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 10.
Thurs, 10 Aug
The office seemed almost like a ghost town. A disproportionate number of people from Daniel's immediate office seemed to be on summer holiday that week; consequently, it seemed deserted. It was a great time to get all caught up on the lower priority tasks he'd let sit and get a head start on pulling sales figures for the first part of the quarter, but it still seemed eerily quiet.
A sharp rap at the door caused him to look up. Standing there was Greg from Marketing; he was smiling, but in an anxious way that suggested he was about to enter with the intent of placating a mad dog bent on tearing his throat out.
Daniel waved him in. "Greg, been a while since I've seen you venture into here. What can I do for you?"
"I…" Greg cleared his throat, running his hand back over his short, blond, curly hair. "It's… unusual."
Daniel's brows raised slightly. "Unusual?"
"Of a personal nature."
Daniel's mind went haring off into a million directions at once, but he decided that he would not be able to match whatever Greg actually had to say. "Fire away. Unless, of course, a firearm is involved."
"Oh, ha, no. Very funny, sir," Greg said nervously, but then said nothing more.
Daniel prompted, "Your… question? Request? What is it?"
"Sorry," he said. "I wanted to… ask you about…" He steeled his nerves, then raised his gaze to meet his boss'. "Bridget."
He'd been right. This was the last thing he'd expected to hear from Greg's lips. "What about her?"
"Well, you're splitting up and all, if I understand it."
"We're separated. Legally. Yes." The paperwork had been duly signed and, true to her word, she'd taken the lump sum without another comment, just a sly smirk on her face. Then it dawned on Daniel why Greg would be asking, but decided to probe further anyway. "Why do you want to know?"
His reply was not spoken so much as rapidly exhaled as one long syllable: "Well… I was thinking of asking her for a coffee after work but I wanted to make sure it was okay with you first."
It took Daniel several seconds to parse exactly what it was Greg was saying, and once he did it took all of his self-control not to laugh aloud. "You don't need my permission," said Daniel.
"No?" asked Greg, or rather, squeaked.
"Absolutely not," said Daniel. "Though I would have to resort to violence if you broke her heart."
Greg went ashen.
"Kidding," said Daniel. He levelled a brow-cocked or-am-I look at Greg, though, that made the man flinch visibly. "Go on, ask her for coffee," he said; he found it highly unlikely she'd accept, but it might boost her ego a bit to get that sort of attention, plus it'd be fun to see the sod twist in the wind as she let him down easy.
Greg smiled again, and this time it was easier, more natural. "Thanks, boss. Oh. That's weird."
Daniel nodded; Greg did too, then left the office.
Daniel kept his eye on Greg, not really expecting him to go straight out to ask, but did so anyway. To his utter shock, Greg did in fact go directly over to Bridget's desk. He watched in rapt fascination; it would be too much to race to the door to open it to follow or hear the expected rejection.
Daniel furrowed his brows. Surely he did not just read her lips say "Okay." But then she nodded, and Greg turned away with a proud, beaming smile.
Well, fuck me, he thought; she agreed. With all of those questions about the ex-wife, Daniel had been convinced her interests were falling elsewhere; Greg was a nice guy, but boy, was she out of his league. Then Daniel laughed. What if Darce knew?
Darcy, who had clearly displayed feelings well beyond friendship; Darcy, who was (it surprised Daniel to think this, given everything that had gone down in the last year) much better suited to make her happy, especially compared to well-meaning but insipid Greg. Daniel decided then that he had to tell Mark—if, for no other reason, to see Mark's reaction. However, he had to let the coffee date happen first. Greg's expressing interest was not enough; no, nothing would prompt Mark Darcy into action faster than another man in active pursuit of the object of his affection.
Daniel couldn't wait to tell him.
…
Greg from Marketing. Bridget had always thought of him as she would a puppy, with his big blue eyes, head full of coarse-looking wheat-coloured hair and perpetual smile, always eager to please. She had seen him around the office often enough, and he seemed genuinely friendly and sweet.
To be perfectly honest, when he'd asked her whether she'd like to have a coffee with him, she'd been too surprised to say anything but "Okay." The poor fellow looked as if he'd braced himself for the worst, so at her affirmative he looked equally surprised, but very, very pleased.
"Great!" he said. "After work tonight?"
She nodded.
"Great!" he said again. "I'll meet you here at your desk."
She couldn't say that she wasn't complimented by his asking, because she was, even if it was only a coffee with Greg the puppy dog. It was nice to know that she still had some sort of appeal to the opposite sex.
As coffee dates went, it wasn't bad; he was pleasant enough, charming and attentive, and she did her best to be an equally attentive companion, but her heart just wasn't in it. Her mind certainly wasn't either; she could not stop thinking of the man with whom she'd had a pleasant supper the week before, and from whom she had not heard again since. She wondered what had happened, and invariably wondered what she'd done to put him off.
"This was really nice," Greg said when they'd done. "You're such a good listener. Thanks for coming out on such short notice." He took in a deep breath—shoring up his courage. "Maybe we can do it again some time?"
She smiled, and felt guilty for the words she was about to deliver. "I had a nice time," she said. "Thank you for asking—I'm really very flattered—and thank you for the coffee."
"I'm flattered you accepted," he gushed.
Such a puppy, she thought. She didn't want to hurt his feelings, but she'd better set him straight before his hopes got too high. "I guess… I'm just not ready for this yet. Being involved." She tried to gauge his reaction. "I don't mean to sound like a cliché, but it's not you, it's me."
He nodded. "I understand. I had a feeling it might be too soon, but I've thought—well. Sorry."
"Oh, don't apologise," she said. "I'd like it if we could still be friends."
Greg smiled, and it seemed to be genuine. "I'd like that too."
He offered to give her a lift home, which she accepted; she was suddenly too tired to make the commute all the way there. As he slowed down to a stop in front of her building, she said to him, "Thanks so much."
"It was a pleasure." After a beat, he added, "Take care of yourself. I'll see you tomorrow."
She smiled. "See you."
The walk up the stairs to her flat seemed especially gruelling. Bridget couldn't decide if she was actually physically tired, or just mentally worn out after keeping her spirits artificially inflated throughout the coffee date. There was also the fact that she couldn't stop thinking about Mark, and what she might have done to offend him.
As she sunk heavily to her sofa in contemplation of dinner options (she was starting to feel hungry, but had no inclination towards cooking), her mobile, still tucked away in her handbag across the room, began to wail with an incoming call. With a groan she got to her feet again and dug the phone out just as it stopped ringing.
The display told her it had been Daniel. She rang him back.
"Bridge," he said. "How are you?"
"Shattered."
"Oh?" he asked; his tone in that one syllable spoke of his intense curiosity.
"Yes. Just got in."
"Coffee with Greg," stated Daniel.
She was stunned. "How on earth did you know that?"
"He came to see me before he asked. Didn't want to step on my toes." Daniel chuckled to himself. "Was surprised he had the backbone to go directly to you. Hope you didn't brutally savage the poor bastard."
She felt an intense and sudden spurt of annoyance. Greg was a nice guy; why would Daniel assume she'd savage him? Daniel was always so rough and bossy around Greg—granted, Daniel was his boss, but… this went beyond the pale. "We had a very nice time, actually," she said archly. "He's very sweet and quite a gentleman."
"Oh, really?" drawled Daniel. "Going to see him again?"
"He did ask."
"Jones!" Now he seemed scandalised. "You're not really entertaining the thought of seeing him again, are you?"
"I might," she said haughtily. "Why not?"
"Office flings are a bad idea."
The undoubtedly intentional irony of his statement made her laugh. "Well, it's not like I've had any other offers," she said.
"Bridge, we've only been legally separated since Monday."
She didn't respond because she didn't know what to say. Confiding in her soon-to-officially-be-ex-husband that she was interested in his ex-best-friend made for awkward conversation. "I was just… well. Disappointed that another lead didn't pan out."
"Are you talking about investigative journalism, or a man?"
"And how many girls have you had since Monday?" she asked, trying to deflect the conversation.
"None, I'll have you know," he said, then pressed on: "Which man?"
…
"Goodnight, Daniel," said Bridget with an obvious smile in her voice. "See you tomorrow."
With that the connection went dead, and as he disconnected his own phone, Daniel's smile was bittersweet. She had more or less confirmed the suspicions he'd had, at least to the extent that she had an interest in someone new. All evidence seemed to point to one man in particular, someone with whom he had once been close; someone with whom he might again be friendly thanks to her. Someone who clearly had interest in her.
It would be somehow fitting if things worked out between his former best friend and his future ex-wife. Daniel suspected, however, that Mark would never make a move without encouragement. Swift kick in the arse, more like, thought Daniel.
"Might as well get two birds with one stone—maybe even three," he muttered to himself as he dialled his phone again.
It rang four times and was nearly into the fifth before his call was answered: "Hello, Cleaver."
"Darce." It was odd to hear Mark's voice minus the animosity and anger it had once had. However, there was a strangely rough quality to his voice too. "Have I got you at a bad time?"
"No, it's fine… I appear to have dozed off. Sorry."
That explained the oddness in Mark's voice, the delay in answering. Daniel said, "I wanted to know if you were free."
"Free? What for?" Pause. "What's the time?"
"Barely eight."
"Eight?" he asked. "I've got court in the morning."
"Come on; you're not a geezer yet. It's barely just past supper."
Mark chuckled. "I've been feeling a little run down this week."
"Probably just overworked. Which is a great segue into why I'm calling. Meet me for a drink."
Mark didn't respond immediately, then asked suspiciously, "Why?"
"Why not?" Daniel said. "Come on. For old times' sake."
Another pause, then with resignation, Mark said, "The Savoy, I suppose."
"Actually, no. I was thinking the Mews."
A quick exhale. "Fine," he said quietly. "Be there within the hour."
Daniel arrived first to the cocktail bar at the Mews of Mayfair, with its sleek ambience and classic décor. He ordered himself a dirty martini and an Oban for Mark, because there were three certainties in life: death, taxes, and that Mark Darcy would order a single malt scotch. Amidst scowls undoubtedly for his selfishness in claiming the expansive leather sofa, he sank into it with an explanatory nod of the head towards his second drink. He set down Mark's tumbler, then took a small taste of his own. Perfect, as usual.
As usual, however, Mark was punctual within his self-assigned deadline. For a few seconds he didn't see Daniel, and the latter observed the former unnoticed. Mark looked as ragged as he'd sounded. His hair was not nearly as immaculate as usual, his trousers were minus their crease, and he had clearly knotted his tie again in haste. His eye caught Daniel's and he took the other end of the sofa.
"For you," said Daniel, tipping his head towards the drink on the table. He half expected Mark to make a smart-arse remark about assuming what he'd want, but he did not.
"What's the occasion?" Mark asked, lifting the tumbler to his lips.
"Two-fold, really," said Daniel. "First of all, since I don't think I have ever formally or officially done so: I wanted to apologise for… what happened. I could offer explanations, but at this point—"
"There's little point in explanations," said Mark. "To say my pride was wounded would be an understatement, but after much deliberation, ultimately—I think you may have done me the greatest favour you could have done. So." He raised the glass in a sort of toast. "Apology accepted."
Daniel didn't know how much he'd needed to hear the words until he did, and he grinned and touched the rim of his martini glass to Mark's tumbler before taking a drink.
"Secondly," Daniel continued, "whatever it was that you said to Bridget…" Daniel paused momentarily, watching Mark for a reaction; it was nearly imperceptible, but there was one, a slight tensing of the jaw. "…that convinced her to accept the settlement offer, thank you for that." He lifted his glass again and sipped. "She can be very stubborn, and I appreciate it."
"I only told her that it would keep things from dragging out," said Mark. "I'm just glad she saw the light. It'll help her move on more quickly."
Daniel took this as the opening he needed. He waited until Mark had his drink to his lips before saying, "Speaking of moving on, do you know? She had a date tonight."
This elicited the exact response he was expecting from a man who would never directly admit his interest: Mark coughed and sputtered a bit before touching the cloth table napkin to his mouth. "Sorry," he said, then managed an attempt at indifference in asking, "Is that right?"
"Mm, yes, one of the fellows in Marketing," he said. "Spoke to her before you got here. Apparently having a very nice time."
Mark did not say anything else, at least not immediately. Daniel observed that the colour in his face was reddening slightly, noticeable even with the reduced lighting in the bar, as Mark finished off the last of his drink. He set down the empty. "I'll need another one," he said quietly; then, almost as if he'd surprised himself by speaking aloud, he said, looking directly to Daniel, "And you?"
"Yes, but I'll buy," Daniel said, rising to his feet before Mark had a chance to do so. "I asked you here, after all."
Daniel returned to the bar, ordered a repeat of what he'd gotten earlier, then went back to the table. Mark had launched himself into his own little world, snapping out of it only when the second scotch was placed on the table before him.
"Thank you," he muttered, picking up the tumbler and knocking it back all at once, before rising to go to the bar for a third. Daniel was stunned; Mark had never been a rapid-fire drinker. Daniel tried not to let his surprise show though, and casually leaned back with his own drink, sipping almost daintily, as Mark returned. Daniel allowed him another swallow, allowed him to set the glass down, before speaking again.
"You know… I know," Daniel said with just the right amount of intrigue dripping from his voice.
"What?" he demanded. "What do you mean?"
"I mean Bridget, you daft cow," said Daniel. "I know."
…
Mark Darcy felt a rush of what felt like panic. What exactly was it that Daniel knew? Thoughts flitted fast as lightning despite his alcohol-addled mind—
He wondered if this was the real reason Daniel had asked him for drinks tonight, buttering him up with an apology—a sincere one? Possibly, but also possibly an excuse to drop this bombshell on him, to lull him into a false sense of security. The fact that Mark had had more than a passing interest in Bridget must have been so transparent, and she was at her most vulnerable…
After luring him here under false pretences, now Daniel seemed to be doing his best to torture him, to warn him to stay away, to let her find her own way in her quest for a new romance. That anything he'd noticed from her that might have looked like reciprocated interest from her was just gratitude for what he'd done for her, that she did not want him in that way—which would seal his own fears on the subject, to which he had arrived after much internal debate.
Maybe, just maybe, she had asked Daniel to speak to Mark on her behalf about the date to let him down easy. She was too kind to want to hurt him, and she and Daniel were still close, would likely always be close.
Mark met Daniel's gaze. He was, in all honesty, at a loss for words, and said the only thing he could think to say: "Sorry."
The reaction this elicited was one that took Mark by surprise. "Sorry?" he asked, incredulity in his tone. "The only thing you should be sorry for is letting another chap swoop in and snap her up."
"What?"
This came out of his mouth too quickly, too loudly for his liking, and without conscious thought he looked around to see if it had garnered undue attention. It had not. When he looked back to Daniel, he found the man was smirking, then slapped his knee and laughed. Actually slapped his knee.
"You are priceless, Darcy," he said. "You'd've thought I was saying I'd thrown a kitten from a moving vehicle, with your expression and your turning ash white…"
"What are you saying?" asked Mark brusquely. "That I have your blessing to…"
"I suppose if you want to call it that, yes," said Daniel, finishing his second drink at last, then setting the martini glass down. "Greg—that's the Marketing fellow—is a bit of a dolt. Pleasant enough, but no backbone, and dumb as a brick." Daniel chuckled to himself. "She'll probably keep seeing the wanker just to spite me for having opined so. She can do better than that."
"And I'm better than that?"
"Fuck yes," said Daniel. He leaned back. "She's a smart girl—pardon me, woman—" This he did in a pitch-perfect imitation of her voice, which made Mark smile. "—and she can obviously get by on her own, very independent in mind and spirit, but she… she can be so unsure of herself, and she feels things more… acutely than other women do. She needs someone solid, reliable and rational to keep her grounded." Reassured, too, thought Mark. Daniel reached for his cigarettes, but muttered a curse under his breath when he remembered he could not actually smoke in the bar. "And God knows you could use someone with a bit of spirit and flight of fancy—I think she'd do you a world of good that way." He chuckled. "Bloody yin and yang."
Mark picked up his scotch again and stared into the shallow amber for many moments, then drank the last of it. "As you can see," he said thoughtfully, setting down the empty glass, "I'm at a bit of a loss."
"Not what you were expecting," he said. "I know."
"The opposite of what I was expecting, actually." He smiled.
"I'm not that much of a jackass," he said. "In all seriousness, with everything that's gone down in the last few weeks, she is a bit, well…"
"Vulnerable," Mark supplied.
"Yes," said Daniel. "Though she's probably kick us both for thinking it. Even still, I know you well enough to know you wouldn't take advantage of that. You wouldn't hurt her." He reached for his cigarettes again, muttered a curse under his breath again. "This isn't completely altruistic, you know. Quite frankly, if you and she can get together and make each other happy, it'll be like a circle's closed. I'll feel like my sins are forgiven at last; committed against you, committed against her."
Mark leaned back into the sofa, suddenly wishing he hadn't had quite so much to drink, so quickly. If he hadn't he might have called her immediately, date be damned. There was also the matter of not wanting to seem desperate; he did not want to throw himself at her feet. He pressed his fingers into the corners of his eyes.
"I'm dying for a smoke," came Daniel's voice. "If you're done—"
"Oh, I'm done," said Mark, not looking up.
"Right. I'll settle the bill. If you want to join me outside…"
The air would do him good. "Sure."
The cool night air was bracing and refreshing. It brought him a little out of his haze, but he was nonetheless feeling his choice in taking a taxi was a wise one. He made sure to stand upwind of Daniel, who had wasted no time pulling out a cigarette to smoke, in Mark's opinion, with a little too much glee.
That's when it occurred to him: it was more than the date (and the impending possibility of another one) that was prompting Daniel to come to him with this now. That was the catalyst, but ultimately not the underlying reason. "Daniel," he said quietly, "what else did she say to you? Dating someone else is not usually grounds to suggest a man make his move on a woman."
"She mentioned she might go out with this Greg again," Daniel returned, exhaling slowly. "Because she was, and I quote, 'disappointed that another lead didn't pan out'."
"So you're saying…" Mark said tentatively.
"Do I have to spell it out?" Daniel asked, flicking ash away. "Yes, Mark. She was hoping you'd ask her out to dinner. I'm sure of it."
"I did ask her out to dinner. In fact, we went out to dinner. The day you both met with Jason." He remembered that day with sadness; the baby-centred display, the breakdown in tears, his resolution in bringing her home… "But it was just as friends."
Daniel raised his brow, a show of disbelief. "You can try to fool yourself," he said, "but you can't fool me."
Mark shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. "I told myself to give her time and distance," he admitted.
"And I'm telling you, bollocks to that," said Daniel, throwing down the end and stepping on it before picking it up to dispose of it properly. He then met Mark's gaze. "Call her tomorrow. Or come and see her at the office. I don't care. Just… don't let the opportunity go."
Mark felt a great exhaustion wash over him. "Okay," he said, almost as if in surrender. "Okay. I will."
"Crikey," said Daniel. "Let's find a taxi. You look like utter crap."
Despite the insult, Mark was compelled to smile. Tomorrow was another day; a brighter one ending in Bridget's company, he hoped.
…
Fri, 11 Aug
Bloody alarm clock. Time to get up.
It wasn't until she had been halfway through putting on her makeup that she realised how normal being back at the flat seemed, being on her own. She also felt a pang of sadness, because this day marked the ninth day since she'd had dinner with Mark Darcy, and he hadn't called her or contacted her at all.
Well, fuck it, she thought, suddenly feeling a bit brave. I'll call him. Am modern woman and these are modern times. Then she looked at the clock. It was not even eight in the morning yet. Hm. Maybe later.
The first few times she'd done the walk across the bridge and to work, it had been a little tiring, just because she'd gotten out of the habit of doing so; she'd been getting a lift in with Daniel. After she left and returned to her flat, Daniel had offered to still take her in with him, but she'd declined. She was perfectly happy to reclaim her old routine, and it wasn't as if what had happened had physically incapacitated her.
It was a beautiful morning, after all. She smiled, slipped her sunglasses on, and left the building.
Once she got to work, she became so engrossed in a project that was due by noon that she completely lost track of time. As she ate her early lunch of ordered-in sandwich and coffee, she told herself with confidence that she'd just ring him after she'd turned it in.
That was her plan, anyway, until Daniel's office door opened with a bang just as she popped in the last bite of sandwich. He looked angry, angrier than she'd ever seen him. In his hand he held a purple envelope. "Bridget!" he said, his brows furrowed, fury evident in his posture and tone. "Get in here, right now. We have to talk."
She knew that shade of purple, and she smiled.
…
It was no surprise that Mark Darcy awoke with a pounding headache, given the three shots of very high quality scotch he'd scoffed the night before. He soldiered on, however, taking paracetamol and drinking plenty of liquids (primarily of the caffeinated variety) in order to make it to the office.
Unfortunately, the pills and the coffee had no discernible effect, and it was only with concentrated effort that he made it through his morning schedule. Rebecca commented that he looked a little under the weather. He did not want to admit to work-week drinking, so he just told her he'd had a bout of insomnia the night before.
It was just a little after noon and Mark was just considering giving up and calling it a day when there was a knock on his door. Mark beckoned them enter, and he was pleased to see it was a grinning Jason. "Your PA was gone."
"She went for lunch. Please, come in."
Jason looked concerned. "You feeling okay?"
Mark nodded, although it was a bald-faced lie. "A bit of a headache. Was going to wait for Rebecca to come back before leaving. What brings you here?"
Jason began to chuckle again. "I've just had a call," he said, "that is going to—it's one for the books. Daniel rang me in a froth about what Bridget did. Oh God, that woman's unbelievable."
Mark was concerned and intrigued. "Should you be telling me?"
"He told me it was okay to tell you."
"Okay. What did she do?"
"Well, as you know, she accepted the lump sum divorce settlement," said Jason, still laughing, "then turned around and donated it to charity." Jason went on to describe the charity—committed towards gender equality in Africa—but Mark did not hear it. No wonder she had apparently given in so easily; she had planned this from that very moment, and now the fleeting look of naughtiness, when he'd thought he'd persuaded her, made complete sense. Daniel must have been as aggravated at her actions as he felt right now, at being so easily fooled at what had appeared to be such easy compliance…
…and yet, he admired her for her conviction. In fact, it made him love her more.
"After all," Jason went on with that same giant grin on his face, "there was no stipulation in the agreement that dictated what she could or couldn't do with the money." He paused, possibly waiting for a response from Mark, but none was forthcoming. "She's a spitfire, that one," Jason went on. "A real live wire. You can bet in future I'll bear this in mind in drafting separation agreements, not that many settlement arguments are about not wanting the money."
"Yes," said Mark at last, making himself smile. All he could think about was Daniel's words from the night before. She wasn't going to stay single for long. What man in his right mind wouldn't be attracted to a woman like that? "You know, I think I won't wait for Rebecca to come back, after all," he said, rubbing his temples.
"You're sure you're all right?"
"Went out with Daniel for a drink last night."
"Ah," said Jason. "I understand. Well, I won't keep you, but I had to stop by. Hope you feel better."
"I'm sure it'll be all right. Just need to lie down until the head improves."
"You'll be all right to drive home?"
He nodded. "I'll be fine."
Mark packed up his attaché, wrote a note for Rebecca letting him know he was going home, then walked with Jason out into the hall; they parted when Jason turned to go back towards his office and Mark went for the door and for his car.
He barely remembered the trip home; before he knew it he was in his drive. Thank goodness for autopilot, he thought, dragging himself into the house. He went directly to his bedroom and into the shower, hoping the hot water and the steam would help. It did, but only marginally.
He closed the curtains and slipped into his bed; the linens felt especially welcoming, though as he slipped into slumber he could think only that he had intended on ringing Bridget during lunch. His last thought before succumbing to sleep was, I'll just do after…
…
Unbelievable. And there was nothing Daniel could do about it. He stared down at the purple envelope as if he might be able to set it alight with his eyes alone.
"Tell me what the meaning of this is," he had demanded as he'd waved the envelope in front of her all-too-smug face.
"That? Looks like a thank-you letter for making a rather sizeable donation."
"I know what it bloody is, Bridget," he'd said between clenched teeth. "It just happens to be almost the exact amount your settlement was in."
"What an amazing coincidence."
"Bridget!" he'd shouted. "That was supposed to be for you. To take care of you."
"Daniel," she'd replied, turning stone serious. "You can't tell me what to do with the money you gave me. I kept a little, sure. I'm not a complete idiot."
"Enough to buy almost a whole pizza dinner," he'd pointed out sardonically.
"Enough to buy you this." She'd handed him a carrier bag. He'd peeked in then began laughing, just as he laughed again now to think of it.
Inside the bag had been a novelty tee-shirt bearing a drawing of a red sports car and the phrase "Back on the market", as well as a bottle of trendy cologne. It had very handily taken the wind from his fury. It was impossible to remain angry with her.
"I'll be fine," she'd said with a wink, "so long as you don't sack me."
"You're mental," he'd said.
"Oh, and before I forget, this," she'd then said, reaching to slip off the ring he'd given her, his grandmother's ring, which he'd then steadfastly refused to accept.
"Even if I get married again, which seems highly unlikely," he'd told her, "I wouldn't want any other woman to have it. Besides, my mum said not to take it back." This had stunned her into silence.
He'd then set the bag down, then had taken her in his arms for a hug. "God. Wait until Mark hears about this donation."
She'd pulled back abruptly. "What? Did you talk to him?"
"Not yet," he'd said to her, "but he'll not appreciate being fooled any more than I was."
That had quieted her; it spoke volumes, proving to him she did care about Mark. He chuckled quietly to himself again thinking of how she'd looked when she'd left his office, chastened, slightly bewildered, yet eager.
…
Even worse than getting a scolding phone call was not getting one at all.
All afternoon as Bridget tried to focus on her work she operated under threat of her phone ringing, of Mark telling her off for not keeping her money. Frankly, she was up for defending herself, but the fact that he did even not call made her anxious.
Maybe I've really mucked it up, she thought as the hours wore on. Maybe I should just call him. Right. Like I said I would. I'll call.
She dialled him on her mobile. He didn't answer; she didn't leave a message. After a few minutes, she tried again. It rang and rang, and she disconnected again without leaving a message. She found it highly unlikely that he didn't have his mobile fully charged, the ringer enabled, and in his pocket wherever he went. So that meant…
He's avoiding my calls. Oh God. He's so annoyed he doesn't even want to speak with me.
"Bridge? What's the matter?" Daniel.
"Nothing," she said quickly.
"Maybe you should go home. I'm sure between the two of us, you've had a bit of a rough day." He glanced to the clock. She realised it was time to go home.
She rose. "If you must know, Mark has not in fact called to read me the riot act."
Daniel's brows rose. "That does surprise me. Oh, I know. Maybe he's too angry to call. Simmering, seething with fury."
She pursed her lips, not appreciating that he was validating her fears. "Maybe he just admires that I stood up for myself."
Daniel cocked a brow. "How likely do you think that is, Bridge?"
"I'll just go over there," she said in defiance.
"You could just call—oh. You tried that already, didn't you?"
She didn't have to speak; her blush said it all. "Where does he have an office again?"
"Where we went to see Jason. I'll take you if you want. He works late quite often."
"I can find my own way there."
"Maybe you should call there first."
She was already gathering up her things and heading for the door.
She found a taxi straightaway, near-miraculous for late afternoon Friday, and it brought her right over to Inns of Court. She had a little trouble finding his office, and when she did—she found an attractive, slender woman there.
"Oh," Bridget said. "I was looking for Mark. Mark Darcy." As if there might be more than one Mark in Mark Darcy's office.
"He's gone home," she said. "Left hours ago."
She should have heeded Daniel's parting comment. "Oh," she said again in defeat. "Maybe I could…" She trailed off when it occurred to her she didn't know where he lived. "Sorry. You're obviously leaving."
"It's all right," she said brightly. "Have we met before?"
"I don't think so. I'm Bridget."
"Oh, Bridget!" said the woman. "I'm Rebecca. Mark's PA. Mark talks about you all the time."
Bridget was stunned. "Does he?"
"Sure," said Rebecca. "Why don't I take you to his house? I was going to drop by with some files he forgot, but you can take them in. It's always a nightmare parking on his street on Friday night."
"That sounds great. Thanks."
The knot of fire building in her stomach grew as they wound through the streets of London. As the car rolled to pause at the bottom of a drive in which was parked a silver sedan she knew all too well, Bridget realised exactly how well-off he was (thinking of her mother so many months ago); they were in the very posh Holland Park neighbourhood. "He'll know what to do with these." She smiled. "Have a nice evening."
It'll be a great evening, she thought morosely as she considered the sharp words that likely awaited her.
Bridget strode confidently to the front door and rapped; she turned for a moment when she Rebecca's little car sped away. No one answered, which didn't bode well; what if he'd gone out of town? She knocked again with a little more force. Still no answer. "I hope you're home," she said to herself. "Or I'm stranded in Holland Park, and it'll be getting dark soon."
She spotted the doorbell. It was possible, she supposed, that if he were home, he could be in a remote part of the house, way up on the top floor of that wedding cake house, and couldn't hear a knock. She pressed the bell for several seconds, then tensely waited.
Still nothing.
She went to reach for the bell again when she heard a commotion from within. The door swung open. What greeted her there took her aback.
…
When Mark heard the first knock through the haze of his slumber, he thought he was dreaming. The second, harder knock made him realise he was not. He lifted his head only to come to the very rapid conclusion that what he had experienced before was much more than a hangover headache. He was woozy even before he sat upright.
It took a concerted effort to make it to the door to put on his robe when the bell went off. Heaven help me get down the stairs without killing myself, he thought. Heavy were his feet on the stairs, which took all of his focus. When he got to the bottom he pulled open the door. He was not at all expecting to see who he saw. Rebecca, maybe.
Not Bridget.
"Oh my God!" she said, covering her mouth with her hand in her shock. "Are you all right?"
"A little under the weather," he said, shivering; it seemed so cold in the house, but it was an August night, so that couldn't be.
"A little?" she asked, pushing past him and into the house, closing the door behind herself. "You're as white as a sheet and you're a mess." As if by instinct, she placed her hand on his forehead. "Jesus. You're burning up. Have you had anything?"
"Anything?" he parroted.
"For the fever."
He struggled to recall when he'd taken the paracetamol. It was—"Before work."
"Oh, God. Come on." She set down the folder she'd brought in then closed and locked the door. "Show me where your loo is, with your medicines."
"Up there."
She looked up the staircase, then back to him. "Are you going to be able to get up there?" She chuckled, then added, "I can't carry you."
He nodded, though wasn't sure he could. He'd have to, though.
Slowly but surely they made progress up the stairs. His head felt like it was floating over a disobedient body. She followed him directly into his room and it was only when he shed his robe—and her gasp of surprise—that he remembered he had nothing on underneath. Quickly he climbed into bed, pulled the duvet up and over him, then rested himself on the pillow.
It was obvious by the sound of pill bottles rustling that she had found the toilet. "Okay," she said, still sounding a bit flustered, "more pills coming right up." Through his heavy lids he saw her peek out before returning into the bedroom proper. She had a glass of water and two pills and as she sat down, she handed them to him. "Here. Sit up. Take these."
He did as directed, then fell back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. "Thank you," he said. "Sorry about before. I didn't mean to flash you."
He felt tender fingertips along his brow, heard her chuckle quietly. "Let me get you a cool flannel for your face." The bed beside him lifted as she rose.
In the few minutes before she returned he tried to figure out what had happened to put him in this state. He had felt a bit run down for about a week, but had just assumed it was work-related fatigue with a side of stress in trying not to think about Bridget. Evidently it had been something more. Today, whatever he'd been fighting had taken hold.
"Here." The bed sank again as she sat beside him, then a rectangle of coolness was placed upon his forehead. It felt like heaven. "How long have you been like this?"
"Today," he said.
"Oh." Her fingers began combing his hair back away from his temples; to better fit the flannel on his face, or an act of tenderness or feeling on her part, he could not discern. It felt wonderful all the same. "I was wondering why I hadn't heard from you," she said gently.
"I'm sorry," he said, which came out more like a croak. "It wasn't you. Well it was, but it was more me. About you."
It made sense in his head, but must not have translated very well, because she began to chuckle. "You're feverish," she said. "You're babbling gibberish."
He tried to explain more but she just shushed him.
"Go to sleep," she admonished softly. "Hopefully by morning the fever will have broken."
It sounded like she was going to leave, and he really wanted her to stay. "Bridget," he said, feeling the tug of slumber again. "Don't go."
"I'm not going to," she said, placing her hand on the flannel once more. "Goodness. Warm already. Let me cool this off again." The flannel came up; the air hit his skin; and just before he fell asleep again he could have sworn she kissed him there, right there, on the forehead.
…
His skin was warm to the touch, even still, as she placed her lips in a tender, lingering kiss in the centre of his forehead. The urge had taken over, a natural thing to do at the bedside of an ill friend, but as she drew away she could not deny he meant more to her than that.
She was going to care for him as he had done for her.
Since arriving and herding him back to his bed, Bridget had gone into a sort of automaton mode, getting fever reducers, a cool flannel, making sure he was comfortable… yet all she could think of was that moment when he'd stripped off his robe, revealing—
You have a task at hand, she thought. Cool down the flannel again. She had to stop thinking about the lean cords in his back, the perfect, pert bottom…
Her thoughts as she rinsed then wrung out the flannel again went back to New Year's day eight months ago, at her mother's, when she'd seen him first from behind. How the front of that jumper had killed any desirous thoughts she had begun to form. How the reveal of what was beneath those trousers had revived them quite thoroughly.
"Stop it," she muttered aloud. "He isn't well."
She went back into the bedroom, flannel in hand, and tiptoed towards the bed. He was deeply sleeping again. Gingerly she sat then placed the cool cloth across his forehead. He did not move. She watched carefully to reassure herself that he was in fact breathing, brushing tiny, damp waves of hair away from his forehead again.
If she was going to stay over—and she'd said she would—it occurred to her that she should change out of the clothes she was wearing into something else lest her clothing become utterly rumpled overnight. She rose from the bed and decided she'd have to take a look through his bureaus for anything she could co-opt as a nightshirt.
The first drawer she tugged open revealed perfect lines of socks; the second, boxers. All of them were ordered and separated by colour. She almost laughed aloud at the absurdity of it. The next row down bore fruit; plain white tee shirts of for wearing under his dress shirts, undoubtedly. Peeks into the rest of the drawers told her she'd have to settle for one of those white ones; she'd rather hoped to find a drawer of old rock concert shirts just waiting to surprise her, but it was not to be. She held one up and let it unfurl; the shirt would handily come down nearly to her knees. It would do.
She debated changing in the toilet, but he was dead asleep anyway so she saw no harm in shimmying out of her skirt, taking off her blouse, peeling off her thigh-high stockings right there. She then pulled the tee on over her head. The tee shirt was of thick and luxurious cotton, definitely high end and very comfy. She went around to the other side of the bed; there was a two-seat couch in the room—A couch in the bedroom! Imagine! she marvelled in a mental voice not unlike her mother's—but it was not in a spot convenient for observing someone convalescing in the bed. The chair that was there, a high-backed, upright thing, did not at all seem comfortable for long-term sitting. So the other side of the bed it would be. He wouldn't mind, she reasoned. He was sleeping. And it's a fucking huge bed.
She climbed in next to him; the night was too warm (and so was he, to be perfectly honest, radiating that heat beyond the bounds of all sense) so she opted to stay above the duvet. She told herself she was going to keep a bedside vigil, but the truth of it was that within very short order she had rested her cheek upon her folded elbow on the pillow, closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, too.