The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister
By S. Faith, © 2012
Twitter: _sfaith
Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)
Rating: PG-13 / T
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 10: 5 Mar – 21 Apr
Weds, 5 Mar
En route over Atlantic to New York City. Very early morning flight. Plenty of time to be alone with my thoughts; perhaps if I write them down they'll stop rattling around in my head.
…
Sunday morning (2 Mar) I called my mother. Haven't felt I've needed to talk to her nearly as much as I used to before I started seeing B. I told her about what seemed to me to very much be getting chucked by B. She was quiet, thoughtful.
"I'm sure it's a misunderstanding," she said. "Did you ever ask her about Hong Kong?"
I had not asked B about flying to Hong Kong for the wedding. I had been so wrapped up in what had seemed to be the perfect bubble of our relationship that I had completely forgotten about Peter's wedding. I felt like a terrible brother.
"Well, have to go," she said. "Your father and I have lunch with friends. Let me know where and how to get hold of you in New York."
"I will."
"And Mark," she said, "chin up, okay?"
Easier said than done.
…
Thinking I could catch her before work, yesterday morning (Tuesday), I rang B at home to tell her I was going to New York, but I only got the answerphone. Took a deep breath, and left a message to say I would be going, concluding with, "So I guess it really is goodbye."
A bit too pathetic perhaps, but if I could indicate in some small way—I had a small hope I might get a ring back from her, asking me not to go—begging me to stay. I got no such call. And here I am, all on my own in first class, travelling backwards in time, the sky going dark again around me.
…
Now I've had a few cocktails I think I can put this down in a relatively straightforward manner. What happened on Saturday. Here it is.
I waited as long as I could stand for her to ring me, so I called about ten in the evening. She picked up. We said 'hi' to each other. I thought she sounded eager, even pleased to hear from me.
"Did you get your message? I mean my message?" Goddamn bumbling fool.
I could hear voices in the background. Her friends? I suddenly felt doomed.
"Yes," she said snippily. "But as I got it minutes after I saw you emerging from the taxi with Rebecca at 11 o'clock at night, I wasn't in the most amenable of humours."
My thoughts were in a whirl—not that I had done anything wrong, but how had she seen me? From where? What had she been doing in Covent Garden at that time of night and not at home as broken-he? Out with friends? With Gary? With 'S'?
"Bridge," I said after what was probably too long a pause, "why do you always have to jump to conclusions?"
Weird muffled sound, then, "Jump to conclusions? Rebecca's been making a play for you for a month, you chuck me for things I haven't done, then next thing I see you getting out of a taxi with Rebecca…"
Chuck her? "But it wasn't my fault, I can explain, and I had just called you."
"Yes," she said hotly, "to say you owed it to me to be my friend."
"But…"
I heard her take in a deep breath. "Owed it to me? Honey… I don't need anyone in my life because they owe it to me. I have got the best, most loyal, wise, witty, caring, supportive friends in the world. And if I were to be your friend after the way you've treated me…" She trailed off.
"But…" How I'd treated her? I'd been upset at the snog. I'd been upset at the Valentine card/Gary/vibrator fax trifecta of horror at her flat on Thursday night. I had given myself time to cool off. Had that been mistreatment? "What way?"
"If I was still to be your friend…" She paused—it felt as if she were holding a knife into my side, twisting relentlessly—then said, "you would be really lucky."
At this point, I admit it—I felt all fight rush out of me. There didn't seem to be any right thing to say, and she was clearly both slightly pissed, and being egged on by her friends. The tittering in the background made that clear enough.
"All right, you've said enough. If you don't want me to explain, I won't pester you with phone calls. Goodbye, Bridget."
I hung up without waiting for a reply. I'd intended my voice to be firm, cool, dispassionate. I'd bet that instead, I only sounded resigned.
…
About to land and reclaim a good portion of the hours of the day lost to flight.
Fri, 7 Mar
Took it easy today. Jetlag plus hangover is not a great combination. Had supper with friends from when I was living here. They asked if I was seeing anyone new. After a pause, I had to answer honestly with a 'No'.
Part of the mystery is solved, though. About how and where B saw me with Rebecca in the taxi. In speaking with my mother this morning, she said in the middle of something else altogether, "Pam told me all about it, as if I had the power to make you sit on the naughty step or something."
"What?" I asked; I think I'd spaced out a bit. "About what?"
"They were all packed into Geoffrey and Una's Range Rover, apparently, leaving Miss Saigon on that Friday and saw you getting out of a taxi with some young woman, when you'd told Bridget you were working. I think Pam was going to tell me on Sunday but—"
Working? And… "Sunday? What was Sunday?"
She didn't say anything for a long time, and when she did I got the distinct impression that she had meant not to. "Our lunch this past Sunday was with the Alconburys at… the Jones house," she admitted, then added. "Bridget was there."
"She was?" I asked. It would have been the day after we'd split. "How did she seem?"
"First tell me why on earth you told her you were working on a Friday night."
"I never said any such thing," I said. "She never told me about the show. Everything went to hell the week after that weekend in Gloucestershire, at her friend Rebecca's."
"Rebecca?" My mother is a clever woman, and asked immediately, "Is that who you were with in the taxi?"
"Yes, but she was only lending a sympathetic ear. I promise you."
After a moment, my mother said, "She seemed really put on the spot. Bridget, I mean. Like she wanted to be anywhere but there. I tried to be sympathetic and supportive, even gave her a few Sobranies to get her through the drive back to London…" She trailed off. My mother and B, united in bloody cigarettes. "Underneath it all, though, she seemed sad."
I didn't quite know what to say. I doubted that B had been 'sad' so much as 'hungover'—she and her friends probably continued drinking after she'd talked to me. Chucked me.
After that we said our goodbyes. I tried not to think about the conversation too much, but of course I did. I thought my mother was probably right, about Pam wanting to confront her and my father on Sunday. For what other purpose could Pam Jones possibly have had a luncheon in which she invited everyone who'd likely been in the Range Rover… and the parents of the betrayer-who-said-he-was-working?
Why hadn't B told me about Miss Saigon? I doubt I would have cared to attend but… had she even then decided
Better stop before I get myself all worked up, all over again.
Mon, 10 Mar
Rather surprised to see Natasha in attendance today. Given that she practises family law, I was not expecting to see her turn up. Although we worked—work?—in chambers together still, we hadn't crossed paths in some time, mostly after I had… well, chucked her is the best way to describe it, even though it feels crude to say. Especially since most of the relationship aspect of our association was in her head.
It was, oddly enough, she who approached me to chat. Rail thin and mannishly suited as always, she also wore a short haircut that attempted something slightly more feminine than the one I'd known her to wear before. I'm still not sure it was successful. "Hello, Mark," she said coolly.
"Natasha, hello," I said. "What brings you here?"
"I'm on an international committee regarding children's rights. We're presenting on Thursday."
"Well, it's nice to see you."
She smiled a little, if tersely. "You don't have to lie."
"It's not a lie," I returned. "I don't hate you, you know." Hate is too much of an emotional investment. I was indifferent.
She resumed her cool demeanour. "So how are things with you?" she asked, then wasted no time getting to the point. "Still seeing the bunny girl?"
Her reference to B in that way both incensed me (the bitchiness factor) and saddened me (as I recalled how sexy she'd looked). "Her name is Bridget," I said. "And no, actually. We've split."
"You'll pardon me if I don't express enormous amounts of disbelief," she said with high levels of snark. "I never did think she was on your level."
"For your information," I said, "it was not by my choice."
"It hardly matters," she said, sipping her wine. She then saw someone who could offer her a more profitable conversation, and waved a goodbye as she glided away.
Natasha was right in a way. It didn't actually matter that B had been the one to do the chucking. I was still alone.
04.00
Right in another way. B wasn't on my level. B was far above.
Tues, 11 Mar
Bloody insomnia.
Sun, 16 Mar
Very busy week.
Natasha's group's presentation on Thursday was very interesting and informative, and despite my annoyance with her I accepted the invitation of one of her co-presenters to join them for dinner (co-presenter, Adam, was a likeable fellow with whom I seemed to have a lot in common). Of course, Natasha installed herself next to me (now that my name was being bandied about as a foremost expert in international human rights) and took every opportunity to leverage our previous acquaintance for the attention. I wish I could say this is uncharacteristic behaviour.
I keep feeling like I am forgetting something important.
Wed, 19 Mar
Dammit.
Later
Dropped this journal and in picking it up, I flipped back to entries from January of this year. Couldn't help reading, and felt very isolated and lonely, and missing B more than ever. I came this close to throwing the whole thing in the bin, except I'd hate anyone to find it. If I smoked, I might have touched a match to it. Cooler heads have prevailed, though. I still need a place to vent a bit, in the hopes that I won't need to go back on the pills.
Thurs, 20 Mar
Dinner again with Natasha and her group. Much like on Sunday, with Natasha at my side. I was grateful Adam was on my other side, in what felt like some sort of sanity balancing act.
As soon as Natasha left for the ladies, Adam leaned near and over the din of other conversation asked me how long she and I had been together. I sighed (a bit heavily, I fear) and told him (in far too weary a voice) that we were not in fact together, despite her best efforts.
Adam chuckled. "Sorry for assuming."
I couldn't help it—I started to chuckle too, and God, it felt good to do so.
I thought then that maybe he was asking because he was interested in Natasha, so I offered, "As far as I know, she's not seeing anyone, so…"
"No, no," Adam said, laughing again. "Not my type."
"Exactly," I said, and it was then she returned. We both straightened up and stopped laughing, as if she were a professor who'd just come back into the classroom. I turned slightly to face him, and face away from her. "So, what about you?" I asked. "Do you live in London, or…"
"London, yeah," he said. "You too?"
I nodded.
"What a coincidence we should meet here, then," he said.
It was strange, but it's not possible to know every legal type in the entire city of London. "It is," I said. I thought of my limited social life: five-a-side, squash, mostly with my colleagues. There was Barky Thompson's for drinks but mostly the same faces turned up there, too. "With work, I don't get out socialising much. So it's hard to meet people."
"I know what you mean," he said. "I—"
At that point Natasha bulldozed her way into the conversation, so I have no idea what he might have said.
The rest of dinner was quite pleasant, and as dinner broke up, I managed to break free of any possible clutches in which Natasha might have grasped me, and began the very short walk back to The Plaza (I think most of the England contingent is staying there). I heard a voice behind me say, "Hey, Mark."
I turned around and I let Adam catch me up. We walked in synch.
"Made a successful escape, I see."
"She's tenacious," I said.
"Can't take a hint," he said.
"She at least knows her stuff," I said. "Professionally speaking."
He nodded; I could see it in my peripheral vision. "Without her direction on the project we'd have been a rudderless ship."
I thought that totally believable. In fact, I thought it likely she had wrestled control of the group if it hadn't already been hers.
Already The Plaza was in sight. "Early day tomorrow," I said. In fact, I was supposed to moderate a discussion, first thing.
"Yes," he agreed. "And a long one too."
We stood by the lifts then, as we stepped in, he said, "You know, tomorrow after this is all done, want to have drinks? Might be nice to chat without the watchful eye of…" He trailed off, nodding toward the door, through which Natasha came just as the lift doors closed. "You know."
"I do, yes," I said. I thought about it. Might be nice to have a friend while I'm here. Then I said: "Sure."
Fri, 21 Mar
06.00
It's hit me, what I've forgotten. It's B's birthday today.
Maybe I'll call No. I'm not going to disturb her when she plainly does not want to hear from me.
Time to shower and slip into my professional mask to moderate the discussion of sovereignty's role in human rights.
Sat, 22 Mar
10.00
Afraid to admit it, but a bit hung over.
After the conference concluded for the day, I decided to strike out on my own for a walk to sort out my thoughts, and find something to eat. I had just passed West 57th Street when I glanced to my left and found myself face to face with a huge window filled with beautiful, elegant women's jewellery. I was drawn inside, and within a few moments an attentive saleswoman was at my side.
I walked out of there with a necklace in hand (not literally—in a carrier bag). God knows what I'm going to do with it. I mean, aside from giving it to B at some point like a nutter ex.
Ended up wandering into a Greek place, had a fairly excellent meal, then wandered to The Peninsula Hotel to meet Adam for drinks. (I assumed this was an attempt to evade Natasha.) Like myself, he was prompt, and we planted ourselves at a table.
"About another week of this," said Adam as the first round was served.
"Mm," I said, taking a sip from my scotch. I hadn't given much thought to the end of the conference, which coincided with the end of March. That meant going back, and I wasn't sure I was ready for that just yet. As much as I love being at home in London, the wound was just too fresh. Too much would still remind me of B. "It's going well."
"It is," he said. "Heading straight back to Old Blighty?"
I took a second, longer sip. "Haven't decided yet. Yourself?"
"Flight back on Saturday afternoon. The 29th, I mean."
I nodded. "Always wise to give yourself at least a day to readjust to the time difference."
"Monday morning'll hit like a ton of bricks, otherwise."
"I'm grateful for a more flexible schedule," I said. "I've got the partners already handling my cases."
"Lucky."
We talked a bit more, ordered a second round, our conversation light and comfortable, but that didn't stop my alcohol-fuelled moroseness from settling in, missing B, missing the way we'd talk about our days and offering perspectives on our difficulties; settling in gradually until—
"You okay?"
Looked up to him. I guess I'd been radiating the melancholy more than I'd thought; the alcohol had weakened the reserve I'd been using to keep it from showing. I smiled. "Yeah, I'm fine," I said, leaning back in the chair, polishing off another drink. "Just hit me this morning that today—well, today's important to someone who means a lot to me."
"Oh," he said. "And I take it this is someone—"
"We don't currently speak, no," I said. "But it's all right. I'm sorry to put a dark cloud over a nice night out."
"It's okay," he said. "It is a nice night out, isn't it?" It wasn't really a question, more of a statement.
I shouldn't have, but I ordered another drink, and so did Adam. We were both sort of pissed by this point, there no denying that, but at least we weren't driving.
"So I'll give you my contact info," he said, as we partook of round three. Possibly four. "When you're back in town, I'd really like to see you again."
It took me a moment, through the fog of the booze, to discern what he might have meant. I sat up again, parroted rather stupidly, "See me again?"
He smiled. "You don't have to seem so surprised," he said, his expression indefinably soft. "We have good chemistry and get along very well. Why wouldn't I want to see you again?"
It was the first inkling I had that perhaps the evening had meant different things to each of us. To me, an evening of relaxation in the company of a fellow Briton. To him… a date.
"I think…" I said. "I think there's been a misapprehension, Adam."
"Oh," he said, looking deflated. "You mean you don't think… you and I—"
"Oh, we do very much get along well," I said, interrupting. "I just—" Everything that popped into my head seemed a trite cliché. Then I just said, "Today was Bridget's birthday."
He brought his brows together. "Bridget?"
"My ex."
He blinked a bit, then flushed scarlet, and ran his hand over his face. "God. I assumed that when you said…" He trailed off. "I'm so embarrassed."
"When I said what?"
"That when you said Natasha wasn't your type," he said in a sheepish tone, looking at me again, "I thought you meant because she was a woman."
At this I laughed. Short and sharp, like a shot. "No, no," I said. "Because she's—" I thought of one of B's sayings. "—a bitch queen from hell."
That really got us laughing.
"I am so sorry," I said to him as our laughter wound down. "I never meant—"
"No, no," he said, waving his hand. "All water under the bridge. Still no reason why we can't be friends…"
He said more, but my brain fixed on the word 'bridge'—Bridge. Bridget. The moroseness washed over me like a flood and I slunk back against the chair again.
"Sorry. Sorry." Adam seemed to realise his misstep. "Do you… I don't know. Want to talk about it? I'm a pretty good listener."
In that moment, the one thing I realised I hadn't done was actually talk to anyone about what'd happened, and my lowered inhibitions urged me to do just that. I started from the beginning and went through to the phone call just prior to my departure to New York (including the nightmare trifecta). It took me long enough that when I'd finished, I'd actually started to feel a bit sobered up.
"And you're absolutely sure," he said, chin thoughtfully resting on his knuckles, "that this Rebecca person wasn't trying to pinch you?"
"I'm sure," I said. "It's pretty clear to me that Rebecca's very fond of her friend, always speaks with great affection of her…. Everything with which she'd accused me had an innocent explanation, but Bridget chose not to listen."
Adam gave me a sidelong glance, then said, "What about St John, Gary, the Valentine card and the—" He couldn't hold in a laugh. "—fax? Sorry. What did she have to say about all of that?"
I did not reflect back on this with a lot of satisfaction. "We never got a chance to talk about it. I mean, she said that the snog with the boy was all him—"
"Because he said you had told Rebecca about breaking up," he interrupted. He had an astonishingly good memory for details.
"Yes. And given the look on her face she hardly seemed an eager participant, so I was willing to chalk it up to the boy lying." I paused to think. "I did joke about it, even, but then all that happened with the card… then she didn't return my calls, or the phone was engaged, or unplugged or something. Until we did eventually talk, and…"
"She chucked you." He shook his head. "I'm sorry, Mark."
I'd given it my best shot, and I couldn't make her listen to me. I communicated this with a shrug.
Then we were hailing a taxi and riding back to The Plaza, waving goodnights and tottering off to our respective rooms. If I hadn't still been half-pissed, the events of the evening might have kept me awake.
Tues, 26 Mar
Have just realised it's Easter next Sunday. I had totally forgotten.
Natasha seems to have calmed down in her fruitless pursuit of me. In fact, she said in a rather haughty manner that she had already garnered the interest of another man (presumably a better one than poor old me). I told her I was pleased for her and left it at that.
Later today, though, given her expressions and gestures, I realised that the 'better man' was Adam. I wanted to laugh out loud at the levels of delusion she was capable of achieving. Of course, I said nothing. Adam's preferences are not mine to broadcast, and it's much funnier letting her go on in her state of delusion. I may have to let Adam know, however.
Thurs, 28 Mar
Nigel has rung me up and asked, since I am already here, would I take on another job in New York. I've agreed.
Sun, 30 Mar
10.00 am
Rang up my parents and brother (last night, due to time difference) to wish them a Happy Easter. Had pleasant conversation with my mother, who is, as always, overly concerned about me, wondered if I was all right and not too lonely. Told her work was keeping me quite busy, and judging from the brief that Nigel faxed over, this will continue to be true. She says she's worried I'm filling the time with work because I miss B., am heartbroken and unable to handle it. I denied it, but actually, she is probably right—after all, I'm here, aren't I? We skirted around actually talking about how B is now. I do wonder how she is, though.
As far as camaraderie goes, I will miss having Adam around; it was nice to have a friend even if we didn't do much (had one last dinner on Friday before he returned home).
Feeling a little homesick. Actually wanting some hot cross buns.
Later
Found a bakery that had some. Also managed to have a supper that did not involve ham.
I must attempt to go to bed early, for tomorrow bright and early is a meeting. No Easter Monday for me. (Not a holiday here.)
Sat, 5 Apr
First week of new job has been very interesting. I can't write much about it here, but there are striking similarities to the Elena Rossini case, and my expertise with that has been especially useful.
Insomnia remains, though I've gotten very good at functioning on very little sleep.
I just realised I have been in New York for a month now.
Tues, 8 Apr
Had a bit of a shock this evening. Telephone began to rang, which I picked up. Only a few people had the number here, so I thought whoever it was, I would probably need to pick up.
"Mark? Is that you?"
It was a female voice, one that I recognised as familiar even if I hadn't yet placed how. The connection was not terrific. My heart leapt into my throat, thinking that maybe it was B. "Yes," I said. "Who's this?"
In the split-second after I asked, I realised—"It's Rebecca."
"Rebecca?" I instantly shifted into thinking of worst-case scenarios. Why would she be calling me here?
"Yes!" she said.
I asked the first thing that came to mind: "Did something happen to Bridget?"
There was a moment of utter silence, then she said, "No, of course not!" with a little chuckle that sounded a bit rough. Immediately I realised the error of my thought. Why would Rebecca be calling for that? Surely my mother would know first. There was also the question of—
"How did you know where to find me?"
"Nigel," she said. I should have guessed; after all, she'd made friends of most of them after Courcheval. "I just wanted to see how you were doing—you took off so abruptly after… well. I don't want to dredge that all up again. Are you all right now?"
Her sympathetic tone was assuring. "I'm doing very well, thanks."
"I am so glad to hear that," she said. "So when are you coming home?"
I considered the case for a few moments then said, "At least through the 20th. It all depends on how the case goes."
"You simply must let me know," she said. "I would love to have a dinner party to welcome you back."
The possibility of returning to a dinner party with B in attendance made me very happy—maybe after a couple of months had passed we could talk like rational adults and work towards a reconciliation. It was a generous thing for her to offer. "I would really like that," I said.
"Fantastic. I'll make sure everyone comes."
Everyone. For the first time I am actually looking forward to returning home.
Fri, 12 Apr
Awful to think that the last time we had sex was ten days short of two months ago if memory serves and I think it does. Had I known it was the last time I would have cherished it more. Miss her so very so much. Miss her soft skin, silky hair, that lovely scent of her mixed with vanilla or flowers or something, so indefinably and inarguably her it breaks my heart to think about
Sat, 13 Apr
It does not do to journal whilst drinking. But, there it is, evidence that I am in fact only human.
I am reluctant to I admit drinking and journaling is not all that happened last night. Thoughts of B… overwhelmed me.
Mon, 15 Apr
07.45
Up early for meeting. I have a feeling the homestretch (wrapping up this case) is going to keep me quite busy.
Mon, 21 Apr
As I was saying. But now I can concentrate on the final details… and preparing to head home.