The Two Darcys

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 34,476 (Prologue + 6 Chapters)
Rating: M / R
Summary/Disclaimer/Notes/Credits: See Prologue.

Humour me re: 'drapes', okay? :)


Chapter 6.

It was going to take a lot of coffee to get herself moving today.

Bridget had finally gotten to sleep in the wee hours and now that she had to get up for work, she felt like utter arse, both physically and mentally. She stood in the kitchen, waiting for the coffee to finish brewing, staring at it as if it were a scrying mirror of old, like it might answer her questions if she just meditated in front of it long enough. Had she overreacted last night? Why would she assume such awful motives of the man she loved most in the world? Of course he wanted to treat her to nice things as a token of his affection. Of course he didn't look down on her in some outmoded, paternalistic way. She felt terrible and had half a mind to ring him up straightaway to apologise.

She became aware of a knocking at her flat door, which both excited and perplexed her. Who else would it be but Mark at this time of the morning? However, since he had a key of his own, why would he knock? After a split-second of thought she decided perhaps he had been in such a hurry to leave the house that he had forgotten it—or perhaps he thought he wasn't welcome after the fight—so she ran to throw open the door.

"Oh!" she said, immediately regretting answering the door in her short, silly, bright pink cartoon-kitty-patterned nightshirt, and in reflex covered herself modestly. It was not Mark at all. It was his brother.

"Bridget," he said. His voice was rough and a little shaky; she became immediately concerned. "Sorry to interrupt you. May I come in?"

"Sure, of course, come on up." She retreated up the stairs, grabbed a wrap that had been left on the stair railing there, and put it around her shoulders, as much to cover her embarrassment as the chill she suddenly felt. "What is it?"

He just stood there in silence, gazing at her in a manner that was eerily like Mark's, for what felt like far too long. At last he explained himself. "I really did not want to have to come to you like this, but I feel it necessary."

She felt panic well in her chest. "What?" she asked. "Is something wrong?"

"Yes," he said quietly.

Thoughts flew by at the speed of light: Mark did something stupid and drank himself into unconsciousness; Mark hurt himself in the bathroom or in a car accident taking a drive to clear his head; Mark was in hospital on life support. "Well, tell me already!" she said with some insistence.

"I can't allow things to go forward without speaking up, Bridget," he said, then strode forward. "What I've seen this past week or so… you must know, Bridget, that Mark isn't right for you."

Her incredulity was immeasurable, and certainly visible. Peter went on.

"In fact," he said, "I'm convinced that he is the last man who is. He has proven time and again that he is not looking for love, a soul-bond, but a companion, preferably one he can order around, and he does, Bridget; he orders you around, talks to you like a child, stifles your very nature. You deserve better."

She felt as if she had been physically struck. "Peter, on what basis—"

He interrupted. "I've seen enough, Bridget. Heard enough. And I know Mark." He paced a little, then turned to her again. "You deserve a man who's more of a kindred spirit, Bridget."

It dawned on her just then exactly where this conversation was heading; rather, careering, as if off the edge of a tall cliff. "Peter. I think you should leave."

"Someone like me, Bridget," he said. "You can't say you don't feel it too."

"Peter, I—"

Don't was the unspoken word, but in the flash of an eye he was to her, taking her in his arms and kissing her; the wrap fell to the floor. For a fraction of a second she was transported back to that time in Paris, to those days they'd had together, but only for that fraction; she came to her senses and pushed him away, too shocked to speak.

She slapped him forcefully across the face, opened her mouth to tell him off—

"Peter!"

It was not Peter's own voice, nor was it hers barking out his name; at the top of the stairs, imposing in form, was Mark, and he looked not just angry but shocked.

From the moment Mark had left Bridget's flat after she'd commanded him to go, he knew everything about their conversation had not gone remotely the way he'd wanted it to go. He knew he had overreacted in discovering she had indeed walked home, and on top of that was smoking when she'd promised she had quit. Should have waited until we'd made up to take her to task, he thought, spirits in a dark humour; She would have taken it much better as pillow talk.

Even still, it wouldn't have been anything serious, just a reminder that he worried about her. Rationally he knew she was an adult and that she could take care of herself, but after Thailand, he had begun feeling especially protective. He should not have taken it out on her the way he had.

As he drove, he came to a decision. He would not allow this dark cloud to linger any longer than it had to.

Upon his arrival home he immediately went to his office and phoned Rebecca to clear his schedule of all appointments for the next morning. He was going to return first thing to her flat to make it up to her, before she even had to go to work.

Having set a plan, however, did not make it any easier for him to get to sleep that night. It was fitful at best and he rose before his alarm went off. To his surprise he found Peter in the kitchen, and that coffee had already been made.

Peter could sense Mark's dark mood—hell, it preceded him like the aforementioned cloud—and wanted to talk, but the only person with whom Mark wanted to discuss his fiancée was his fiancée.

Shortly after Peter's abrupt departure—he supposed he had been a little too sharp with Peter as well, and sighed—Mark ate a quick breakfast despite not feeling particularly hungry, then went to shave and dress before he headed for the car and for Bridget's place.

As he parked his vehicle, he noticed a man walking briskly up the street in front of him. He would have sworn it was his brother—same hair, same build and height, same gait—but dismissed it as the distance between himself and the man, and his mind playing tricks; after all, he had just been thinking of his brother.

Mark rose then started towards Bridget's building, and as he did he realised Peter's doppelgänger was also walking towards it; he also realised as the man slipped in through the open door of the building, as Mark got a good look at the man in profile, that this was no doppelgänger. It was Peter.

Curious, Mark proceeded forward and towards the building too; he scaled the stairs, and in approaching the top flat, could hear voices, Bridget's, but mostly Peter's. The words themselves were not clear, but the tone was impassioned. The flat door was open so Mark went inside and up the stairs… just in time to see Peter had Bridget in his arms and was kissing her.

For a long, torturous moment, he was astonished and hurt; his mind whirled with thoughts, irrational as they might be, that Bridget and Peter had actually resumed their affair from so long ago. A horrid déjà vu gripped his heart, only a thousand times worse at the thought that the woman he loved like no other had betrayed him with his own brother. However, it became immediately apparent that Bridget was not a willing participant. Mark was about to lunge forward and pull his brother off by force when Bridget saved him the trouble of doing so, delivering a hard crack against his cheek.

That's when Mark loudly announced his presence.

That was also when he found himself with the front of Peter's shirt balled into his fist. He yanked Peter away from her, then released him long enough to cock his arm back and deliver a stiff punch to his jaw.

"Mark!" Bridget cried, though her voice sounded remote and tinny to his ears. Peter staggered back, hand reflexively coming up to his face, then fell backwards onto the ground as he tripped over Bridget's trainers.

"What in God's name do you think you're doing?" Mark demanded of his brother in a thundering voice.

"Mark, it was all so sudden, I swear…."

Despite his anger he reached for Bridget and put his arm around her shoulders, kissing her on the temple. "I know," he said tenderly, then turned with ferocity back to Peter, who was getting to his feet, still rubbing his tender face. "You haven't answered me."

"I could no longer sit back," Peter said, "and allow this go on when you don't love her, you treat her like a child, and you lie to her."

"What?"

Both Mark and Bridget spoke the same word together.

"Don't love her?" bellowed Mark. "Are you out of your mind?"

"How has Mark lied?"

Mark watched Peter's steely gaze meet his own. "You asked me not to tell her, Mark, remember?"

"Tell her? Tell her what?"

"About the pants I found," Peter said. "Silky, zebra striped…"

Realisation struck Mark just then about what Peter meant—the stray pants, the ones Peter had found, and that out of respect for Bridget, Mark had asked him not to say anything to her. The point Peter was trying to make, however, did not sink in until he added:

"You've been lying to her about another woman, Mark."

Bridget, oddly enough, began to laugh, even as she looked incredulous. "Peter, are you saying that my own pants are… evidence that Mark's been cheating on me?"

"Yours?"

"You think I asked you not to say anything because you thought they were another woman's? How little do you think of me?" he said. "I asked you not to say anything because she'd be embarrassed to know they were in kitchen, and that you were the one to find them."

"Oh my God," said Bridget.

"I—" Peter had the good grace to look surprised. "What about the… fight that night, you came in, found her watching the telly with me and summarily dismissed her—"

"Oh," said Bridget. "The misunderstanding, the night you'd made supper at the flat, Mark, and I'd come here instead." She turned to Peter. "You didn't hear me come back?"

"We'd patched everything up that night," confirmed Mark.

Peter seemed on thinner and thinner ice. "But the telly, the grand proclamation that she wasn't to watch any when she was over? What of that? Adults don't order one another around like that."

"What?" Mark asked in disbelief. "Did you think that was serious?"

"Did you not see me stick my tongue out at him?" said Bridget. "He can be a bit bossy, and scolding—" He turned to look at her, to find she was already looking at him. "—but it's just a thing he does, a sign of affection, and I know he never means to hurt me or make me feel small, not really." She offered a small smile and he knew she was referring to the previous night's fight.

"Really?" Mark asked.

She nodded. "I was being stupid. I know why you really wanted to pay for the drapes, and it's okay—I'll accept it in the spirit in which it's offered."

"Pay for the drapes?"

He had momentarily forgotten about Peter. "Yes," said Mark. "We fought last night because she wouldn't accept money for the drapes, when I had every intention of paying from the start."

"Seems only right," said Peter. "So you didn't dislike them."

"I liked them very much indeed."

"I came back, heard you fighting…" He trailed off. "You were so sullen during supper, didn't say a word—"

"I was hungry," said Mark. "Nothing more. If anything, you were the sullen one. What is this really about? Do you have a catalogue of grievances to convince yourself that she was more right for you than for me? So far I've been accused of infidelity, of insensitivity, of being a bully, of… shouting at her over the colour of some drapes. Anything more you'd like to add to the list?"

Peter said nothing, only looked down.

"Peter," said Mark firmly. "I don't know if you saw only what you wanted to see, or chose to misinterpret every word and action in the worst possible light. I can only say that you are wrong. I love Bridget, I have every intention of marrying her, and if you cannot accept it then you can't be a part of our lives." Mark glanced to Bridget. "I would hope very much that I speak for Bridget, too."

She nodded, then said, "I love Mark more than I can ever say, and I'm sorry if anything I've said or done—make that, we've said or done—has led you to believe I was just hanging on for the sake of hanging on."

"You seemed so restrained whenever you were with him," Peter said quietly. "I hated to think of you stifled."

"Stifled? Me?" asked Bridget.

"Not by a long shot," said Mark.

"We had one day of shopping fun," she said. "Yes, I let myself get a bit silly. But I'm not tamping down some free-spirited urge whenever I'm with Mark. I've grown up, Peter, and this is just who I am now."

Mark felt himself smirking despite this intractable situation; he didn't think of her as especially staid and stoic, evidenced by her playful nightshirt.

"I saw that, Mark Darcy," she added with mock sternness, causing Mark to chuckle. She then strode forward and reached for Peter's hand. "I think you miss Chloë, and I think you're thinking back and romanticising a bit about Paris."

"And maybe a bit about what might have been," said Mark.

"Maybe," said Peter.

After giving it a squeeze, Bridget let go of Peter's hand then went to Mark, slipping her arm around his waist.

"I'm sorry for the, er, you know," said Mark, gesturing towards his own jaw. "Punching."

"I'm not," said Bridget. "I mean for the slap. What you did was rude."

"Bridget," whispered Mark.

"No, no, I had it coming," Peter said. "From both of you. I don't know how either of you can stand to look at me. How you'll either of you forgive me."

"Misunderstanding," said Mark. "That's all it was. I am fully prepared to forgive and forget if Bridget can, and I think I know her well enough to say she would."

Peter reluctantly looked to Bridget. "I'm so sorry for that," he said. "For so terribly misjudging your relationship with my brother."

"And you'll not pull this sort of thing again?" she asked, a playfulness edging her serious question. Mark was no less convinced that she'd forgive him.

"Of course not. I see now all of the reasons why this happened. What you said made perfect sense."

"Good," she said. "Because I'd hate to regret forgiving you." She grinned at this, then stepped forward to offer a hug to seal the deal. He accepted it and the look of gratitude on his features was reassuring to Mark. She then drew back. "Weird morning," said Bridget. "Very weird morning."

"Indeed," said Mark.

"And in case it wasn't clear…" Bridget took Mark into her arms.

"I'm sorry about last night," Mark said quietly.

"Mm," she sighed. "I'm sorry too."

When they pulled apart, Mark realised Peter was hovering awkwardly near him. Thinking perhaps he wanted to shake on it, Mark held out his own hand. Peter, however, surprised his brother with a hug. "I never wanted to hurt you," Peter said. "I shouldn't have, because I know you can be inscrutable, but I truly believed you did not care." He pulled away; after a pause, Peter added, "I can never undo what I did but know I'm utterly repentant."

The anger and confusion Mark had felt upon coming in upon that scene had completely evaporated. "I think you can consider yourself forgiven. Now," said Mark, changing his tone to one a bit more authoritarian, "as this is all sorted, you should go get dressed, Bridget, or you'll be later than usual to work."

She raised a brow, then laughed. "Do you see what I mean, Peter?" she asked.

At this, Peter chuckled. "He has a point though."

"Oh, you think I can go to work after that? I would much rather not."

"Bridget," he said. "I'll drive you."

She sighed. "Fine."

"I'll head out," said Peter. "I've got things to do, preparing to work and move. I'll see you this evening, then?"

Mark turned to his brother, clapping him on the shoulder again in a reassuring way. "We'll see you later."

Peter nodded. "Until then." He then walked towards the door.

Bridget called after him: "Are you going to be okay? I mean, really?"

Peter turned and smiled. "I'll be all right," he said. "Have a good day working."

After the flat door closed behind him, Mark turned back to Bridget. For all of the things whirling around his mind, he could think of nothing to say, and he stood there in a sort of stupid silence. Did he really give off such a strong impression of not caring about Bridget? Did others feel the same as his own brother?

Bridget was the one to break the silence.

"Come on," she said with a smile. "You can help dress me." She then winked, which lifted his spirits immensely.

They walked into her bedroom; as she began sorting through her closet, Mark came up to her side and asked with some hesitation, "You can tell, can't you, that I love you?"

"Don't be daft, Mark. Of course I can. We may go off into the occasional wobbly like last night, but… of course I know you love me."

He pressed on: "Do you think others—"

"Stop it right now," interrupted Bridget. "I know you love me. That's all that truly matters."

"But I would hate to think that—"

"Anyone who knows you," she said, "knows you are not outwardly emotional. Anyone else can sod off." She turned to him, her features softening. "Now are you going to help me pick out something to wear, or do I have to resort to other means to get you to shut up?"

"Now that is not fair, offering me a choice like that."

She laughed. "I really don't want to go to work."

Mark considered that he had already cleared his morning of appointments. He also considered that they really ought to make up properly. But he also could not in good conscience keep her from work. It would not do at all. "Come now. You were very excited about directing a segment when you told me about it on Monday."

"Oh!" she said. "I totally forgot!"

He continued: "You can wear this skirt—" He picked out a black skirt that went to just above her knees. "—with this blouse. It always looks lovely on you." He chose a white silk top with a bit of a ruffled collar. "What do you think?"

"I think you're a party pooper," she said, "but I suppose you do have a point."

"And your smalls," he said. "Let me see. This one's nice." He held up a pale rose coloured lacy bra. He swore she blushed. "Have you pants to match? Where are they?"

"Probably in the bin."

"No, no, here they are. Come now, let's take off this silly kitty nightie. Where on earth did you find this, anyway? In the girls' section?" He reached to pull the nightshirt up but she playfully slapped away his hand.

"Do not mock my nightwear," she scolded, but then allowed him to pull it up and over her head. He couldn't say that the sight of her bare body didn't have an effect on him, but there was a time and place, and it wasn't now.

He dressed her with a loving touch, which she seemed to relish, though her lamentation that she really wished they could play hooky all day was distracting. "We have the weekend," he said, slipping the blouse over her shoulders, then tending to each button. "On with the skirt." He held it open for her and she stepped into it; he brought it all the way up then did the button and the zip at her back.

"A gal could really get used to this," she said.

"Well, you know, I'm always happy to oblige if you get up when I first wake you," he teased, then leaned and gave her a sweet kiss. "There you are then. Off you go."

"Have to put on some makeup," she said.

"Oh, I thought you had done."

"You are lovely," she said with a beaming smile.

He went with her to the loo and lingered at the door as she put on some cream then powder. "I'd offer to do that too," he said, watching her put on a little liner along the base of her upper eyelashes, "but I'm pretty sure you don't want to look like a clown."

She giggled. "Don't make me laugh whilst I'm trying to do this. I don't want to look like Barbara Cartland."

He grinned. "Really, I'm not sure why you bother with it at all," he said.

She finished the second eye then looked at him. "Flattery will get you everywhere," she said.

Bridget finished up with some shadow, mascara and a little blusher. She pulled a brush through her hair, and after gathering together her things, they were off. The drive was uneventful and spent in relative silence. Her hand on his as it rested on the gearshift was sufficient.

"I'll see you after work?"

"I'll pick you up," he said. "We can have supper."

"All right." She smiled again, then leaned to kiss him. "Until then."

The rest of his day went about as well as it could, in part improved by his good mood. All too soon it seemed he was back in front of her building, ringing her mobile.

Mark's call took Bridget a little by surprise. Truth be told, she had been somewhat unfocused due to the events of the morning. She had never guessed that Peter had still been harbouring feelings for her, or that he had propped up those feelings with fallacies. She also sincerely hoped that once those misapprehensions had been rectified that he had come around (would continue to come around) and realise it had all been an illusion. Add to that the fact that she had been pulled from the promised directorial stint…

"I'll be right down," she said to Mark. "Just need a moment to gather my things up."

"You sound distracted. Everything all right?"

"Tell you when I get down there."

When she got to the street Mark was at the passenger door ready to open it for her. She smiled. "You are a sight for sore eyes," she said, kissing his cheek.

"You only saw me this morning."

She pursed her lips.

"I mean," he said smoothly, "I'm glad to see you, too."

This made her laugh. "Come on. I'm hungry."

The drive back to his house—Soon to be our house, she thought excitedly—was blessedly and surprisingly quick. She wondered what they might do for supper (sooner rather than later), was sure Mark was wondering too; he suggested pasta which would be relatively quick, and she thought it seemed like a fine idea.

Those plans changed when they opened the front door.

"What on earth—" Mark began. She was puzzled too. The whole house was permeated by the scent of roasting meat—a beef roast, if she could trust her nose—with the accompanying smell of new potatoes.

"Mark?" they heard. "Is that you?"

"Peter?" called Bridget; even as she did so she knew it was ridiculous. Who else would it be?

"Come on down."

Bridget shot a glance to Mark, who looked equally perplexed. "Given the evidence at hand," said Mark, "I think he's cooked."

She grinned. "That's sweet."

They set down their respective bags, then made their way downstairs. The scent of dinner made Bridget's mouth water. Peter, despite everything that had happened this morning, looked bright and cheerful. "Hey."

"What's all this then?" asked Mark, grinning.

"My humble offering to try to make up for this morning."

"You're already forgiven."

"I know," he said. "I wanted to do this. Silly that I've been here for almost a fortnight and I hadn't yet. And—it's just about ready."

Peter had set the table, put out a bottle of red, from which Mark poured himself and his brother a glass. "Red, Bridget, or your usual white?"

"Red, I think. Thanks."

They sat down only to be served an excellent salt-and-peppered beef roast, baked new potatoes and asparagus on the side. Bridget felt she'd died and gone to gastronomic heaven, and expressed as much to him.

"Thank you," Peter said modestly. He raised his wineglass. "To my brother and future sister-in-law. Good people, great hearts, generous souls."

Bridget felt very emotional, and raised her glass with one hand as she took Mark's hand with the other. She cleared her throat, offered a smile. "Cheers."

I'll be all right.

This was what Peter had said before leaving Bridget's flat, even as his head was whirling, even though he had no idea if he would actually be all right. He knew logically that he had been dead wrong about his brother's relationship; that did not, however, mean he could just turn off how he felt about Bridget. That part would take some time. He hoped he could be patient with himself.

One thing he could do, he realised, was try to heal over the rift. Experience told him that one of the best ways to do so was over a good meal. He began planning at once. He wasn't due to start working for another few days, so his time was his own and he was able to get everything together in time to get it cooking.

The expressions on Mark's and Bridget's faces when they returned to the house that evening was something he would not soon forget. It told him that he had done the right thing. It also told him that it really would be all right. Not immediately, but eventually. He accepted that.

The dinner itself was a resounding success, and in more than one respect. His brother and Bridget seemed to enjoy the meal, and after the enlightening resolution to that morning's confrontation, Peter could see their interactions for exactly what they were; he felt a fool for ever interpreting them any other way. Mark was in love, and every action he took, every word he spoke, expressed it in a way that was typical Mark. To the unschooled observer, Mark's care did seem to take the form of stern overprotectiveness, but always his words were said or his actions done from a place of a sense of deep concern and tender love. Bridget had known the correct interpretation, even if Peter had not, but he did now.

It was not to say that all feelings he had about Bridget had vanished; as much as he would have wished it, they had not. He knew now though that those feelings had been cultivated under false pretences. He would always be fond of her, would love her and welcome her as a member of the family, and over time that would be all he felt.

"You're going to have to roll me out of here on a cart," warned Bridget as she leaned back at the end of the meal, patting her stomach. "Oh, that was wonderful."

"You might have mentioned that once or twice," Peter said with a chuckle. "Thank you, again."

"I think this calls for a bit of reclining," suggested Mark. "Something on the telly you might want to digest to?"

She chuckled. "So long as it's not a nature programme about beached whales."

At this both men laughed. "We can worry about tidying up the kitchen later."

Bridget took the centre of the sofa; Mark, the end, and as if practised habit she leaned into him just as his arm came around her shoulders. She had control of the remote, and immediately took to flipping through the channels.

"There's that cooking show you like, darling," said Mark.

"Oh very funny," she said, turning to look up at him, then flipped away quickly. "Like I want to watch that now, when I'm ready to burst. It's almost like you like torturing me."

"What's the big objection to watching it, ordinarily?" asked Peter.

"She then wants to try the recipes," explained Mark, "without the benefit of the recipes."

"And…?"

"Let's just say," Mark said tentatively, "Bridget needs the recipe. And even then—"

He stopped when Bridget turned and jabbed him in the ribs. At this Peter couldn't help laughing.

"Two words, darling," said Mark; he was laughing too. "Blue. Soup."

"You…" she said in an attempt to be threatening, but started to chuckle too. Peter was perplexed. "God, that was disastrous."

"Ultimately very rewarding," he said, holding her close.

"Except for the fight."

"Well, yes," said Mark. "But I'm willing to forget that bit of it."

"Yes. But I'll grant you that the rest of the dinner was nice," Bridget went on. "Your omelette was amazing. Clearly, innate cooking ability is a Darcy family trait."

Peter chuckled. "I'll take that again as a compliment. Surely, though, there are some things you can cook, Bridget."

"I'm very good with boil in bag meals," she said with a wink, continuing all the while to flick through the glut of available channels until at last landing on an old film. "Oh, I love this one. Do you two mind?"

"Not at all."

It was An Affair to Remember. He might have felt very awkward for her to have landed on it even as recently as that morning, but in truth, now he did not. Okay, he thought, maybe a bit, but not so much he felt like he had to leave. He did see Mark cast a glance in his direction; Peter only smiled then turned his attention back to the telly.

The film engaged his attention, but his gaze occasionally wandered to the pair of them on the sofa. Everything he saw struck him as comfortable and right. Again he wondered how he could have ever seen it any other way.

When it was over, Bridget got to her feet, stretched and yawned. "Why don't I take you back to your flat?" Mark asked.

"That isn't necessary," said Peter. "I mean, if you'd rather she stay here…" He grinned. "It is, after all, your house."

Mark smiled, though still seemed unsure. "I don't want to make you…" he glanced to Bridget, then back to Peter again. He didn't have to say the unspoken word: uncomfortable.

"I'll be fine. Go on. I've got some things to do before I turn in."

Bridget smiled tenderly. "Goodnight, Peter. Thanks again for the dinner."

"It was truly my pleasure."

He watched the two of them ascend to the main floor. After they were gone, he reached for the remote and switched the television off. The silence was a bit jarring yet welcome. He turned to gaze out of the window, at the darkened sky.

No point in waiting for a sign, he said. No time like the present.

He dug into his pocket and retrieved not only his mobile, but a scrap of paper on which was written, in a delicate looping hand, a telephone number. He punched the number in, then cleared his throat and waited. After three rings, the line picked up; a female voice asked, "Hello?"

"Hello, Margaret?"

Silence, then a very tentative, "Yes, who's this?"

"It's Peter Darcy," he said. "We met last night."

More silence; when she spoke again, however, her tone was completely changed, much brighter, much more inviting. "Oh, Peter! I'm so glad you called."

The end.