, water pouring off of their clothing and puddling under the seat. As they both sucked in lungfuls of air and attempted to regain their breath, Daniel couldn't help but think that Mark's very expensive suit was a lost cause. His own leather jacket probably was too.
It felt a little odd to be sitting there next to Mark in silence. Daniel decided to take a chance and cast his gaze in Mark's direction. The man was lost in thought.
"You never slept with another woman, did you?" Daniel asked, even though he was sure he already knew the answer.
Startled, Mark looked at him. "What?"
"You love her, don't you?"
Mark's face flushed pink. "I don't see how either are any of your business."
"Can't see you doing it, mate," he said. "Can't see you cheating on your girlfriend. On Bridget." Mark stared at him mutely, his expression of surprise confirming the rumours Daniel had heard about the cause of their breakup. "Incidentally, even I could tell you were completely in love with her."
This comment made Mark clearly angry. "You're a fine one to lecture me on love, Cleaver."
"Fair enough," Daniel said. "But we both know Bridge is special. She made me realise there was something missing in my life, as content with it as I thought I was."
Mark snorted in disbelief. "Don't tell me the great Lothario thinks he's in love."
Mark's comment was clearly aimed to wound, and ordinarily Daniel would have offered a flippant reply to deflect any suspicion that what Mark had said was too close to the truth for comfort. This time, though, Daniel made no such comment. The absence of such a response said volumes to his former friend.
They were quiet again, sitting in silence, sitting together for longer than they had since before their friendship had blown apart. At last, Daniel said, "We were wrong."
"What are you talking about?" Mark said listlessly. Were he not so exhausted and water-soaked, he probably would have already stormed off.
"Your insistence once that love was like some kind of myth propagated by mass media, or at the very least, a rare creature indeed."
Mark turned and turned his most intense gaze on Daniel. "And how exactly were you wrong?"
"By realising you were wrong." Daniel returned the gaze equally. "Sex doesn't replace intimacy or affection or a good laugh with someone you really care about." As he spoke them, he could hardly believe the words that were coming out of his own mouth. "She wants nothing to do with me, and I know I can't commit. But you… you could make her happy," continued Daniel solemnly, "and she'll make you happy, too."
Mark did not say anything else, and Daniel took advantage of his apparent speechlessness to get up and walk away.
Daniel was many things, but he was not stupid. Pursuing a woman who was in love with another man was extremely stupid. He knew when to walk away.
………
It was a big decision for a boy to make.
His mother and father sat him down on the sofa and told him that in the autumn, when he started year seven and would be changing schools, he could continue living with his mother and attend one public school, or he could live with his father and attend another. Both were good schools, of that there was no question, but the one nearer to his father had a better program for those interested in the literary arts, which was something that appealed to him immensely.
Looking from his mum to his dad, he had to admit that he was awfully tempted by his father's offer. His father made more money than he used to, and though he supported his wife and son, he lived in a slightly more desirable part of town (in that the football team was far better). On the weekends he stayed with his father, Daniel got whatever he wanted. They ate pizza on Friday night and went to the pub on Saturday night; they often went to the cinema, football matches or for long drives together. His father treated him like an adult, not a child, even going so far as telling him he didn't need to have a bedtime anymore. They were more like mates then father and son.
On the other hand, his mum was usually too broke or too busy to do any of these things; she worked as a teacher whilst he was in school, was tired in the evenings, and was often too busy keeping house on the weekend to do anything fun with Daniel. She also insisted her son be in bed by nine-thirty.
It seemed like an easy choice, given all of the facts as well as the desires of eleven year old boys. Looking at his mother, though, looking at the glossy cast of her blue eyes, the way her lower lip was trembling, told him that she could bear anything in the world, even an unfaithful husband, more than she could bear being without her son.
He loved his mother too much to do that to her.
After a long, thoughtful pause—during which he was advised from both parents that he didn't have to give a reason right away, yet they still sat there expectantly—he said very earnestly, "Hm. Think I will stay here with Mum. All my stuff's here anyway."
At that he heard a strangled sound in her throat; he turned his eyes to his mother, and gave her a wink that his father could not possibly have seen. His father did not seem overly devastated. He actually looked a little relieved, truth be told.
That weekend, his mother took him to the cinema, brought him out for pizza, and advised him with a bright smile that it might just be okay for him to start staying up until ten in the evening now.
As the years passed and Daniel looked back upon his formative years, despite the rows he'd had with his mum, despite the unkind things she'd said about his dad, despite the occasional lean times when her new husband was out of work… he knew that, regardless of what had appealed most to that eleven year old boy, what he most had wanted at the time, he had ultimately made the right choice.
………
Good news always travelled fast. By the speed with which the rumour circulating around the office had travelled, Daniel deduced that Mark had taken the advice he'd gotten in the fountain. Daniel only smiled a little to himself. Maybe there was hope for him, after all.
The end.
Links:
Indebted to EOR, Chapter 9 [1 July] for Bridget's response about why it was not necessary to know where Germany actually was.
Star Stories from Thailand
The constellation Ursa Major, the Great Bear, otherwise called The Big Dipper. "In the British Isles this pattern is known as the Plough. It is also occasionally referred to as the Butcher's Cleaver in northern England." Ha ha ha.
How English school grades work, for people like me who grew up in the US.