The Two Darcys
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)
Rating: M / R
Summary/Disclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.
Chapter 5.
Glancing to his watch again, Peter noted that only five minutes had passed since he'd last checked. It was very unlike Mark to be late. In fact, it was unlike him to be on time; he had always been early to the point of manic obsession.
As they'd sat down for dinner on Monday night, Peter had mentioned to Mark that he needed some drapes for the flat into which he was due to move, the sort of drapes that could render the place as pitch black as night for those times in rotation when he needed to sleep during the day. Mark had mentioned a shop where the decorator who had done up his house (Must be mad, or as colour-blind as Bridget had suggested, Peter had thought) had gotten some very high quality window dressing.
Bridget had overheard this conversation and suggested it might be fun for them to all go shopping. "Particularly," she'd said, "as I would like to have a look at some new drapes myself. Something a bit more… cheery."
'For when I move in after the wedding' was the part that had gone unspoken. Of course she'd want to bring her own tastes and preferences into the house with her when she came to live with Mark; he had no idea why the thought of it bugged Peter so much.
So they'd arranged to meet on Wednesday just outside the shop Mark suggested, one called Rideaux, a posh sort of place with the kind of entrance one might have missed if one was not aware it existed, at one in the afternoon. It was now twenty minutes past the hour, no Mark, no—
"Hi!"
Peter spun around at the sound of a familiar voice. He immediately locked in on her blonde hair (pinned up in a bouncing ponytail) and her blue eyes (blinking in the bright sun as she pulled her sunglasses up to rest on the top of her head). "Hi Bridget," he said, and as he did he was struck with the sensation that something was not quite right. Then it occurred to him—"Where's Mark?"
"Couldn't make it, after all," she said. "Something about a recess earlier meant everything got wonky. That's okay though, right?"
"Of course it is," he said automatically. It was all right, but her expression seemed to need vehement reassurance. "We can still have fun."
As he spoke he hoped that his words were not misconstrued. Her smile suggested they had not. "Yes we certainly can. After all, you and I are the ones shopping, really."
Feeling a bit cheeky, he asked, "And he's okay with you choosing unsupervised for that museum of a house?"
She made a dismissive sound. "I'm not unsupervised," she said. "I'm with you."
She said something more about how he, as Mark's brother, surely knew something of Mark's taste, and surely would not have allowed her to purchase something too outlandish, but he could only, foolishly focus on the phrase 'I'm with you'.
They went directly into the store and immediately Peter felt acutely uncomfortable. The shop reminded him of a very concentrated version of the inside of Mark's house. It was densely packed with objects that were devoid of warmth and personality. Even the saleswoman who looked up could have been an android for the lack of expression on her face; she looked like something out of Metropolis with the sleek brown suit and glossy helmet of dark hair.
"Oh my."
This was Bridget's response, quiet and slightly tremulous. He looked to her, saw that she looked like she might burst into giggles.
"Yes?" barked the robotic saleswoman, an edge of annoyance betraying her otherwise flat tone.
"I—" began Peter, but was interrupted by Bridget.
"Sorry," she said. "We were looking for cocktails. Obviously, wrong door."
They backed out of the place. Once the door shut, Bridget began laughing uncontrollably. "Well, now I can see that this was Natasha's recommendation," she said breathlessly. He had no idea who Natasha was, but suspected she was one of Mark's colleagues. "I hope you didn't mind that," she went on, "but you went all pale and horrified when we stepped in."
"Didn't mind at all," he said, feeling relieved. He began to chuckle too. "Looked like a dungeon in there."
"I strongly feel that if not for the fact that Mark's house has, you know, windows and sunlight…" she began, then laughed again. "Come on. Let's go to Debenhams. I went with my mum last week and they had some wonderful-looking stuff."
Peter raised a brow. Debenhams? He didn't really have anything against the place, personally speaking, but he wondered what Mark's reaction would be to her not only redecorating the house, but redecorating with things that did not come from the posh dungeon. "I'm game," he said. "As long as they have the curtains I need."
"Oh, I'm sure they do," she said. "Come on, let's find a taxi."
Seeing London through Bridget's eyes—travelling in the taxi, admiring the drapes and housewares in the shop—invariably led Peter to remember seeing some of the sights with Paris that day so long ago, and in so many ways she had not changed at all; he could see that now outside of Mark's influence.
It made him feel sad, perhaps even slightly desperate, as if he needed to do something to keep her from losing herself; this in turn made him feel guilty, because it was not if he thought poorly of Mark or thought his brother was a bad person.
Maybe just not the right person for her.
Debenhams turned out to have exactly what he wanted for the flat: lined curtains for the bedroom, in a pleasant jewel green with a grid of lighter green diamonds on them. He also sprung for a duvet plus a duvet cover, off-white in colour with the same dark green as an accent. Bridget took a little longer as she browsed; he was not sure if she would be purchasing before the wedding or after.
"What do you think of these?" she asked, admiring some drapes of a vivid cranberry shade, with stripes of ochre and emerald to break up the field of colour.
"I like them," he said. "They have very strong personality."
"They're not lined to block the sun," she mused, holding the fabric between her thumb and forefinger, rubbing gently to get a feel for the texture, "but then again, I might not wake up without a little sunlight—hell, Mark has to yank them open to get me to wake up anyway—and I'm not likely to have an evening shift." She looked at them a moment more, then seemed to come to a decision. She turned and smiled brightly. "Yes. I think I'll take them. And a few of those decorator pillows for the bed."
"Hope we can get a taxi with a large boot," commented Peter.
Before heading for home they agreed it would be a good idea to stop for a small snack. "I don't know about you," she said, "but shopping sucks the energy right out of me." They detoured to the café right there in Debenhams, sidling up to the counter and ordering coffees and cake; lemon with honey glaze for Peter, and chocolate for Bridget. As the plate was placed before her, he saw glee light up her eyes.
"Do you always pick chocolate?" he asked.
She clucked with her tongue. "Of course," she said. "Unless there's no chocolate option, in which case, I suffer through." With a wink, she took a corner from the cake, popped the fork in her mouth, and smiled as she ate it; it struck him how the simplest things really seemed to make her so happy.
With this, he forced his attention to his own coffee and cake, taking a sip and a bite respectively.
After a few moments and a few more bites, she asked him, "Can I ask a favour?"
"Absolutely," he said.
"If I come back to the house with you," she began, "will you help me hang these as a surprise for Mark?"
He agreed that he would, though privately wondered whether Mark would resent the notion of his home being invaded in such a way, that she might seem to want to change the house, and in effect, try to change him.
They finished their midday snack then, after an uneventful ride by taxi back to Holland Park, they brought their purchases directly upstairs. Peter stowed his new drapes and duvet in his temporary room while Bridget carried hers along to the master bedroom. He knocked on the door out of courtesy. She called for him to come in just as she was emptying items from a smaller bag, items he did not recall her buying at all.
One was a pair of boxers in the same precise shade of ruby red as the drapes. The other was a small pillow with a vaguely butterfly shape, in tones of deep blue. At what must have been a very confused look, she said, "Got this for his chair. He sits in his office chair and reads then complains about his back, and frankly, I don't want it getting any worse." It appeared though that there was something yet in the bag. When he asked about it, she turned as crimson as the drapes and folded the top over nervously. "It matches the boxers," she said. "It's… for me."
"Ah," said Peter, feeling his own skin blaze a little. "Well. Shall I get a stepladder or something, get these drapes up and in place?"
She nodded. "Okay."
Peter went to fetch the stepladder from the cupboard within the guest loo, taking the opportunity to distance himself from the thoughts of what resided within the carrier bag. However, the stepladder was not there. He scoured his memories for what could have happened to it. He took a brief tour through the rest of the rooms but could not find it. He returned with a smile and hoped it seemed sincere. "Can't find it. Guess… I'll just pull the chair over."
She looked dubious as she stared at the tall white chair with the absurdly large wings. "Are you sure?"
He nodded, yanking the chair nearer to the window. "If you want to get the drapes out I'll start taking these down, and you can hand me the new one so I can just swap one for the other."
"Very efficient of you," she teased. She then sat against the bed, reaching for the drapes to tear open the packaging. She was having a difficult time of it, but he resisted stepping down from the chair to assist. In fact, he turned his attention to the rod, and to detaching the drapes from the hangers; looking at her on the bed was turning his thoughts towards things best left not considered.
He had the third one undone when she spoke in a rather unsure tone: "Peter, this thing's huge." He turned to look to see she was practically wrapped, mummy-like, in the drapery. He couldn't help laughing aloud.
"Come here, let's just find the top edge and that'll make easy work of it." She waddled closer. "Turn around. Ah, there it is." He took hold of the corner and she turned around as it unwound.
As she did, she started to laugh. "This is ridiculous," she said.
"It is rather. Are you sure this is the right size?" He reached up with the corner to fasten the first one.
"Mm-hm," she advised. "I took the measurements myself."
He let the drape hang. The bottom rested in a puddle on the floor. Bridget looked utterly perplexed.
"'Measure twice, cut once'?" said Peter, unable to hold in a chuckle.
"Bollocks," she said. "What do you mean, cut?"
"Old saying," he said. "We won't be cutting. We may need to take these back, however."
"Can't we just… fold them under?"
"If they're too long, they're probably too wide," Peter said. He counted the loops, then counted the drapery hangers. "Yep. This is twice as wide as it needs to be."
She looked completely deflated.
"It's all right," said Peter. He removed the new drape from where it hung, then stepped down from the chair. "Get me the tape measure. I'll have a go at measuring, all right?"
She smiled crookedly. "All right."
…
As he sat at his desk, tidying up the business of the day far later into the evening than he would have liked, Mark was disappointed more than he thought he would be to miss accompanying Bridget on her shopping foray. He was glad, almost relieved, that she welcomed his suggestion that she spruce the place up with some colour and warmth, and almost regretted that he suggested she and Peter visit the shop to which Natasha had directed him many months ago. He had a deep fear, irrational as it was, that Bridget might have viewed his admittedly cold and impersonal house to be a true a reflection of who he was, and he did not want her to ever think he was so cold or impersonal at the heart of it.
He was very much looking forward to hearing about the trip, about what she might have found to inspire her for their life together. Her apartment was the embodiment of her warmth and spirit, and the thought of her transforming his home into their home, a cosy, loving nest to which he could return after a long, difficult day and feel loved and welcomed, was something he very much looked forward to, something he had never really had the pleasure of having before. If it cost him a small fortune to make the house over in her image, it would be a small fortune well invested.
On his way to the car, Mark dialled Bridget's mobile. After a few rings she picked up with her usually perky hello.
"Darling," he said. "Just on my way. How was your day?"
"Oh, very good indeed. Peter found just what he wanted."
"And you?"
She remained playfully elusive: "You could say that."
He glanced at his watch, winced to see it was eight in the evening. "Hope you didn't wait on me for supper."
"Peter and I picked up takeaway, but haven't eaten yet. We're en route to the house now, almost there. Got some for you."
"Thank you, darling. I'll be home soon." He stopped to fish out his keys, and as he did, he added, "You know, I'm rather enjoying coming home to find you there."
He swore he could hear her smiling. "I like it too," she said. "But you must never tell Sharon or she'll accuse me of being a domestic throwback."
At this he laughed. "See you very soon."
It took him less time than expected to drive from Inns of Court to the house. He found them eating at the table, having placed the food on proper plates with silverware. As he came in he bent to kiss Bridget; she raised her chin in anticipation of the kiss. "Smells wonderful."
"I thought you might like Chinese," she said. "Though I'll be honest: I was dying for some prawns and rice."
Mark took his seat, laughing to himself at her frank admission. His plate was heaped with some of the same prawn and rice dish; she knew he always enjoyed it very much. They had also prepared some green tea, so he poured himself a little cup. Peter, he noticed, had a chicken dish with fried noodles.
"Good day, then?" Mark asked as he brought a forkful of his dinner up to his mouth.
"Quite," said Peter, though to Mark he sounded quite distracted. "Found exactly what I needed."
Mark nodded as he ate; he was so pleased that they were getting along, and that he could feel so at ease after so short a time with the two of them spending time alone. He then added, "So glad to hear." With that he took another bite, and as he did he realised precisely how famished he was; he proceeded to clear his plate, stopping only to sip on his wine, with barely two words strung together. When he finished, he looked up to his table mates to see Peter's expression somewhat indefinable—perhaps his dinner was not to his satisfaction, as he had pushed his plate away half-eaten—but Bridget was smirking in amusement.
Just then, the quiet of the dinner table was interrupted by the shrill of a mobile; Peter's, it turned out to be, as he reached into his trouser pocket for it. "Pardon me," he said, then rose to take the call. After a brief hushed conversation with his back to the table, he disconnected then turned to them. "That was a mate of mine from where I'll be working. Going to meet for a bit of socialising. Don't have to wait up." It was hard to tell if he was actually joking or just trying to sound like he was. He then waved a little then departed the room.
"Must not have been a very good dish," said Bridget with a slight pout.
"He was all right today?" asked Mark.
She nodded. "Which is why I think his noodles must have been off." She looked amused, then chuckled to herself. "He's off his noodle. Anyway, if you're done, I want to show you what I got today."
He looked down to his empty plate, then raised a brow in her direction. "I think I'm done, unless there's another, invisible course."
Playfully she stuck her tongue out at him as they rose from the table together.
"I didn't know you bought anything," he said, then mused to himself that at least he'd be prepared for the bill when it came in the mail.
"Yep," she said perkily. "I really hope you like them."
They scaled the stairs and went directly into the bedroom. His gaze was immediately caught by the splashes of colour, one on the bed in the form of three small pillows in burgundy, green and a golden tone, and another hanging from the windows, long drapes. He turned to her, realised at her expectant expression that he should say something. "Bridget, they're lovely."
"Really?" she asked. "You really think so?"
"I really do. It's amazing to me how such a small change can make such a huge difference." He then spotted a carrier bag on the bedside table. "What's in there?"
She grinned broadly. "Ah. That… is for you. And me."
"Oh?"
She tilted her head towards it. He took the hint and opened the bag. Inside was more of that cranberry colour. The first thing he brought up out of the bag was a pair of boxers, which made him chuckle. The second…
He pulled it up by its spaghetti straps and allowed the silky fabric to unfold. It was a lovely little nightie with lacy trim. "Oh, now this is a lovely addition to the bedroom," said Mark, a smirk on his lips as he held it out to her. "I insist on seeing it in the room."
She took it then went into the loo as he pulled the final item from the bag. It seemed to be some sort of pillow in a dark Oxford blue; it seemed to have some kind of straps on it, as if it were meant to be attached to something. He called to her, "Bridget? What's this pillow thing?"
"Oh, that's so we can have a nice time on our honeymoon," she called back playfully.
He was perplexed. Given the nightie and the boxers, was it meant to be some sort of marital aid? Did she think they needed one?
She laughed; he looked up to see her, and wondered exactly what his features had done to prompt her outburst. "It's to support your back when you're at your desk reading, so you don't accidentally throw it out completely just in time for us to be having fun as newlyweds."
He smiled as his eyes lovingly swept over her body, clad now in the nightie. "Very nice," he said, "and very thoughtful of you. Would hate to spoil our honeymoon."
She looked very smug. "It was very altruistic of me, I assure you," she said.
He looked at her, looked again at the room, and was struck again with how so small a change could bring such warmth and life. He strode forward to take her into his arms.
"Hold on, mister," she said, stepping back. "Your turn." She pointed to the boxers.
"Why?"
"Just for that you change right here and not in the loo."
Mark supposed he had that coming. As he unbuttoned his shirt, she took a seat on the edge of the bed, and her gaze was unwavering (and appreciative) as he doffed it, then his trousers and socks. He didn't know why he should feel shy as he shimmied out of the boxers he currently wore and dressed in the new ones she'd brought.
"Oh, very nice," she declared. "Indeed." She held out her hand, which he accepted only to tug her to her feet.
"If we're going to christen the new décor, let's do it right."
She smiled. "Not going to actually do it on the drapes."
"You know what I mean."
He then brought her to him, kissed her, ran his hands over her from skin to satin to skin again. She said no more, just moved with him to the edge of the bed, slid under the sheets and from there allowed actions to speak as loudly as possible. He knew with certainty, even more than before, that asking her to be his wife was absolutely the best, most right decision he had ever made; he never wanted to be without her.
Basking in the afterglow, he thought about their life beyond the wedding, her finally moving in with him, which brought him to thoughts of her further brightening up this house, so stark and white for far too long. "Maybe," he said lazily, "we can go on the weekend for something nice for the sitting room, or the kitchen."
"Mmm," she purred. "That would be nice."
"Unless the bill for those drapes and pillows means I owe that shop a kidney," he added playfully.
"Oh, I didn't mention," she said, pushing her over to face him. "That shop was scary, and we didn't even go in. We went to Debenhams instead. I bought it myself."
That the drapes came from Debenhams didn't bother Mark in the least. However, he felt it only right and proper that he spend the money on home décor. "You'll give me the bill," he said. "I don't want you spending your money on these things."
"Mark, don't be silly," she said dismissively. "It's my house too, or it will be, and I want to contribute in some way."
"You can contribute by choosing what you want."
She seemed shocked into silence. "For your information, Mark Darcy, this is not 1955," she said stonily, retreating from him. "You are not the head of any household, nor the sole breadwinner, nor lord and master over me."
"But there is no denying that my income—"
"Don't," she barked. "Do not say it." She got to her feet.
"Don't be so wilfully obtuse," he said. "It will be our income when we're married, Bridget, so what difference does it make if I insist on paying back for the drapes?"
"You are unbelievable!" she said, clearly furious. "And you call me obtuse? You're the one firmly clinging to some outmoded ideal of man-as-provider!"
"I most certainly am not 'obtuse'!" he shouted. "Perhaps it's a bit traditionalist for me to want to provide for you—"
"You don't have to provide me with—" she began heatedly.
"Stop bloody interrupting me, Bridget!" he exploded.
"You don't have to, and I don't want you to. Why can't you understand that?"
His temper was reaching a boiling point. "I am not saying I want you to stay home barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen! I have always respected your independence and you're being unfair in suggesting I'm not. Why must you be so bloody stubborn on this point? Just let me pay, for God's sake!"
She exhaled roughly, then said through clenched teeth. "I'm not going to go in circles about this with you. I'm going home. Home. To my flat!"
Somehow, without his consciously noticing, she had gotten fully dressed and was now leaving.
"Bridget!" he called, then called again even more loudly, ordering: "Bridget, come back this instant!" She paid him no heed; he heard the front door slam shut. "Fuck!" he shouted in his frustration. How had something as trivial as this even escalated into a fight? He threw the sheets aside and began pacing around in his anger and frustration.
It wasn't normal, he thought, to be so resistant to the idea that a man should want to buy things for his fiancée, that his insisting on doing so was a sign (in her mind) that he thought she was inferior or incapable of taking care of herself, or some pet that needed coddling. Other women he knew had no problem accepting such things, and he did not feel they were less independent for doing so. He ran his hand over his hair and stalked around the room, tried to make sense of it and found that he could not.
It was then it struck him: it did not need to make sense in the context of other women because she was unlike other women, especially his ex-wife and Natasha, for whom expensive presents were not only expected but demanded; if not directly then passive-aggressively. When all was said and done, they'd really only wanted the money and everything that came with it. On the other hand, Bridget….
He sighed heavily. This was, in part, what had always set her apart from the rest, why he loved her as he did… and he had been a complete buffoon. Now she'd stormed out—he hoped she had found a taxi and not foolishly gone all the way home on foot—and though he'd considered going after her, he was too proud to do so, thought that they both needed a little time to recoup.
He resigned himself to deal with this in the morning before work; he knew she would not have left for work before he'd get there. But as he showered in preparation for bed, he realised he would not be able to sleep not knowing if she'd made it home okay, so he dried his hair quickly with a towel, dressed once more, grabbed his keys and headed for her place.
…
As Bridget locked her flat door behind her, slightly breathless from the walk back to her flat, she wanted to scream in frustration. She would have thought in all the time they'd been together that he would have understood she wanted a partnership of equals. If he was going to continue to behave like some sort of chauvinist for the entirety of their marriage, was getting married the right thing to do?
"Stop it, Bridget," she muttered. "One fight isn't a reason to call everything off." Even if she was still bloody angry with him.
A short time later, as she partook of a calming Silk Cut, she heard a key turn in the door, to her surprise and dismay. It could only be one person, and it infuriated her that he would follow her. She stubbed the cigarette out of habit.
"Mark," she called. "Go home. I want to be alone right now."
He came into the flat. "You walked home?" he said, clearly upset. "And smoking," he added darkly.
"Couldn't use my jetpack," she said. "It needs refuelling. Was so depressed I needed a fag."
"Stop being facetious," he barked. "You're constantly putting your health and safety at risk—"
"Enough!" she said, exasperated. "Do you know how ridiculous you sound, shouting at me like I'm some helpless child and assuming everything I do is to annoy you? Go home, Mark. We both have to work in the morning, I'm tired, and I'd rather talk when we're both a bit more rational."
"I'm quite rational now."
"Go," she seethed; how dare he imply she was not?
His gaze was unblinking, but he relented. "Good night, then." Without another word he turned and left the flat.
She threw herself down onto her sofa and in her irritation she screamed into a pillow. Men!
…
The entire night was a failure. Peter might as well have not bothered going to the pub to meet his friend, who only wanted to introduce him to some girl. Well, no, that isn't entirely true, he thought. Jim had asked him to come out for a pint, and Peter had arrived to find not only Jim but a pretty brunette called Margaret. He would apparently be working with her as well, more peripherally than he'd be working with Jim, and she certainly seemed interested in Peter… and perhaps under normal circumstances he would have enjoyed feeling a bit set up.
His thoughts had been and still were too focused on dinner that evening, the relative silence from his brother despite Bridget's attempt to engage… he had felt distinctly uncomfortable, and was grateful, at least, for being called away out of the awkwardness.
Despite this, he was glad to be going back to the house. He let himself in and went directly upstairs, his footfalls slowing as he realised he was hearing raised voices.
They were fighting. He couldn't hear precisely about what they fought, but it seemed all too evident to Peter: Mark had not liked Bridget's choices in home décor. Silently he went into his room, closing the door against the sound; he wondered if they'd been fighting the entire time he'd been gone. He hated to think they had been.
The more he considered it, the more the idea of their marrying revolted him. He likened it in his mind to the spirit of a wild and beautiful creature being put into shackles; before too long its spirit would be broken, and the thought of this happening to Bridget saddened and angered him, especially when he'd seen her so alive and happy in his own company.
Peter then heard her voice closer to his door, raised and shouting about how she was going to go home to her own flat. Good, he thought; Maybe the wedding will be called off. As he thought it, he felt a momentarily twinge of guilt, but didn't know why he should. The more he'd seen, the more Peter had become convinced that Mark did not love her, not truly, not in the way she deserved. If Mark had, he would have followed her out and straightened everything out at all costs, but he hadn't.
Peter went to the guest bath to wash up for the evening, then returned to his room. As he crossed the hallway he could hear a rush of water coming from inside the master suite. Mark was showering; Peter couldn't help wondering why, then realised he was being too suspicious. Mark was probably just getting ready for bed. After all, he had work in the morning.
He slipped into the bed, resting first on one side then the other. After some minutes of this, it became clear he could not get comfortable, not physically and certainly not mentally. As he turned again, he heard the distinct sound of a door slamming—Mark's bedroom door—then the heavy, rapid footsteps as Mark rushed downstairs and out the front door.
Mark going out so late in the evening? Peter thought briefly of the mysterious ladies' underpants and his heart broke. Although Mark had never truly loved his ex-wife, he had never been one for a casual fling nor for infidelity; Peter never would have thought his brother capable of such a thing, but in the intervening years it was possible things had drastically changed, that Mark had been so calloused by his experience with his ex that he had no problem cheating on his fiancée.
Peter could not sleep no matter how hard he tried; he could only think of the untroubled, free-spirited young woman from Paris, one with her whole life in front of her, and he became even more depressed. This was not the future he would have wanted for Bridget. It was not one he wanted for her now.
In that moment it seemed undeniable to him, a truth he had been fighting, but it was no use in pushing it aside anymore. He wanted her for himself. This was very clear to him now. The two of them were so alike, so compatible, had so much more in common than she and his brother ever would.
It was still pre-dawn when he decided fighting for sleep any longer was pointless, and he rose, dressed, had breakfast. He still did not know quite what to do about the situation when Mark came down for some coffee. He looked terrible, like he had come in very late indeed.
"Good morning," said Peter.
"Nothing particularly good about it," he said, pinching the corners of his eyes with thumb and forefinger.
"Have some coffee." Mark thanked him quietly. "Sleep poorly?" asked Peter, then ventured, "Was colour in the bedroom too much to bear?"
Mark glared in his direction. "I do not want to talk about it."
Peter decided to push further. "Everything all right with Bridget?"
"Yes," he said brusquely, glaring again. It was typical Mark behaviour, shutting down the conversation when it no longer suited him to continue.
In that moment Peter knew exactly what he needed to do: he needed to see Bridget as soon as possible and plead his case. Mark would, in all likelihood, go about his day as if nothing had happened; it was the perfect chance for Peter to act. He rose from the table. "Have to go," he said. Mark only made a non-committal sound in response.
As he made his way to Bridget's flat he felt increasingly guilty for the betrayal he was about to effect, but if she had been having second thoughts, his confession may well help her to make up her mind to call off the wedding and break it off with Mark. Even if she didn't want to jump into anything with Peter right away, that would be all right. He could be patient. As for Mark, well, he wouldn't be the least bit broken-hearted; he'd probably just ask his mistress to take her place.
He at least had the journey to her flat by foot to contemplate his words to her.