It's a Nice Day to Start Again

By S. Faith, © 2012

Words: 78,546
Chapters: 11 + epilogue
Rating: M / R
Summary, Credits, Warning, etc.: See Chapter 1.


Chapter 9.

Mon, 31 Jul

The first day back was in some ways easier than Bridget had expected, but in others, at least initially, it was harder. Emotionally she felt fairly strong, and was not once near to tears. Perpetua was especially nice to her, nicer even still than after the honeymoon; not that she was ever mean, but usually much bossier and prone to delegate her own work to Bridget. She wondered if Daniel had asked her to be extra kind, but she hadn't even seen him and wondered where he was. Either way, she appreciated the effort, especially as the morning went on, because she soon realised that there was a contingent of co-workers who were treating her as if she had an incurable disease, averting their eyes, falling silent when she came nearby. However, they weren't nearly as bad as those who pretended she wasn't there at all.

If this keeps up, she thought, I may well start crying again.

Daniel turned the tide by coming in at last bearing a bunch of gorgeous, fragrant flowers for her and a tender smile. He clasped her hand, bent to kiss her cheek then offered her a smile. "You look great," he said.

"Liar," she smirked.

"All right, I'm a liar," he said resignedly. "You're too bloody thin."

At this she chuckled. "Thanks for these. Lovely."

She was very much aware of all eyes in proximity fixed on this exchange. He turned and commanded Greg from Marketing to "go and dig up a carafe or something" from the break room/kitchen area. "And put some water in it, will you?"

"Yes, sir," he said. "Will do."

With this, as if with the flick on a magic wand, things returned to a semblance of normalcy, or at least that's how it seemed to her; chatter and bustle apparently burst back into existence. After Greg returned with the water carafe, she slipped the flowers, beautiful stargazer lilies, into it.

Daniel said, "I know I just got here, but I'd love to take you to lunch."

She regarded him thoughtfully. This was no desperate ploy to try to win her back; he sincerely just wanted to treat her. "I'd love to go."

Rather than whisk her off to his favourite posh lunch spot, he instead took her to a small pub just a couple of blocks away. He knew she preferred the cosier atmosphere and the mountain of chips they served with their fish. Between casual discussions of things like the logistics of her retrieving the things that remained at the flat on Clink Street, they had a fantastic time together. It reminded her of the earliest days of their dating without the constant distraction and tension of their sexual magnetism; in some ways the lack of it made their interaction even better. Easier.

That we could go through what we did and come out still friends so quickly is a miracle, she thought as they walked back to their office; she had her arm through his crooked elbow and the longer they walked, the more she leaned on him for support.

"Sorry, Bridge, I should have thought to get a taxi."

"No, it's quite all right. I could use the walking, honestly."

After a moment, he asked, "I'll need to ring up Jason for a meeting. When are you free?"

"Any time's okay," she said. "Sounds like our options are limited, and pretty straightforward."

"Yeah." He laughed under his breath. "It's funny and somehow fitting that Jason was referred to me by Mark bloody Darcy. Sorry. Habit."

"It's all right." She smiled, though she was a little surprised that Daniel and Mark had talked together about this marital situation. "He's a good guy?"

"Jason? Seems to be. Can't imagine Darce would send me to anyone he didn't like or trust." He added after a pause, "Though chances are it wasn't me he was thinking of." It seemed a curious thing to say; the implication was that Daniel was aware of Mark's fondness for her. She wondered if he knew more than he was letting on. "I mean, you are friends, aren't you? I think he only deigns to speak to me because of you."

Silly Bridget, she thought. "I don't know if that's true any more."

"You may have a point," said Daniel. "There was a time when he would have just hung up on me."

"He must realise that if I love you," she said, "you can't be all that bad."

Daniel glanced up, as if inspired from a bolt from the blue. "That seems so obvious now. You know you're a bloody genius, Jones, don't you?"

It was the first time in quite a while that he had called her that, and it made her smile. It served to reassure her that they could in fact be friends beyond the legal split. "Well, you were friends once upon a time. Surely you had a lot more good times together than the one pretty bad time."

"True," said Daniel pensively. "Very true."

They returned to the office and resumed working with no further evidence of uneasiness or awkwardness. Bridget felt happy and more reassured than ever that things would really be okay, after all.

Weds, 2 Aug

Shortly after lunch on Monday, Daniel had messaged her to let her know he was on the line with the solicitor, and whether or not she had anything conflicting on Wednesday afternoon. "No, is fine," she had typed back to him, relieved to have a fixed appointment.

However, now that it was Wednesday afternoon and she was driving with Daniel towards the appointment, she felt a building apprehension. She had no idea what to expect; certainly she had never done anything like this before. Was she supposed to have prepared something in advance? Brought paperwork? Researched something?

"What's wrong?" Daniel asked, glancing to the side as he drove.

"Nothing," she said quickly, then sighed; he'd know she was lying. "I'm just a bit nervous, is all."

"Don't be," said Daniel. "He's very nice. I promise he won't bite off your head."

She laughed, but still felt uneasy.

The personal assistant was very pleasant though barely cracked a smile as she brought them into Jason McCarthy's office. He stood as they entered and walked around to the front of the desk. "Daniel, nice to see you again."

"Bridge, this is Jason McCarthy," said Daniel. "And Jason, this is Bridget."

He extended his hand to shake hers. "A pleasure to meet you."

There was something about him that put her immediately at ease; he was very familiar somehow and quite handsome to boot. In an instant she realised that he looked like that Luther character from the telly; so the character was a bit of a mental case police detective, but the actor had always seemed very nice in interviews. "Nice to meet you too."

"Please, have a seat."

Daniel took the leftmost of the two chairs facing the desk, and she took the other, while Jason took the seat behind the desk. "Well, I'll get straight down to it," he said. "This probably will come as no surprise to you, but there's nothing to be done about an annulment. The paperwork's in perfect order, and none of the other conditions apply."

In the periphery of her vision, she saw Daniel nod slightly.

"So that means we can begin legal separation, but cannot do anything about an actual divorce until May of next year."

She nodded now, too. "Understandable," she said.

"Judging from the fact that you're here together, I'm assuming that things are… amicable."

"Yes," said Daniel. Bridget nodded.

"So what are your thoughts on formalising the split?" Jason asked.

"You have a visitor," came the pleasant voice of Rebecca, Mark's personal assistant, over the telephone. "A Mr McCarthy."

Mark thought this could have been a coincidence, but given the recommendation he had given the previous week he doubted it was. "By all means, have him come in."

Jason entered; frankly, the man looked a bit harried.

"This is a nice surprise," said Mark, then joked, "To what do I owe the honour of you coming all this way from the other side of the building?"

"Oh, this required far more than just a call," said Jason, taking a seat. "That referral you gave me—do you know they are both certifiable?"

"Pardon?"

"Three minutes into the joint consultation," he said, "they began fighting about spousal support." Mark's stomach sank; it seemed too outside of her character to make such demands. "Oh, no, no, no. it's not at all that," Jason continued; Mark's expression must have been transparent. "He wants to give her more than to what she's entitled, and she is steadfastly refusing to take anything, not even the fucking towels his aunt gave them at the reception."

Mark chuckled. "Well, I can't blame her," he said. "I understand they were fairly hideous."

"You take the point though, don't you?" Jason said, sounding almost desperate. "In all my years of practising, I have never encountered anything like this."

"I imagine not," Mark said, feeling relieved; he had no need to be disappointed after all. In fact, he admired her more, and reluctantly respected Daniel a bit more for wanting to the proper thing by supporting her. "So how did you get this resolved?"

"I interrupted their bitching, told them that they should take the time to come to an agreement, because if they did not, the court would do so come the divorce, and that could draw things out even further," he said. "That quieted them. I also told them that if they could come to a basic understanding right then and there, I could have separation papers drawn up by Monday for them."

"And they did?"

"Yes, thank God," said Jason. "I remained as professional as I could, but I think the signs of strain were obvious. They were looking at me like I was the mad one. For possessions and property, they agreed to take out of the marriage with what they brought into it. As for support, he grudgingly accepted a deferral of further discussion, and we're working now on the same 'take out what you brought in' premise. I think I can parlay that into a divorce settlement when the time comes. If I can keep my sanity." By the time he got to the end of this explanation, he was chuckling and smiling too. "They are quite a pair. So how do you know Daniel?"

"I know both of them, actually," Mark said. "He and I were in uni together, and she and I both grew up in the same small town north of London."

"Small world, Darcy," said Jason. "Thanks for letting me vent. I know I can trust you with a professional confidence. I didn't trust myself not to take this home to my wife." He smiled as he rose from the chair. "It's funny, when Daniel first came in, I have to admit I'd pegged him for a man who'd got married too soon and on impulse, had grown tired of his wife, had met someone new and now just wanted to be free of the entanglement as soon as possible."

That wouldn't have been so far off, thought Mark, had Daniel married any other woman.

Jason then added, "It's clear now that he still cares very much about her and just wants to make things as easy as possible for her, though I think the support thing may cause problems. Not the same problems I'm used to, mind you, but it could definitely complicate things come divorce time if one of them doesn't give."

They said their goodbyes and as Mark took to his desk once more, he realised it was about time he headed for home. As he packed papers into his attaché, his mobile went off. He looked at the display. Daniel Cleaver. He considered not answering but figured Daniel would just persist. "Darcy," he said coolly on answering.

"What kind of arse have you sent me to?" Daniel said. "Do you know he's trying to talk me out of paying support?"

"Talk you out of it?" asked Mark; he had not gotten any such impression from Jason's words.

"Okay, not out of it altogether, but out of paying what I want to pay her."

"He knows what he's doing," said Mark. "And not to put too fine a point on it, you were only married for three months."

"So?" shot back Daniel. "I've bought thousand pound presents for birds I only slept with twice. For someone who means that much to me… I want to make sure she's taken care of. It's the least I can do for all of the pain and suffering I've put her through."

"I understand, I really do," said Mark. "But you'll have to weigh this against prolonging the process. You may have to compromise, even if it isn't as much as you want to give her, so that you both can get closure."

Daniel didn't reply right away, and when he did his voice was much subdued. "I'll keep that in mind."

"You do that," said Mark, feeling somewhat sombre himself now. Daniel thanked him for listening then said goodbye, but Mark barely heard it. Only now did he realise fully that his own marriage had not failed because of Daniel's folly; the infidelity had only hastened the inevitable. If she had really loved her husband, she would not have strayed; if he had truly loved her, if he'd been able to make her happy, nothing, no one, would have been able to come between them.

He only knew this now that he actually knew love.

He buttoned his suit jacket then closed his attaché; his thoughts turned idly towards dinner as the safest and most mundane thing he could conjure. He left his office, then made his way through the almost labyrinthine hallways and towards the exit door.

The sight that met him there surprised him. Standing on the steps, leaned up against the handrail, was the very woman about whom he had just been thinking. She had her arms crossed over her chest, and the look on her face spoke of extreme displeasure.

"Hello, Bridget."

"Mark Darcy," she said sternly. "I do not appreciate your referring Daniel to someone who's going to treat me like an invalid child."

"Jason does not—"

"Do you know what Daniel wants to do? He wants to give me some kind of support payment," she said, working up a right head of steam. "I don't need it and I don't want it. I've been able to take care of myself since I graduated from uni, yet these two men—" She said the word as if it were a pejorative. "—are trying to insist I take it, like I'm some sort of helpless little girl."

"I happen to agree with them," he said.

"Oh, you would," she said, "you man."

"Not because I think you're helpless, nor do I think Daniel thinks you're helpless, but because it's part of the process," he said, deciding to take a legal tack. "He makes a lot more than you do; I can guarantee it."

"I don't care," she said. "It doesn't matter to me."

"And that's fine," he said. "But if you and Daniel don't come to a mutually settled-upon agreement, it'll go to the courts for a decision, and that can take a very long time. Bear in mind that you cannot file for divorce—"

"Until May. I know. Believe me, I know." She sighed, then looked over to him. "Why can't Daniel be the one to cave?"

"It's not a matter of caving or giving in," he said. "It's not a hardship for him, and he wants to do this for you. Accept it if you want a quick separation."

She regarded him again with an intense look, then smiled slowly, almost devilishly; quite reminiscent, Mark thought, of something he'd seen in the paddling pool video, directly after chomping into a piece of cake almost larger than her head. "Fine, I'll accept his offer," she said. "But only to assuage whatever guilt it is he has, and only so things don't get hung up in court."

He smiled. "I'm glad to hear," he said. Only then did he truly take in her appearance: tailored blouse, short skirt, tights, heeled shoes. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, swaying in the light early evening breeze. She must have come directly after work, but she looked gorgeous and (much to his dismay) quite desirable. "Do you want—"

He had only intended on asking her if she wanted a lift home, but the notion of eating again asserted itself when his stomach rumbled:

"—to have dinner?"

Her eyes went wide. "Dinner?"

"I was going to go get something to eat anyway," he said, feeling a bit flustered, "and I'd much rather not eat on my own."

She stood up straight from where she was resting against the handrail. "Sure," she said, walking near to him, taking him by the arm and by surprise. "Lead on."

The touch of her hand, even through the layers of his jacket and shirt, sent a spark of electricity through him. He hoped she couldn't tell; it would have mortified him.

It was very sweet, really, how he shuffled his feet a little when she took his arm, almost as if he'd tripped over his own toes. "Where did you plan on going for something to eat?"

"I wasn't sure," he said in an uncharacteristically unsteady voice. "Perhaps Italian."

"Oh, do you know a good place?"

"Yes, quite."

"Oh, good," she said. "Now that all of my righteous indignation is gone, I'm suddenly very hungry."

He laughed in a low, throaty manner; it was not unattractive, she realised. "I suppose that could work up an appetite."

As they walked to his car, she could think only of the source of her earlier indignation, and the smug satisfaction in the conclusion to which she had come; she'd accept Daniel's settlement all right, but that money was destined for greater things. She smiled.

"You're looking very pleased," he said.

She glanced over to him, and realised that she was. "I am."

As he opened the passenger door, he confessed, "I'll be honest; I didn't think it would be so easy to persuade you."

"Into having dinner?" she asked.

He instantly flushed red. "Into accepting Daniel's offer," he said, then smiled. "I sort of walked right into that one."

"You did," she said, then grinned. It was rather fun, she realised, to be a bit flirty with him. It felt liberating. "Though you look very handsome with a bit of colour."

He looked down as his colour deepened. "Go on, get in."

The Italian restaurant was one with which she was very familiar; not too casual, not too posh, and had a wide variety of pasta dishes. "Do you come here often?" Bridget asked as she took his arm again.

He cleared his throat. "I think I came here once before," he said. "Forgettable companion, unforgettable food."

"Well, hope I can help make up for the last companion being an utter cow," she said. "Can I guess who it was? Was it that Natasha woman?"

He stared at her as if she had psychic powers. "You will more than make up for the cow," he said.

When they were seated, instead of getting what she always got (their superior spag bog), she said in a deferential tone, "I'll have whatever the gentleman's having." With a nervous throat-clearing, Mark consulted the menu a second time then chose the spaghetti alla carbonara and a bottle of Chianti.

"I really think you'll like it," he said as their server withdrew with the order.

"It's got bacon in it," she said. "What's not to like?"

The dish and the wine was better than she'd expected; it was quite possible that she had found a new favourite dish. By the end of the meal she was feeling even more audaciously flirty. She touched his hand a couple of times from across the table, which made him drop his fork and fumble over his words, respectively.

"Shall we do dessert?" she asked as the dinner plates were cleared away. "We're already on a roll."

"If you like," he said. His gaze was very intense, yet he seemed so restrained and reluctant.

"I think we ought to do," she said. "I think if I tried to walk right now I might topple over. I'm… not used to wine."

It was the first thought she'd had in hours about the miscarriage, and the wine magnified her moroseness about it in a very abrupt fashion. Mark noticed at once.

"Are you all right?"

She nodded, offering a bright smile and putting her hand over his again in an effort to cheer herself. "Fine, just fine."

He ordered some tiramisu and espresso. "Best make it decaffeinated," he wisely said. "I'd rather not be kept up all night."

As he said it, she smiled again to him, her eyes bright and sparkling; God help me, he thought as he drank in her loveliness, but I can think of one thing I'd like keeping me up all night…

He didn't know what precisely was encouraging her to be so friendly, even flirtatious with him, and though the attention was catching him off guard repeatedly, he had to admit he very much liked seeing confirmation that maybe she was attracted to him, after all. Or maybe, he thought fatalistically, she was just this playful with everyone.

He watched as she enjoyed her tiramisu, licking mascarpone from her fingertips and drinking delicately from her demitasse cup; he continued feeling like an unsure schoolboy.

When it came time to leave, he paid the bill then walked out with her on his arm again. She leaned on him to walk a bit steadier; he had mostly restrained himself because he knew he'd be driving, so consequently she'd had more wine than he had.

They were walking towards the car in that comfortable silence, in the darkening twilight, when they passed by a row of shop windows that were brightly illuminated now that the sun had set. It was only after they'd passed them that he heard her make a sound, felt her stop in her tracks. Then she was breaking away from him, leaning against the building, shielding her face with her hands.

Alarmed, he said, "Bridget? What—" But he stopped, because he knew: the window they'd just passed was displaying a staggering array of baby clothing, little overalls, jumpers, sunhats, shoes… "Come here," he said with quiet authority, pulling her into his arms. She folded into his embrace and sobbed.

"I'm sorry," she managed. "I just saw the tiny shirts and I lost it."

"It's all right," he said. "It's okay. I imagine you'll get ambushed with this sort of thing long after you think you've got a handle on it. Emotions can be tricky things." He ran his hands up and down between her shoulder blades in an effort to console and comfort her.

After many moments her tears and sobs subsided at last. "Feel so foolish," she said.

"Please, please don't. I understand."

He dug into his suit jacket pocket for a handkerchief and gave it to her. She accepted it with a forlorn "thanks" then brought it to her face to wipe under her eyes and blow her nose. "I'll, er, launder it before I give it back to you. Trust me, I think you want me to."

He chuckled then gazed down upon her as she drew back. "I've got a score of them," he said.

She smiled. Her eye makeup was mostly gone now; she still looked beautiful to him. Somehow the lack of mascara and shadow made her eyes bluer and more luminous. You're being ridiculous, he scolded himself. You're romanticising a crying jag.

"Thank you," she said. "Can't imagine I'd've done at all well hitting a trigger like that on my own." She laughed a little. "I did warn you once about emotional landmines."

"So you did," he said. "And I'm glad I was here so that you didn't have to go through it on your own." On impulse, he bent and placed a kiss square on the centre of her forehead; almost immediately he regretted taking such a liberty, and he drew back to see her lids were closed, her lips slightly parted, for that split second before she looked up at him. "I should… get you home," he said.

She nodded. "Yeah. Thanks."

From the moment he'd touched his lips to her forehead he came to a sudden and firm decision: he had to keep his distance from her, for weeks, possibly months. Maybe even longer than that. It was clear to him that he could not conceal his feelings any longer, despite actively practising doing so; she needed room to heal and not form attachments to him. He couldn't trust any of her feelings to be anything more than a post-traumatic reaction, and he couldn't take advantage of her that way.

"Everything okay?" she asked once they were driving again. "You're very quiet."

"Oh, I'm fine," he said, affecting a casual air. "It's just a bit later than I thought, and I've got court in the morning."

"Oh," she said. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have insisted on dessert."

"You didn't see me putting up much of a fight."

She laughed. "True."

A short time later he pulled up in front of the flat on Bedale Street. He didn't want the night to end, because he wasn't sure when he'd see her again. He knew, though, that it had to. "Here we are," he said quietly as he switched off the ignition. He got out of the car to open her door; she, in turn, looked up at him with surprise before taking his hand for assistance up and out of the passenger seat.

"Do you—Oh, no, right. Court in the morning."

He nodded. He didn't actually have court, but it was a plausible little white lie. "Ring me when you get up to your flat."

"I'll have to. I've gone and run down my mobile battery again."

They each smiled; then, before he knew what was happening, she was placing her hands on his shoulders to press a quick, light, friendly kiss on his cheek. "Thank you again," she said. "For everything tonight."

"Of course." He said it, but he was not at all sure his words were audible, because his voice had quite escaped him. He stood there, fixed to the spot, as he watched her go in through the building door; he didn't move until his mobile began to ring to let him know she was safely inside the flat.

"Goodnight, Bridget," he said, just before disconnecting. Tonight and many nights to come, until I see you again.

He picked up his mobile and smiled to see who was calling by the display. "Well, Mrs Cleaver. You're phoning late."

"Sorry."

"Don't be," Daniel replied. "You know I'm up."

She laughed lightly. "It's true, I do. So I wanted to call you as soon as possible because I've decided to accept your offer."

"Support?" he said. "Fantastic, just bloody fantastic. I'll let Jason know first thing in the morning." He paused. "Forty-thousand, I hope."

"Yes, I won't haggle you any lower," she said.

"Fantastic," he said again. "And to what or to whom do I owe my gratitude for talking sense into your thick skull?" he teased.

"Of all people, Mark Darcy," she said. "Though it shouldn't surprise me. He sided with you and Jason. He convinced me that you weren't going to give up the notion, and fighting it would just prolong everything."

This took Daniel aback, given his advice from the same man to compromise and offer a lowball amount just to get her to accept. "I knew we'd been friends for a reason."

"Maybe you could be friends again," she said with a tone of warning, "if you apologise to him properly."

"Yes, Headmistress," he teased.

"Daniel," she said. "I was wondering. If you don't mind me asking, that is."

"Bridget, I'm your husband," said Daniel. "You may ask me anything you like."

"Mark's ex-wife," she said hesitantly.

It was not what he was expecting at all. "What about her?"

"What was she like? What sort of woman is she, or was she? Did Mark love her very much?" He was considering how to answer, what to say, when she added, "Sorry, I shouldn't have asked."

"No, it's fine," he said, though what she was asking was almost as perplexing as why—it had been clear to him that Mark had been showing interest in Bridget, but was it possible that she was interested in him? "She was kind of a… what you'd probably call a jellyfish stick insect," he said. "She was gorgeous, had the right pedigree, and wanted the right sort of husband for appearances… but was not exactly loyal or full of marital fidelity. As you know." He sighed; it was difficult trying to find words for that period of his life. "I think Mark wanted the same… the right sort of wife, in the right sort of profession. He didn't give a toss about love, if you'll pardon the expression."

"So he didn't love her?" she asked.

"I think he thought he did, but you know… I'd've thought if he really had, he would have fought harder for her. After what happened, I mean. Though to be honest, she wasn't what I'd call passionate about anything, certainly not about sex. Once was enough for me. Bloody robot."

"You didn't love her either?"

He snorted. "God, no. I was a fool to be seduced by her, but love was never on the table."

She was silent for a long time. "That's so sad," she said. "He married her for all the wrong reasons."

"At the time I think he thought he knew what he was doing. Think he thought he knew her, thought the arrangement into which they were getting would blossom into more than some kind of business partnership. I'm sure it devastated him when that all came crumbling down from a few different directions."

"And so soon afterwards."

"Yes." Daniel said. "And yes, I will apologise, Bridge."

"Good," she said softly. "Good."

"Bridge? Did I answer your question?"

"Yes," she said. "Thanks. You know what, Daniel?"

"What, Bridge?"

"We may not have had a successful marriage, but I don't think we got married for the wrong reasons."

He smiled. "Quite true, Bridge. Quite true."

Weds, 2 Aug

Insomnia was a bitch.

It wasn't the wine, and it wasn't the decaf espresso. She sat by the window, staring out into the night, watching cars pass as the minutes flew by. Her thoughts were in turmoil, and for the first time in many moons, it wasn't because of her own problems.

Poor Mark, she thought. To marry and split in such a short time was one thing, but that the marriage had never even brought him a moment of love or emotional fulfilment… then to have everything end as it had, compounded by the loss of a friendship, the revelation that his wife had not been playing the same game he had… it all made her want to weep. He'd gotten the pain and betrayal without never having gotten anything wonderful to have made it worthwhile.

He's such a nice man, too, she thought. He's kind, he's funny; okay, a bit reserved at times, guarded about himself on a personal level, but that's hardly surprising, after what he's gone through. She thought of how caring he'd been when she most needed a friend, how generous he had been with his time, and wished desperately there was something she could do for him.

Why? asked a little voice in the recesses of her mind. Why is it that you care so much? The question was itself a revelation, because she realised that she did care very much about him. And for him. For his well-being and his happiness, to the point that she couldn't even get to sleep. What could that mean but—

"You're being ridiculous," she muttered aloud. Of course he'd been kind; he was a good-hearted, honest, loyal person. Even her mother liked him, for God's sake; even her mother had made mention about he was in love with her. Likelier case was that he'd just formed an attachment to her in the same way any altruistic human being would come to feel for a puppy they'd rescued.

But what if he really was in love with you? she insisted. If she hadn't been so silly and full of preconceived notions about him… she might have been more generous to him when it would have mattered most. At the Turkey Curry Buffet.

He was terrible to you, she thought. Rude and dismissive. How could you forget?

He had a reason to be in such a bad mood, she argued with herself. If you'd perhaps not written him off so quickly… taken the time to find out…

"This is ridiculous," she said sharply, standing and throwing the pillow she'd been holding to the floor. In a stern tone, she told herself, "You will never get to sleep if you don't actually get into bed."

She tossed and turned but to no avail, and frequent checks of her clock did not help matters, as it became a sadistic countdown until her alarm was to go off. Calm yourself, she thought, only this time it was in a deeper baritone. Mark's voice. She pictured herself at dinner, touching his hand, looking up to meet his gaze, reassured by his calm voice as she replayed the evening in her mind.

Before she knew it the alarm was sounding.

The rational part of Mark's mind kept telling himself that he should not have a shot of scotch. Alcohol actually prevented deep sleep, REM sleep, that allowed the body to rest and repair.

The non-rational part, however, needed something to soothe his nerves. Thus, he poured a scotch.

The rational part of his mind told him to stick to one shot. He did not need to feel hung over for his non-existent court appearance.

The non-rational part did not care about the consequences; tomorrow morning was none of its concern. It demanded a second shot, and it got one.

Hastily he drank it, then slammed the glass down on the table. Enough, he thought. Slightly unsteady on his feet, Mark forced the rational to take the reins of his willpower before he did something stupid. He stood in his shower, allowing steaming hot water to run over his head for a very long time. The last thing you need to do, he told himself, is ring up the likes of Natasha in some effort to find yourself on familiar ground. She's not who you need.

He knew exactly whom he needed, but she was the one woman he could not have… not yet, anyway. He had to give her time. He needed to be patient. Not seeing her, however, for the duration that it would take to give her that space… the thought seemed unbearable.

He got out of the shower, dried himself off, then did the rest of his evening preparations in the hopes that the routine of it would get his mind on track for sleep. To some extent it worked, though not as quickly as he would have liked, and when he did sleep, it was turbulent at best. He could think only of the prime chance he had been given so many months ago on New Year's Day, when he had been so caught up in a past that could never change that he lost sight of what the future could bring him if he gave it a chance.

The sun came all too soon; rough did not begin to describe how Mark felt. He had to pay the penance for his scotch-based, sleep-deprived sin, and again he relied on routine to carry him through to the office. It was not until he got there that he realised he felt like death warmed up.

He punched the buttons on his desk phone.

"Yes?"

"Rebecca," he said, "if you could track down something for a headache and a cup of strong, black coffee, I'd be very grateful."

"Absolutely," she said immediately; she must have noticed how bad he looked.

It was not Rebecca who brought in the coffee and the pain reducer; instead, it was a maniacally grinning Jeremy. "Late night last night?" he asked.

Mark held out his hand, beckoning him to come closer with the requested balm. "Yes," he said. "I'll take those, thank you."

"Not until you tell me who she is."

He stared at Jeremy, realised he was not in any condition to argue, certainly not in one to chase the man down for what he bore. He sighed resignedly. "Only if you promise not to speak a word," he said. "I mean it. Not even to Magda."

Jeremy's brows rose as he handed over the mug and the pills. "Swear to God," he said, drawing a small X over his heart with his thumb. "Nothing. So. There was a she? Please tell me it wasn't N—"

"No," he interrupted firmly. He downed the pills then took a long drink of the coffee; it was too hot, but he didn't care. "I'll preface what I'm about to say with 'It's not at all what you think.'"

"Now I'm really intrigued. Do tell!"

He met Jeremy's gaze. "It's Bridget."

With that, taking advantage of Jeremy's silence, Mark told him everything.