The Fox and the Rose
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 52,845 (total)
Rating: T / PG-13
(I did not feel eight instances of the F-Bomb (scattered throughout eleven chapters) warranted a more mature rating.)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 7.
Bridget was very proud of the fact that she was awake, made up, coiffed (albeit in a simple ponytail), dressed in a tee, jeans and trainers, and caffeinated just shy of the target time of eleven in the morning, so when quarter past the hour came and went, then half past the hour, she became slightly alarmed. She was considering ringing Mark when her mobile rang most presciently, revealing Mark was the caller on the display before she even answered.
"Hi," she said as she did. The voice she heard was not the one she expected.
"Hi Bridget!"
"Martin?" she asked, confused. "What's going on? Where are you?"
"My dad overslept," he said in a conspiratorial tone, "so we're coming there now."
She realised she could hear street noises. "Are you in the car?"
"Yes. Dad asked me to call while he drove. We're on the bridge now."
"I'll come downstairs to meet you," she said, slipping on her jacket and grabbing the unopened packet of chocolate biscuits she had in the pantry, then stuffing it into her bag. "I'm glad you called. I was starting to worry a little." After a pause, she asked, "Did you remember my phone number?"
"Nope," he said. "Dad told me just to press three and hold it down."
She didn't quite understand what he meant by that, until she did; Mark had programmed her mobile number in. "Oh. Well, I'll see you in just a few minutes," she said.
"Will you stay on with me?"
She heard Mark's voice scolding from the front seat: "Martin!"
She giggled. "Oh, sure. How's the traffic?" She pulled flat the door behind her then descended the staircase.
"We're not moving at the moment. Oh. There we go."
As she exited the building and emerged into the sunshine, she immediately wished she'd grabbed her sunglasses, but then she realised she had no idea where they were. "What a lovely day," she said. "Gorgeous out here. Nice to be outside."
"We'll have to think of something fun to do," he said. Bridget realised that for whatever reason, Mark had not mentioned the picnic; perhaps Mark had had a change of heart, so she decided not to say anything. "Oh! I see you! Do you see us?"
She looked down the street and saw the silver sedan heading her way. She smiled and waved at them. There was a spot on the kerb a few car lengths down, so she walked towards it as Mark eased his car into that spot. Mark rose from the car almost immediately and offered a smile as he came around to open her door for her. "I'm so sorry," he said quietly. "I deserve any harassment you might have to offer."
She chuckled and shook her head, recalling his tease about needing a wake-up call. "It happens to the best of us," she said.
"Perhaps you'll be tempted to give me a hard time when I tell you it's partly due to Oban."
"What's Oban?"
"Scotch," he said sheepishly.
Before she could ask, Martin's voice sounded out. "Dad, can we please go?"
"Yes, son." To Bridget's surprise he opened the front passenger side door.
"Won't he want me to sit with him?" she asked.
"Oh, yes, very true." He closed the front door then opened the back. "Here you are."
"Thank you," she said. Before ducking into the car, though, she said discreetly, "Is the picnic still on?"
He nodded. "I didn't get a chance to put a basket together."
Bridget's backside had barely met the leather seat when she felt arms up and around her neck, reaching and hugging her as best he could from his booster seat. "Hi!" said Martin. "I'm glad to see you!"
She couldn't control a laugh; his father might have been hesitant to show his emotions, but Martin certainly did not seem to have any such inhibition. "I'm glad to see you too." She glanced up and caught Mark's profile bearing the distinct signs of amusement.
"You get to see my house!" Martin said with that adorable broad semi-gap-toothed grin of his.
"I do," she said, pulling the safety belt closed as Mark headed into traffic. "Do you like your house?"
"Oh, yes," he said. "It's really nice. But my voice echoes."
She was confused by the apparent non-sequitur. "It does?"
"If I'm in the hallway and I shout for Dad I can hear it echo a little."
She understood what he meant, and what he'd meant previously: the house was big. It wasn't a brag; it was a statement of fact. "Oh. Well, that sounds kind of fun, actually. Maybe we could play explorers…"
"We're not going to wear Bridget out, Martin," said Mark as he turned onto the bridge once more, heading back over the Thames. "Since it's such a nice day, we thought you might like to go on a picnic."
"A… picnic?"
The way Martin said it, his voice laden with both awe and slight confusion, she wondered if he'd ever been on anything like a picnic before.
"You know," Mark said. "It's like eating outside in the garden, like we've done with your Gran before."
"But will we be sitting at a table like at Gran's?"
"On a blanket," cut in Bridget. "Proper picnics are on a blanket."
"Oh, I think that will be really fun," said Martin, smiling again. "Thanks, Dad!"
"Don't thank me," he said. "Thank Bridget. It was her idea." His gaze lifted at the same moment hers did, and their eyes met in the mirror. She smiled too.
"Thanks, Bridget!" She felt Martin's hand on her forearm.
Within a matter of minutes they arrived at Mark's house, and Bridget did her best to keep from gawking as they got out of the car. It was a lovely house, narrow but tall; four levels, one semi-subterranean; wrought iron handrails with prodigiously thriving ivy looping around them and to the awning over the porch; and a tan brick edifice and white trim to match the lion-topped gate posts at the end of the walk. Unfortunately she must not have tried hard enough—the need to crane her head back surely gave it away—because she heard a soft chuckle just as Mark shut his door. "I know," he said resignedly.
"What do you know?"
"It's a bit much for the two of us."
"Rubbish—it's barely big enough for Martin's toys," she said, looking back to him with a grin, then conceded, "Okay, okay, maybe it is, a bit. But it's lovely and I'm sure perfect for you."
They strode together up to the front door. Mark turned the key in the lock and pushed open the door; Martin bounded inside. "Come on!" he said, racing over to then dashing up the stairs. "I want to show you my room!"
As she stood in the entryway, Bridget could see now what Martin had meant when he'd said his voice echoed. It was by no means palatial in scale, but the ceiling was high, and the staircase served to add to the effect.
"I couldn't sleep." It was Mark's voice from behind her, bringing her from her thoughts.
She turned. "What? Oh, the scotch."
He nodded. "I don't know if you ever have the sort of night where you can't switch your brain off, but last night was one of those nights for me. Hence the scotch. Then when I did… well, it didn't want to start up again. It was Martin coming to see if we were ready to come for you that got me up at about ten-forty-five."
She grinned but wondered what on earth had occupied his thoughts to the point of sleeplessness. "It happens."
"Getting ready was a bit rushed so I apologise for my appearance."
She looked him over and could not see anything out of the ordinary for him; he was cleanly shaven, his sideburns precisely trimmed, his shirt and trousers immaculate. She was about to respond to that effect, continuing the conversation, but Martin's voice calling for Bridget from upstairs interrupted her. She smiled and pointed up the stairs. "I should go up there."
Mark nodded. "I'll put together some sandwiches and drinks… and of course find a blanket."
"Good plan."
She set her bag down in the foyer then started to climb the stairs. "I'm on my way," she called.
When she got to the top of the stairs, she was greeted with a straight shot down the hallway directly into what she presumed was Mark's room; at a glance she could see it was a large bed made up with a lush-looking duvet, and, she mused at its unmade state, linens.
At that moment Martin's head peeked out from what she presumed was his own room. "There you are! Come on in, I brought them out for you."
Rather than ask, she stepped forward to see to what he was referring. There on the pristine white carpet was an array of small motor vehicles that was not inconsequential: regular and racing cars, lorries, minicabs, double-decker buses… he had quite a collection of Matchbox cars. She smiled then brought her fingers to her lips to hide it at his proud look. "Wow," she said. "These are all yours?"
He nodded. "Some were my dad's when he was little, but he gave them to me. He sometimes has to go to other places like America and he always gets me one there when he does." He got down onto his knees, picked up a small yellow vehicle, then sat cross-legged on the floor. "Like this one. I think it's called a dune-buggy. There are beaches there where you can drive these."
She too sat upon the floor, taking the car into her own hand to inspect it. "Very nice." She handed it back. "Do you play with them often?"
His shy smile and nod was the only answer on the subject she thought she'd get, but he added, "I make up stories about them."
"Do you?" she asked brightly. "What kind of stories?"
"Well," he said. "This is Melinda." He set down the dune-buggy called Melinda back into her place, then picked up an old-fashioned police car. "This one is called Mark, like my dad."
She grinned, then picked up a miniature Lamborghini. "How about this one?"
"Rupert."
"And this?" It was a yellow chequered cab, the sort they showed in the pictures all the time as being ubiquitous in New York City.
"Vinnie."
"Vinnie?"
"Yup," he said.
"Do they all have names?"
"Almost all," he said. "I just got a new blue Mini Cooper. Oh! That can be Bridget. Like you, and you have blue eyes." He picked it up to give to her. It was very obviously new and shiny, and a very pretty shade of dark blue.
"I'm honoured," she said, setting it down. "So. What kind of stories?" she asked encouragingly.
"Well, they drive around and have adventures."
"Maybe we could have adventures with them while your dad puts our picnic together."
"Really?"
She smiled brightly, then nodded.
…
Three sandwiches of roast turkey luncheon meat, sharp cheddar cheese, lettuce, tomato and mustard on wholemeal bread, a large packet of crisps, some portable kid-sized juice boxes, and a bottle of chilled white wine and accompanying glasses later, Mark had only to roust up a blanket large enough for all three to comfortably sit on to picnic in the park. He thought his best bet for that would be the linen cupboard.
He went up the stairs and realised he heard Martin's voice talking quite animatedly. Curious, he crept up to the door and peeked inside to see that he and Bridget were sitting on the floor, engaged in playing with his Matchbox cars. There was a police car and an old Rolls Royce sitting on the edge of the bed as if on teetering on the edge of a cliff, and they each had a car in their respective hands—Bridget with the newest Mini, and Martin with the little Topolino he'd brought back from Rome for his son—as if the two were climbing upwards.
"We're almost there, Martin," said Bridget, quite seriously, but in a slightly different pitch. "We'll save you, Mark and Malcolm!"
He was a bit stunned to hear his own name in this context, but then remembered Martin had names for all of his cars. He smiled tenderly as he watched the further ascent of the rescuing vehicles; it touched him to see them playing together like this, so engrossed in their fiction that they hadn't even noticed his presence.
Mark continued on for the blanket; he saw then that in his haste to get out the door he had not only left his bedroom door open but had left his bed unmade. His horror was unmatched that Bridget might have seen it; in fact, it was a certainty that she had. Even still, he couldn't leave it open at the possibility she'd see it again, so he went forward and closed the door.
As he pulled down a woollen blanket and folded it over his arm, he called over his shoulder, "Time for the picnic. Put the cars away."
"Just a minute," called Bridget. "We're almost finished."
He walked back to the door to see Martin standing there looking unusually conflicted: most of the cars were already boxed up; the Topolino was on the 'cliff' with the other two cars, but Bridget was still making the steady climb with her Mini. "There!" she said as she reached the top, doing that same slightly odd voice. "We've come to rescue you!"
"Ah, but who will rescue us now?" said Mark wryly, leaning against the doorjamb.
At his voice she turned then popped to her feet. "Sorry," she said with a sheepish smile. "I thought it important to get to the top."
"It's all right," he said, glancing to Martin, who visibly relaxed. "Everything's ready for the picnic, if you are."
"I think so," said Bridget, picking the remaining four cars up and heading towards the box. "I'll just put these away."
"Dad, don't scold Bridget," interjected Martin.
"What?" he said, puzzled. "Why would I scold her?"
"Well," he explained patiently, "if I don't put my toys away and come when you call for me, you scold me."
Mark looked up to Bridget, hoping she didn't think he turned into some sort of raving maniac if his son didn't immediately snap to his every command; for her part she only looked amused. "I'm not going to scold her," Mark said.
"Good." Martin went over to Bridget and took her hand. "Let's go."
Upon arriving down to the main floor, Mark grabbed the picnic basket and hoisted it up.
"I thought you didn't picnic," Bridget observed bemusedly.
"We don't, or at least, we haven't," said Mark. "This is the first time we've gotten to use it."
"Picnic basket's maiden voyage," she commented as she pulled her bag onto her shoulder. "Well, it certainly is as large as a steamship. Feels like we're taking the Titanic out for an afternoon."
He laughed. "Come on. Let's go to the park."
They departed the house; as he turned to lock the door, she said, "I could carry the blanket if you like."
"No, that's fine," he said. "Just keep Martin's hand."
The truth was that with every step he took Mark was starting to feel a little overburdened, but he knew they would be to Holland Park soon enough. She and Martin found a nice little green patch beneath a broad tree just inside the border of the park, and he set the basket down in order to unfurl the blanket. Bridget bent to pull the corners taut. "There we are," she said, dropping to sit on the blanket, the breeze playing with the ends of her ponytail. "Isn't this nice?"
Martin sat beside her, mimicking her cross-legged posture. "It is, and I'm hungry. Can we eat?"
"Absolutely." In their rush to get ready and pick up Bridget, Mark had not yet had a thing to eat that morning and was feeling quite ravenous himself. Mark sat too, on the opposite side of the basket as Bridget and his son, and opened the top to reveal the napkin-wrapped feast within. He handed a sandwich to Martin first, who carefully unwrapped it to reveal it had been twice-cut, just like he liked it, for smaller hands and mouth. Next he gave one to Bridget, then took out his own. He watched Martin pick up a quarter of his sandwich and take a big bite.
"I hope this will do," he said, reaching into the basket once more for the crisps. "I should have asked if you liked turkey."
"Oh, I'm sure it's delicious," she said, unwrapping her own sandwich as Martin grabbed a fistful of crisps.
"Take it easy," said Mark. "Your food isn't going anywhere, and I'll not have you choking and ruining our picnic."
Martin said, "Sorry."
Next Mark opened up a juice box for Martin to wash down the salty crisps, then reached in for the final item, the bottle of wine. At this she seemed surprised. He said, "I thought you liked white."
"I do," she said, "but it's earlier than I'm used to drinking it."
Mark chuckled, picked up for the corkscrew, and proceeded to open then pour the wine. The glasses he brought had a wide base and were double-layered, designed to keep the heat of tea away from the hand. He thought they'd do just as well for keeping the heat of the hand away from the chilled white wine instead of using long-stemmed affairs not very amenable to a picnic situation.
"Thank you," she said, accepting the first glass.
They proceeded to eat their lunch in relative silence; praise was forthcoming for the sandwiches, which were declared to be amongst the finest, most delicious sandwiches humankind had ever prepared, particularly when paired with the crisps. She in particular seemed very much to enjoy the wine, the crisps and the sandwich very much. It pleased Mark greatly.
As Bridget and Martin polished off the last of the crisps, Mark poured her a little more wine as well as a little for himself. "Thank you," she said to him. "By the way, I have a surprise."
"You do?" asked Martin, his brown eyes wide.
"Mm-hmm." She reached into her bag and pulled out a packet of chocolate biscuits, and at the sight of them, Martin was clearly thrilled. "Unfortunately," she said, meeting Mark's eye momentarily as she broke the seal to open the packet, "they're very fresh and crunchy."
Mark chuckled.
"Do you like chocolate biscuits, Martin?" asked Bridget.
Martin nodded. "We don't usually have such things after lunch though," he said, looking to his father.
"Well, I think this can be an exception," said Mark.
Mark leaned to rest on his free hand, feeling the warm, pleasant effects of the wine, the good meal, and now the biscuits. He watched the dappled sunlight play on Bridget's blonde hair as the leaves above them swayed in the wind, watched his son having a grand time eating out of doors with the two of them. When they'd had all the biscuits they could stand, Bridget and Martin laid back on the blanket and looked up at the sky, looking for shapes in the cotton-fluffy clouds above, their heads close together so that they'd have a similar point of view, but forming a sort of angle shape with their bodies.
"That looks like an elephant," she said, pointing up to the sky.
"No, a tiger," said Martin.
"What? How does that look like a tiger? That's obviously a trunk."
"That's his tail. He has a long tail."
After a pause, she said, "Hm, you could be right." She looked to Mark. "What do you think?"
"Which do you mean?" he asked.
Bridget moved aside a little. "Come on, lie down and I'll show you."
He laid down so that Bridget was between him and his son; at her insistence he brought his head close to hers as well. She pointed up. "You see, right there, well, it's kind of going fuzzy now, but: elephant or tiger?"
"Hm," he said thoughtfully; he really didn't see either. "I say giraffe."
She turned to look at him, and he at her. "You're mental." From Bridget's other side he heard Martin laugh.
"I'm not," he said. "It just happens to be a giraffe taking a drink out of a river."
She laughed, turning and arching her head back to do so; his eye was drawn to the line of her jaw and throat. "Okay, okay," she said, looking at him again with a grin. "You win."
He looked skyward too, and the three of them were content to be still for a little while in peaceable silence watching the clouds roll by. It felt good to just lie there and think of nothing in particular, except that his thoughts were drawn to the woman lying beside him, particularly as whatever she wore as a perfume kept drifting his way and tantalising his nostrils. For all of her faults—which were not really so bad—she was a very special woman, one to whom he was not only attracted, but for whom he was developing feelings. He liked her company, liked her being physically near, liked her sense of humour, her wit, and very much liked how fond she was of his son—
"Dad?"
It was Martin, whom Mark did not even realise was on his knees again. He'd gone into the picnic basket and pulled out another juice box from which to drink. Mark wondered if he'd briefly dozed.
"Yes, son?"
"This is nice and all, but I have to, well…" He looked to Bridget. "You know."
Mark smiled, pushing himself to sit upright. "The call of nature."
Martin nodded.
"I suppose we ought to gather up our things and head home," he said, glancing at his watch. Half past one. He turned to see that Bridget had indeed drifted to sleep, one hand raised over her head, the other crossing her waist; her fringe was lilting in the breeze. He reached to touch her forearm. "Bridget, we're leaving."
"Mm," she said, slowly opening her blue eyes and looking at him. "Oh, I could have slept for hours. It's heaven out here."
Mark smiled down from his position above her. "Indeed it is," he said, then added in a quieter tone, "but a certain little someone's going to burst like a grape if we don't get him home."
She chuckled, pushed herself to sit up, then got to her feet, lifting her arms above her head for a stretch. Mark was mesmerised for the briefest of moments by the glimpse of stomach revealed by this action before turning and getting to his own feet, picking up the basket and ensuring the napkins, crisp packet, empty wine bottle and glasses were packed inside.
"Well, I would declare this a most successful picnic," said Bridget, stepping off of the blanket and reaching for the side. "Mark, take the other side?"
He did as asked and they shook off the bits of grass and other detritus before folding it back into a portable form. "Basket's much lighter now," Mark said.
"I'll take the blanket," she insisted.
As they began to walk across the grass to the paved path, Martin reached and took both his father's hand and Bridget's, walking between them. Mark couldn't help but think what a picture they must have made, and he had to admit he rather liked imagining it.
As they approached the house, Mark realised that standing on his porch, key in hand as if preparing to enter, was his mother Elaine, who bore a slightly curious look on her face as she looked at the three of them. Martin saw her almost immediately and broke away from Mark and Bridget into a sprint, dashing up the stairs and shouting "Gran!" She crouched to accept his hug, then rose just as he and Bridget reached the house.
"I was wondering where you were," Elaine said with a smile. "I phoned both of your numbers and got no answer. I was beginning to worry. And Bridget! How nice to see you!"
Mark patted his trouser pocket and realised he had left his mobile in the house. Bridget said, tinting pink, "It's nice to see you, too. Mark invited me to spend the afternoon with him and Martin."
"I see," Elaine replied; he saw her brow flicker up with interest. As Elaine opened the door and they all entered, she continued, "Sorry for the last-minute notice, but…" As Mark set down the basket, Elaine leaned in close and lowered her voice. "I found us unexpectedly in town, your father's with his naval friends and I thought I might take Martin out and about."
"Are we going to the zoo, Gran?" asked Martin, causing the adults to all chuckle.
"Yes, Martin," she said. "We'll go to the zoo. And then we'll go have supper with your grandfather. What do you say?"
Martin answered with a resounding, "Yes!"
"Do you mind if he stays over with us?" Elaine said quietly. "I know he's likely to crash out after dinner, and it looks like he's already had something of an exciting day."
Allowing the comment to slide by without remark, Mark assented, figuring they'd be staying at the flat near Trafalgar Square. "Come on," said Elaine, taking Martin's hand, "let's pack you a bag for tonight."
Once they were alone, Mark turned to look at Bridget. With the blanket still folded over her arm, she said uncertainly, "I should probably… go. There's a Tube station not too far from here…"
"I insist upon driving you," he said, reaching to relieve her of the blanket, which he then turned and hung over the banister of the staircase.
"There's no need to trouble yourself," she said.
"It's no trouble," he said. "Truly."
She smiled shyly. "Well, if you insist."
"We'll just see off my mother and Martin first," he said, putting his hands in his trouser pockets.
"Sure."
There was some noise upstairs, at which they both turned their attention before looking at each other once more. He cleared his throat. He was disappointed, he realised, at the thought that their day together would be over sooner rather than later. "So," he began, then did not know what else to say.
"So," she repeated.
"Your friends," he said. "Are they also in publishing?"
She shook her head. "One's a journalist, one's at Brightlings. Tom's in the music biz."
"Tom?" he asked, then realised it sounded a bit desperate.
"Gay as a Broadway musical." She gave him a sidelong look, narrowing her eyes, but the faintest hint of a smile played upon her lips. "Why do you ask?"
"Curious," he said. "As to whether or not you're likely to, you know, see them tonight."
Her smile widened ever so slightly. "Are you trying to ask me if I have plans this evening?"
"I might be," he said, then cleared his throat. "Yes."
"I see," she said, her amusement evident. "I do not, as yet, have plans for this evening."
"Ah," he said. "Well. Would you care to have dinner with me?"
"You and me? On our own?" she asked, feigning surprise before offering a tender smile. "That sounds very nice. I'd like that."
"Ah," he said again, a smile lighting on his own features at last. "Great."
"All set to go," came Elaine's voice from the stairs; he turned to see her and Martin descending hand in hand. "I'll call before we bring him back tomorrow," she said, reaching to hug her son. "Have a nice night," she whispered, which made him wonder exactly how much she'd heard, and how much she thought was going to happen.
He pecked his mother on the cheek. "See you tomorrow." He then crouched to give his son a tight hug. "I love you," he said to Martin, kissing his cheek as well. "Don't run your grandmother ragged."
"I won't," he said. As Mark stood, Martin went over to Bridget and held out his arms; Mark caught his mother's overly pleased look at this spontaneous display of Martin's affection. "I'm glad you came over today." She crouched and hugged him.
"So am I," she said. "We must have more Matchbox adventures some other time."
"Okay," Martin said excitedly. He looked to his father. "Bye, Dad."
"Goodbye."
He saw his mother and son to the door and watched them head down the walk to her car before turning back to Bridget. "I'll bring you home," he said, "then come for you at, say, seven?"
"That sounds fine," she said.
The car ride back over the Thames and to her Borough Market abode was spent in a relative quiet; it was not, however, an uneasy one.
"I had a really fun time today," she said as he rounded the corner by her building. "Not every day a girl gets to play with race cars and drink wine in Holland Park, all in the same day."
He chuckled as he pulled alongside the kerb. "I'll see you at seven, then."
"Seven it is."
As he walked her to the door, he said, "I'll make myself a little more presentable in the interim."
He saw her eyes flicker up and down as if to appraise him. "I don't know what you're on about," she said. "You look fine. Well. See you then." She put her key into the door and was in the building before he had a chance to respond with anything coherent.
