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.
BTW: There's a rather extensive reference in this chapter to the contents of a popular, recent book. Don't worry. I don't spoil anything about the storyline. Having said that, it's not necessary to have read the book to understand its role in the story.
Chapter 11.
Sat, 12 Aug
Mark woke abruptly, bathed in sweat and no longer shivering with chill; he knew instantly that his fever had broken. It was dark and he had no idea what time of day it was, so he looked for his bedside clock. It read 03.57. Must have been the middle of the night. He pushed off the duvet and took in a breath, allowing the air of the room to cool him down.
As he lay there, he recalled a most interesting dream he'd had. Bridget had been here in his bedroom; she was undressing, and had propped each foot respectively up onto the chair in order to pull down her stockings. He had watched without a word or a movement, mesmerised by her unconscious sensuality.
The bed seemed to shift beside him. He thought he had to still be dreaming, because he turned to see that Bridget herself appeared to be on the opposite side of the bed, beyond where he'd pushed off his duvet. She was on her stomach and dressed in white, which very nearly glowed in the dimness of the room, and unless he was very much mistaken the garment she wore had ridden up to reveal a healthy portion of her hip and backside as well as the lacy edge of her pants. He reached forward; it felt to him like nothing more than his bed linens. He let his hand drop where it was.
Still dreaming, he thought, his eyes following the lines of her curves as he drifted back to sleep.
When he woke again the sun was shining brightly into the room. He blinked and sat up, pushing aside the linen sheet that still covered him then remembered his hallucinatory dream and looked quickly to the side. The bed was in fact empty. He wasn't sure if he felt relieved or sad.
He was contemplating getting up to use the loo when the door burst open. He barely had time to register who it was that bore the tray (undoubtedly, some kind of breakfast) before reaching for and draping the sheet across his lap again.
"Oh my God," said Bridget, the tray wobbling in her hand. "I—should have knocked, but I assumed you were still sleeping."
She was dressed in the same blouse and skirt from the previous night, so it seemed logical to assume that at least part of his memories were actually remembrances and not fever-dreams. "Don't apologise," he said. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you were actually here."
She set the tray down on the mattress at the foot of the bed before reluctantly meeting his gaze; the tray bore orange juice and a bowl of what looked like oatmeal. Her face was ablaze with a blush. "Your kitchen was impossible to navigate," she said, "and I wasn't sure what you might be able to tolerate. I hope this will be all right."
"It'll be fine," he said. He glanced to the tray. Reaching for it would reveal all again. "Um. Will you pass me my robe?"
"Sure." She blushed again—or was blushing still—as she reached for where it hung on the hook then handed it to him. "You seem to be feeling better," she said, turning to look away as he rose to slip on the robe.
"Much better, thank you," he said as he sat again on the bed, then pulled the sheets and duvet over his lap. "Still a little dizzy and weak."
"You should probably have some more fever reducer. Here, let me." He sat against the headboard and she placed the tray over his lap. She then sat in the wingback chair nearest the bed.
"Thanks. I will, with some food. I haven't really eaten anything… since yesterday breakfast, come to think." He took a long swallow of the orange juice. It felt cool and refreshing. Quietly she brought another pair of pills as he dug his spoon into the oatmeal; it was the instant variety that he often stocked for a quick, hot breakfast, and she'd dolloped some strawberry jam on top. "Thank you. I hope you've had something to eat."
"I have, thanks," she said; just as he was thinking it all seemed to have gone so rigid and formal between them—not terribly surprising as he had just put her in a very awkward position—she offered a smile at last. "Though I could kill for a cup of coffee. Couldn't find the cafetière."
"I think I could probably manage the strength to go to the kitchen and make some when I'm finished here." Bite by bite he tried to make his way through the bowl of oatmeal, but found that despite rationally knowing he hadn't eaten since the previous morning, he could not finish it. With a sense of defeat he set the spoon down.
"Maybe you could just tell me where the cafetière is," she said as he leaned back against the headboard. "And the coffee."
"Um. They're in the third pantry door to the left of the stove. No. The fourth."
"You don't sound very sure," she said.
"Well… you've seen the kitchen," he said.
She chuckled again. "Oh, by the way, I hope you don't mind, but I had a shower this morning." The image of her undressed, beneath the streaming water, flashed unbidden through his mind. "And last night I borrowed a shirt but had to do a bit of snooping to find it."
He drew his brows together. She was wearing the same clothes he'd see her wearing yesterday. "What do you—"
That was when he saw them, draped over one of the chair's arms: the translucent, pale tan hosiery. Her stockings. The ones he thought he'd dreamt she'd removed, had thought so tantalisingly alluring as she had…
"Have your paracetamol," she chided gently. "You're looking peaked." He did as she suggested. "Anyway, I wanted something to sleep in so I dug for a tee shirt. White enough to read by in the dark. I put it in the laundry basket."
He choked a bit on the orange juice. "Oh," he said rather stupidly. His inner voice could only shout at him, You didn't dream that either. The curves, the pants—and what on earth did you rest your hand on?
"I can take the tray back downstairs," she said. "If you're done."
"Sure," he said, still feeling in a daze. He furrowed his brow, suddenly curious. "Bridget, what brought you here last night in the first place, anyway?"
…
"Oh, um."
Bridget's mind raced back, of all things, to seeing his bare arse last night; to another flash of intimate skin this morning, and in between, waking to find his hand atop her own backside, which was certainly large enough to be a comfortable resting place for his hand—
She blurted, "I was bringing some papers in for you, from Rebecca."
"Oh," he asked. He seemed to accept this, and she felt a little relieved, but then he asked in a tone that seemed eerily like his normal, scrutinising, fully cognisant self, "Wait, why wouldn't she have just dropped them off herself? Come to think of it, what brought you to my office?"
"I—" she said, then paused; 'I was wondering why you didn't shout at me for the massive charity donation' did not seem a reasonable thing to say, given the circumstances. "I was concerned when I hadn't heard from you. I tried calling but you didn't answer." After a pause, she decided to add, "I was wondering if you were angry with me, or if I'd offended you in some way or something."
"Oh, Bridget, of course I'm not, and of course you haven't," he said, sounding as tired as if he had not slept at all. "I've just been very busy—big case coming up—and I've been feeling so run down for days, the lead-in to whatever this is, no doubt. Plus I wanted to give you some space."
"Space for what?" she asked, too quickly.
"To recover from everything you've gone through," he said. He then smiled wanly. "If you make that coffee, I'll have some. Black."
"Sure, sure," she said, trying not to hear the words as an abrupt dismissal; he was unwell, after all. "I can bring the papers too. Maybe they're important."
"Yes, you'd better. And Bridget," he said. "If you don't mind… knock first."
She laughed out loud, feeling her face flush again. "I will."
She took the tray in hand then made the trip back down to his kitchen. If nothing else, she told herself, her time spent in his house was a good workout; his bedroom was on the second floor, and the kitchen was below the first floor level. With little effort she found the cafetière and the coffee, and got a pot brewing; with a smirk she thought about his directions to find them, because they had been in the third door to the left of the stove, after all.
Rather than fuss about with the tray again, she brought the two mugs, and tucked the folder from Rebecca under her arm. She couldn't really knock, so she called, "Is it safe to come in?"
"Yes."
She hadn't pulled the door closed all the way, so she was able to push it open with her foot. When she walked through, she nearly began laughing. He was sitting in bed, resting against the headboard, but was now wearing pyjamas that clearly were rarely ever used; they looked brand new and still had creases from being folded. His hair was also damp.
"Are you feverish again?" she asked, setting down the mugs. She sat beside him, then reached and pressed her hand to his forehead. A bit warm, but not feverish.
"No, I took a quick shower," he explained. "Feel much improved."
"Oh, good," she said; she could still smell the soap he'd used. "You look it, though I wouldn't recommend anything but rest and relaxation." She remembered the folder. "I'm not really even sure why I brought work up to you. Tell you what. I'll read the first few lines and you can tell me whether or not it's important."
"That sounds fair," he said.
Within two sentences of her beginning to read, he deemed the folder 'not important'—at least not important enough to be concerned while convalescing in bed—so she placed the papers back in the folder and set it down on his bureau. "Well, that's that then," she said, turning to offer him another smile. "Was there anything more you wanted? Maybe soup in a bit?"
"I'd like to read—"
"Oh, I could leave."
"No, I don't want you to leave," he said. "What I was going to say was that I'd like to read but my eyes hurt a little… so I guess you could drag out the telly and watch something. I could at the very least listen."
She was touched that he wanted her to stay; it made her want to stay even more. "Were you reading something in particular? Maybe I could read it to you. I'm pretty good at reading. Aloud, I mean. I read to Constance all the time."
His smile was endearing. "I could tell from those two sentences that you're an ace reader. You're sure you had nothing else to do?"
"Mark, I'm usually not even awake by ten, let alone carrying out plans."
"What about the rest of the day?"
She went nearer to where he lay. "The rest of my day is open," she said, "especially for you, after what you did for me when I needed it."
It looked like he might say something more, but he didn't. "The book's in the drawer," he said, leaning his head to the side. "Nightstand."
The book that was in there nearly made her jump. Fatherland by Robert Harris, with a not-very-reassuring cover image and an introductory passage about the triumph of Germany during the second World War. "No, absolutely not," she said. "This will make you want to off yourself."
"It's very interesting," he said. "It's a speculative history."
"No," she said again vehemently. "If I have to read it I won't be able to restrain my own murderous impulses. I have something better."
She left the room, went down to get her handbag (which she'd left in the foyer) and brought it back upstairs. She thought again of the exercise and all the stair climbing. "Here we are."
"What's that?"
"One Day."
"I can read the cover," he said wryly; he must have been feeling a bit better. "What's it about?"
"The same day, the same two people, over several years. I'm about halfway through, but I'll just begin from the beginning."
"Okay," he said with mock resignation.
With her coffee at her side, she took a seat beside him leaning up against the headboard. He turned to face her, which made her slightly nervous. She then started to read—and immediately wanted to hit herself hard on the forehead, because she'd completely forgotten that the book began with the two main characters in bed. Just as they were. The main difference though was that Emma and Dexter… they were physically entwined and not wearing clothes.
Bridget cleared her throat and continued.
…
"No. No!"
In the blink of an eye, Bridget threw the book across the room, where it hit the wall with a solid thump. Mark heard a sob escape her. At the turn of events in the book, he too found himself feeling unexpectedly emotional.
"I should have bloody read the bloody Nazi book," she said, wiping under her eyes, then she turned to look at him with a sheepish smile. "Sorry."
She looked so sad, so emotional—but he didn't want to overstep his bounds. "Don't apologise," he said. She sat there, silent; her blue eyes were wide and glossy and in that instant he then threw caution to the wind and reached to pull her into a hug. "I didn't see that coming either." It was exactly what she needed, and she turned and clung to him. He held her tight, stroked her hair as she cried a little more.
"It's just a book, I know," she murmured. "But… things are supposed to turn out well in books, since they don't always in real life."
Instinct kicked in; he turned and placed a kiss on her temple, just on the hairline. She seemed to freeze for a moment, then pulled away slightly; he wondered if he had gone too far. When he saw her expression, her slightly parted lips, and saw the longing in her eyes, he knew he had not. He cupped her cheek in his hand, stroked his thumb to brush away residual tears, then leaned to kiss her tenderly on the lips.
Sometimes they do, he thought as he drew back. With the radiance of the smile she offered him, he wasn't entirely sure she hadn't read his mind.
"Perhaps it's a good time to break, anyway," he said gently, sitting back against the headboard, allowing her to retreat gracefully. She got to her feet, flattening down her skirt. "It's getting dark outside, and I'm actually feeling a little hungry."
"Well, that's a good sign," she said. "Not sure you want me cooking for you, though, unless you want a relapse."
He laughed low in his throat. "There's a very high probability that my housekeeper has left me something in the fridge," he said. "She seems to think I'm incapable of cooking for myself."
"What are you talking about?" she said. "I'd love that!"
"Yeah," he admitted. "She's a great cook."
"Do you have the strength now to venture down, or shall I risk devastation in reheating it myself?"
He pushed himself to the edge of the bed then swung his legs over the edge. He then got to his feet. "I think I can make it down," he joked.
It was hardly necessary, but she insisted he take her elbow for the walk to the staircase. As they were about to descend, he could hear a mobile ringing. Her mobile. "Bloody hell, let me get that. Don't go down without me." She went back to his room, and he chuckled as he started the climb down; it wasn't as if he were that feeble. "Hi Shaz," he heard her say. "Oh… sorry, no. I forgot. I've got… other plans." Her voice got louder as she came out of the room. "Mark!" she exclaimed automatically to chastise him, forgetting she was on the phone. He turned to see she had flushed bright red, and that she was muttering under her breath. "Yes. I mean, no. It's not a… it's not that. So no, I'm not going to make it. Bye. Bye." She hung up.
"Am I keeping you from something?" he asked with a touch of playfulness.
"Oh, I'd made some tentative plans to go to The Electric with my friends, but…" She smiled. "Something else came up."
It was his turn to flush with embarrassment.
The housekeeper had left him a chicken pot pie, which required only about twenty minutes in the oven at gas mark four for a reheat. They had a little white wine with dinner; it had been long enough since the last dose of fever reducer that he didn't see any problem with it. Bridget had devoured her portion with great enthusiasm and much more quickly that he had, leaving her feeling a bit sheepish. "Soon as I'm done, we can get back to reading," he said, scooping up another forkful of flaky pastry and chicken gravy.
"No," she said definitively. "I'm furious and I refuse to read anymore."
"Fine," he said, then looked up at her. "I'll finish reading it then."
Her smile told him she was open to his idea.
By the time he got to the last page, she was in tears again; his own voice was quite unsteady and emotional. "Just beautiful," she said, "though if I ever met the author I'd probably shake him by the shoulders for doing this to me."
This made him chuckle. This turned into a yawn. He realised with a start that it was now after midnight.
"Shit, I should probably go," she said, seeing the time at just about the same instant.
"Nonsense," he said sternly. "It's too late for my comfort to let you go out all on your own."
She laughed lightly. "I go out on my own much later than this all the time."
"It's too late," he said again, "for my comfort."
"Mark," she said, "I can take care of myself."
This brought to mind Jason's news of the previous day. "Oh yes," Mark said in that same stern tone, "so I've heard." She screwed up her features querulously. "Your settlement… one which became a rather large gift to charity." She looked like she might unload on him in her own defence, but he continued speaking. "Very fiscally irresponsible; you might have paid off some bills, or even some or all of your mortgage. And I… I don't like at all that you misled me." Here, though, he smiled; he softened his tone as he continued. "But I can't think of another woman who wouldn't have gleefully taken the money and relished the profit made on such a short union."
Now she looked confused. "Are you shouting at me, or aren't you?"
He laughed aloud; she looked offended. "Yes," he said, still smiling.
"Mark—" she began, exasperation in her voice.
"Bridget, I'd like you to stay." At her expression of bewilderment, he added, "Who knows? I could yet relapse." He reached then for her hand, feeling emboldened, feeling the importance more than ever of not letting the moment pass, particularly after the book they'd read together. "I know it hasn't been long since everything changed so radically for you, and I don't expect anything from you, not even reciprocation, but…" He brought her left hand to his lips to kiss the knuckles, noticing for the first time they were bare and devoid of rings, then met her gaze again. "I care very much about you."
As more than a friend. She seemed to understand. "Oh," she said, tears filling her eyes. "Oh." She took her hand from his then leaned over to slip her arms around his neck, kissing his cheek tenderly. He returned the embrace. There was emotion in her voice when she spoke again, but also a touch of humour: "That's the sweetest thing anyone's ever said to me that had the word 'reciprocation' in it."
It made him chuckle. She snuggled into him, resting against his shoulder, fingernails tracing lazy arcs on his pyjama top, knees tucked up against his hip. They sat there for so long in this peaceful state that he thought perhaps she'd dozed off, but she spoke again.
"About that reciprocation," she said softly. "You must have guessed by now that you do have that."
He felt a bloom of happiness wash over him, and he tightened his embrace for a moment. "You know, Daniel came to me with an olive branch, bought me drinks, offered an apology to mend our friendship—which I accepted, by the way—but I think he intentionally misled me to push me towards you."
"Oh? How?"
"He made up some story about you having a date Thursday."
"Oh, he wasn't making that up."
"What?" he asked in his alarm, feeling tendrils of envy thread their way through him; it startled her out of his embrace.
Her expression of barely suppressed amusement made it seem she was pleased to have garnered this reaction from him. "It was only a coffee after work with Greg from Marketing. Ugh. Nice enough, total boresville. Since I hadn't heard from you in over a week though…." She pursed her lips, then smiled fully; she was only teasing. He calmed considerably. "So Daniel actually said 'date'?"
"Mm-hmm. He intimated that you were on a date the same time we were having a drink together."
"Hmm," she said. "Not even. Does that mean we have his blessing?"
"He was trying to make me jealous," he said. "So I think it does."
"Hmm," she said again, resuming her place next to him. She went quiet again, laying her hand flat on his chest. "You're right, though. It's only been… not even three weeks."
Since the miscarriage. He knew, and he understood.
She continued, "I'm not…"
"Ready," he supplied. "I know."
"Yeah."
"It's all right," he said. "Like I said, I don't expect anything. Except maybe to sleep with you tonight… in my arms, I mean." He brushed her fringe from her forehead. "And maybe a kiss. That wouldn't go awry."
This made her smile. "Sure, but if I get your… whatever you have, I'm going to smother you while you sleep."
"Probably the horse is out of the gate on that one," he said.
"Oh, well," she said softly. "Nothing to be done about it, then."
"Mm," he agreed from deep in his throat, lowering his lips to her in another chaste kiss, then another; when she parted her lips to invite him further, he took that invitation and kissed her gently and thoroughly, eliciting lovely little sounds of happiness, of approval, of pleasure. Even as he knew that was as far as he was willing to go just yet, to be here with her now was more than he'd ever expected, and he delighted in every moment. He broke away then placed his lips on her temple again in a tender kiss as he held her close to him, catching his breath, calming his pulse. This was enough for him for now; the rest would come in time, and he could wait. After all, there was much more to her, to his fondness for her, than that.
When he slept that night, it was in utter contentment and peace.
…
Sun, 13 Aug
Bridget did not know what time it was when she woke, but despite the drawn blinds it was quite bright in the room. It was an utterly odd sensation to be lying in a bed, to have her limbs stretched out in the manner of a starfish, and not have her hands or feet hanging off of the edge.
Wait, she thought; Something's missing. Someone. She turned to find that she was indeed alone in the monstrously large bed, swathed in the duvet and sheets. She sat up to make two additional discoveries: it was half eight, and for all of her care on Friday night, she'd ended up wrinkling the hell out of her clothes anyway by sleeping in them last night.
Sleeping. With Mark. In the same bed, anyway. She smiled to think of how sweet, how tender he'd been in making his lovely confession to her. It had made telling him she felt the same way so much easier; having Daniel's approval took away any lingering guilt she might have felt. Her friends would tease her mercilessly—if Sharon's call from last night was any indication, anyway—though Bridget believed with the whole of her heart that they thought Mark was a decent man. She knew for certain that Magda thought the world of him. How odd it was that so many circumstances had kept them from meeting, but she was not going to dwell on that now. She felt like she was beginning a brand new journey, even if she was still toting a little baggage from the last one.
It was true that she was not ready yet to dive into physical intimacy; her body was still trying to find an even keel on which to sail through even the calmest waters, so to speak. She knew he wouldn't force the issue. She also knew that when she was ready, nothing was going to keep her from taking good care of him.
"Now there's a look to be worried about."
It was Mark walking in on her decidedly impure thoughts about him, and she hoped her blush wasn't as bright as it felt. There was teasing in his voice, though, which made her think he was oblivious to her train of thought. "Morning," she said with a drowsy smile. "Is that coffee?"
"Coffee and a little breakfast," he said. "Obviously I was feeling up to the task, and you were so kind to do so yesterday."
"I'm not sick."
"Does that matter?"
She shrugged, but smiled. "Not really, no."
He'd brought them muesli and they sat and ate in a peaceable silence. "You know," Mark said, studiously pushing his cereal around the bowl, "I can count the number of times on one hand I've had breakfast in bed."
"Clearly this is something you need to do more often."
"Well… it is infinitely preferable to do so with someone." He looked up and grinned almost bashfully. It was one of the sexiest sights she'd ever seen, damn her fluctuating hormones.
Mark loaned her another shirt in which she could lounge as he laundered her blouse and skirt; it amused her to see him surreptitiously stealing a glance at her bare legs, though honestly his shirt was so big on her it came down further than some of her skirts did.
They ended up staying in, which was unlike any other day in with a brand new… well, I suppose I can call him 'boyfriend', she thought with a smile; instead of the usual activities associated with the first blush of romance, they spent most of the day talking. After he spent a little time more seriously reviewing the papers Rebecca had sent over—she tried to be patient, but wasn't very good at it—they sat and read the paper together, offering spirited opinions on the news of the day; they played a DVD and sat curled up together, sharing the occasional sweet little tender kiss; they took a walk to and around Holland Park then had dinner at a lovely little bistro. He didn't even seem to care that she was completely devoid of makeup except for the powder she'd swatted on her face. Everything about the day was perfect, she mused, except for the fact that it was drawing to a close.
…
After all of the time they'd previously spent talking to one another, it should not have surprised Mark at all how easy the conversation flowed that day, but it had. He had expected that the change in status would somehow turn every conversation into a booby-trap. He was very grateful that it had not.
As they walked back to his house post-dinner, she said in a rather dismal tone, "Probably have to go home soon. God, I wish tomorrow wasn't Monday and work and all that."
He wished the same—which also surprised him, as he had always been a bit of a workaholic—but there was nothing to be done about it. He slipped his arm around her shoulders, leaned towards her then kissed the top of her head. "We can see each other again soon enough." After a moment, he added, "Tomorrow, dinner."
She chuckled, slipping her arm around his waist. "Go you one better," she said. "How about lunch?"
I'd counter with breakfast in bed again if I could, he thought. "You're on."
They went into the house long enough for Bridget to retrieve something she said she'd left behind; she was a bit pink as she said it so he guessed it was to get her forgotten stockings from the upstairs chair. She came back downstairs and he held out his hand to her. She looked to him warily, but accepted it. He pulled her close to him.
"Just wanted to give you a kiss goodnight before we leave," he said.
"You can always—" She stopped when he cupped her face reverently with his hands.
"A proper kiss goodnight," he amended.
"Oh," she whispered, then lifted her chin to accept the kiss.
He placed his lips on hers, kissing her tenderly; she eagerly invited him to deepen the kiss as he had the night before, which he had not dared do earlier that day for fear of rousing his passion on the comfort of a sofa. Too tempting. Standing the foyer, however, he felt he could indulge a little. She didn't seem to mind, either. It was the feel of her hands on his waist that pulled him from this bliss and back to reality. He stepped back as she opened her eyes.
"I could see why you might not have wanted to do that in the car in front of my building," she said throatily, her eyes shining, her cheeks flushed. "Mr Ramdas is a nosy old man."
This made him chuckle. He reached and took her hand. "Come on, let's take you home."
The drive was in pleasant silence, which gave him time to consider how unlike any other 'morning after' it had been. Granted, he and Bridget had not actually made love, but he was beginning to realise that he had shared a far greater intimacy with her than he had done with previous lovers, who had given the general impression that nothing at all of great importance had happened: Breakfast over a small cup of fruit and a glass of herbal tea; hot or cold cereal and coffee for him. Maybe accompanied by her trivial, shallow, meaningless chit-chat. Maybe it was cool, business-like directives for the day, or for when they might appear at the next high-profile social function. More often than not, though, there was simply no conversation at all, only a feigned interest in the daily newspaper. Breakfast in bed was seen as frivolous and inefficient. Certainly none of it could be termed 'basking in the afterglow'.
Very different indeed.
Despite the send-off in the foyer, he did linger in his kiss after walking her to the front stoop of the building; nothing quite so passionate, though, not where Mr Ramdas might see, whomever or wherever he was. He smiled to think of it.
"Think about where you might want to have lunch," Mark said. "I'll come for you at noon."
"Okay," she said with a smile. He waited for her to get safely into the building before getting into the car and driving off.
It wasn't until he switched off the ignition that he realised, upon arriving at the office the next day, Daniel would most likely greet him with a smug grin on his face a mile wide.
…
Mon, 14 Aug
"So you're telling me you're not free for lunch."
"That's what I'm telling you. Yes."
Daniel raised a brow and leaned back in his chair. "Sharon?"
"No."
"Jude? Tom?" he asked; Bridget shook her head. "Magda and her million kids?" Now she laughed. "Well, hell, Bridge. Who ranks above your future ex-husband for a lunch date?"
The way she looked away and turned bright red gave him the first inkling of who that person might be. The next inkling was when the lift door opened and a very familiar person came hesitantly through and onto the floor. Daniel stood to wave the newcomer up and into his office.
"Well, well!" he said with a smile as the door closed again. "I'm sure you're not here to see me, Darce."
"Hello," Mark Darcy said meekly. "I'm here for Bridget. We're having lunch."
It struck Daniel that Mark was behaving as if he were cowing before a sceptical and wary father. "For Christ's sake, Mark, I'm not going to bollock you," he said. "Though I do expect you to have her back in an hour and fully dressed." At Mark's expression, he chuckled. "Oh, come on. I am the one who—"
"Have you decided where you'd like to go?" Mark interrupted. Daniel could very clearly see a crimsoning of the skin around Mark's highly starched collar.
"I have, yes," she said, turning to face him.
"I'll, um, go call for the lift." Mark nodded to acknowledge Daniel with a slight grin, then left the office.
"So how did you spend your weekend?" Daniel asked.
"Taking care of a sick friend," she said. She then revealed a small smile. "A sick boyfriend."
The feelings that churned up at hearing her say this were bittersweet; he loved her enough that he wanted her to be happy, even if it meant the happiness was with someone else. Honestly, Mark had always had the tendency to be a bit of a stiff, but he had also always been an honourable man. And he might just be good enough for her. "Excellent work," said Daniel, effecting a serious tone.
Bridget smirked, then popped up and pecked him on the cheek. "Thank you," she whispered before she left to join Mark at the lift door. It came; they stepped inside. Just before the doors closed, Daniel spied Mark taking her hand.
Fri, 15 Sept
Time was running out.
Fifteen minutes until Mark was due to show, and she hadn't even finished doing her legs. Slow and steady, she told herself; otherwise you risk nicking your shin, which is the opposite of attractive. She had at least picked out something nice to wear.
Not that she intended on dressing yet.
They'd been dating very regularly for more than a month now, more than just Friday or Saturday night: lunch nearly every day, dinner as often as possible. She felt more comfortable with him than she had with any other person in her life. Both her parents and his had been absolutely ecstatic when they'd shared the news. Magda and Jeremy were smugly pleased. Her other friends did not seem to know quite what to make of him, mostly because he was so different from past boyfriends (and especially from Daniel), but they had voiced approval nonetheless.
The month with him had been wonderful; he had been caring and attentive, helping her to find her balance. The physical closeness with no expectations of her had helped to provide a sense of immense security to her during a time of healing and of uncertainty.
Tonight, however… it was time to change things up a bit. After spending so much time with him, serious contemplation, and soul-searching, she knew she was ready to consummate this relationship. In fact, she had not been more certain about anything in her life, especially since the simplest touch of his fingers on her skin was driving her crazy with longing.
Her legs were now smooth and nick-free, and she was just applying a delicately scented lotion to them when she heard the entryphone ring. She smirked, pulled a little at the towel that was tucked in around her chest to widen the split and reveal more leg, then went to answer it.
"It's me." Mark.
"Come on up." Best not to say too much, she reasoned. He'd be too astounded to see her in nothing but a towel to reprimand her for not being dressed for dinner.
In short order came the knock on the flat door. She went down for it. He looked appropriately surprised. "Bridget."
"Come on up," she said, leading him into the flat. "Won't be a moment." She walked back towards her bedroom; she turned to see he was not following. "Come and keep me company."
"I think I'll wait for you here."
She offered what she hoped was her most seductive smile. "Mark. It's not the 1800s. You can come back here with me."
She saw his jaw tense. "I think it's best you get dressed without me to distract you."
More like me distracting you, she thought. "Okay, fine, won't be a moment."
Plan B.
She went to the bedroom, slipped into her bra and pants (the laciest, prettiest set she owned), stepped into the dress but only held it up to her chest, then called, "Mark, I could use your help with the zip." She heard his footsteps approach; he entered the room with an expression of curiosity on his face.
"You might have better luck if you actually pull the dress on," he said in an attempt to be wry, though the softness of his eyes, the gaze that lingered on her shoulders, gave him away.
She offered him a little smile, then turned around; the dress was draped so that her entire back was bare. She cast a glance back to him over her shoulder. Ever so slightly, his expression had changed. She saw definite appreciation. "You could help me with that, too," she said.
She could see the conflict playing on his face. He wanted dearly to play along—surely he knew full well that she was capable of dressing herself—but something was holding him back. Then, as if he'd come to a decision he stepped closer, reaching for the sleeve of the dress. His fingers brushed along her upper arm as he did. She sucked in a quick breath. His other hand came up to her other arm. She made a soft sound, leaned back… and dropped the dress.
"Bridget," he said, his gravelly voice close to her ear. "What are you doing? I thought you needed a zip."
She turned to face him again, placing her hands flat on his chest, then raking her nails down as she raised her eyes to him. "Mark," she said. "I need much more than a zip."
He drew back. To her surprise, he looked slightly stern. "Darling," he said gently, his gaze not leaving her face. "There's no hurry."
She had never known a man so resistant to this kind of temptation. "Do you… not like what you see?"
He chuckled. "Oh, I like what I see very much."
"Then what…" she trailed off; her mind raced through the possibilities. "Is there a… problem?"
"I think you're all too aware that that is not true," he said with a slight pursing of his lips; yes, she had in fact felt ample evidence of his desire during the snogging in which they had indulged.
"I mean," she added, "if there were, that wouldn't change anything—I love you too much."
He blinked rapidly; she realised that the declaration was the first of its kind between them. He came near again, took her hand in his, and said, "I love you too much to rush things."
With that she was in his arms and he was holding her tight; only then did she realise she was sobbing uncontrollably. She pressed her fingers into his shoulders, clinging to him as if for dear life. Maybe he's right, she thought. Not even hearing 'I love you' should do this to me.
"It's all right," he murmured, stroking her hair.
"I know," she managed. "I know."
It was, in fact, more than all right.
…
Thurs, 9 Nov
Birthday: thirty-three.
It was practically all Mark had heard about for the last month whenever she spoke with her friends; not that he minded, but he thought it was silly that Bridget should obsess about her age like that. He supposed, though, that if that were the least of her worries…
He smiled. She was happy, and so was he. Happier than he had been in the whole of his life, though the self-imposed immunity to her allure was definitely wearing down. He could only think of the ways in which she had, inadvertently or not, aroused his passion and almost tempted him to break the promise he'd made to himself. To wait until she was ready.
After nearly four months since her miscarriage, almost three since they'd begun to see each other, he felt it was finally the right time. He had every intention of making it a wonderful birthday for her.
He collected her from work and gave her a quick peck on the cheek; on her desk sat the bouquet of tulips he'd brought at lunch. "Happy birthday, darling."
She beamed a smile up at him. "Thank you. It's been a great day," she said. "So where are we going?"
"Your favourite," he said with a wink. She narrowed her eyes but smiled at this bit of intrigue. She slipped into her jacket then gathered up her bag. They waved to Daniel as they left. He waved back.
"Oh," she said as the lift arrived, "he's found a new girlfriend, you know."
"Again?" asked Mark absently. She playfully punched his shoulder.
"It's the same one," she said. "I just forgot I told you."
"Anna," said Mark. "She runs a catering business."
"Oh, no, they split—he said she was too perky in the morning," said Bridget. "Now it's Carla. She's the hostess at—oh, right! Where are we going?"
He chuckled. "You'll love it."
She did, in fact, love it; they went to a high-end pizzeria in Notting Hill in which everything, including the crust, was made for them from scratch. Mark opted for a four-cheese, while Bridget went for one with mozzarella, spicy salami and fresh basil. Between the two of them they polished off a bottle of the Malvasia chardonnay, which Bridget utterly adored. He knew this because she had imbibed most of the bottle herself.
"What about dessert?" she asked after taking in the last of the wine. "The tiramisu looks awfully good."
"I've got that covered at home," he said. "Proper birthday cake."
"Ooh," she said, beaming a smile. She reached to cover his hand with her own. "This has been a wonderful, wonderful night."
"You're not too squiffy to stand up, are you?" he teased.
She made a little scoffing sound as Mark retrieved his wallet from his suit jacket to pay the bill. He noted that when they stood to leave, she was a little wobbly on her heeled shoes, after all.
He parked in his drive as he had so many times before with her as a passenger, but found himself feeling nervous as hell. He knew it was ridiculous; there was no way in the world he was going to be disappointed. Perhaps he was worried she might be.
"You all right?" she asked.
"Fine." He turned off the ignition. "Come on."
He opened the door, allowed her in first before closing and locking it. He then went to her, reached for her hand with one of his, then cupped her face with the other before bending to give her a kiss. "I'm glad you had such a lovely day," he said.
"Thanks to you," she said.
He let go of her hand and slipped his arm around her waist. "You have a choice now," he said. "We can go downstairs for cake and ice cream, or we can go upstairs."
"Well, durr," she said with a grin. "Downstairs!"
He furrowed his brow. "What?"
"Well, it's far too early to go to sleep! Plus, you know… cake!"
He blinked in his confusion, then began to chuckle. "Darling," he said gently, then kissed her on the cheek close to her ear, "I propose more than just sleeping."
"Oh," she said; she turned quickly to meet his eyes, then she smiled. "You're a cruel man, giving me a choice like that." She placed her lips on the corner of his mouth, and they lingered there tantalisingly. "No choice," she breathed. "Bring on the cake." Before he had a chance to respond, she threw her arms around his neck and pecked him on the mouth. "Kidding, Mark," she said, then kissed him again. "Kidding."
He swept her up into his arms then carried her up the stairs to his room, where he had, in advance, set bouquet upon bouquet of red tulips in vases on the bureau, nightstand, and on every horizontal surface of the room. The light floral scent was heady and delicious. The recessed lighting was set to its lowest setting, and strung from post to post on the bed were tiny, delicate fairy light lamps. "Oh, Mark," she said as he set her down onto the edge of the bed. "It's beautiful in here."
He smiled, feeling almost shy as he sat beside her. "Well, it's for you, darling."
Her blue eyes were shining as she reached up to touch his face with her fingertips; it seemed like she might say something, but instead, she leaned forward and kissed him.
The waiting heightened every moment of making love to her; he relished slipping her clothes from her, from every button on her shirt down to bra and pants; he delighted in kissing her soft, warm skin, shoulder to throat, breast to navel, hip to inner knee; he loved the feel of her bare body against his, beneath his. When they joined at last, the sensation was beyond anything he'd ever felt, and he cried out her name as if it were a prayer, buried his face in her fragrant hair, as her fingers pressed into his back, as he found his release.
Despite his head swimming in a flood of endorphins, he took great care to ensure her own satisfaction and he thought, given her own moans and cries, given the feel of her shudders and sighs, that she was amply gratified.
He pulled her to him, holding on to her as if she might fade away like a dream, planting little kisses along her hairline, her throat; her heart was racing and she was panting for air. Her fingers tangled into his hair; the nails grazed gently to the nape, causing him to shiver a little. She let out a long exhale breath and seemed to subside into him.
"All I know," she murmured, "is that I'm not waiting three months to do that again."
This elicited a laugh under his breath. As difficult as it had been to wait, he would not have changed a moment of the last three months. He was more certain than ever that she loved him for who he was, and not only for caring for her during her darkest hour. He was also certain that she was assured he wanted more than sex.
She went on. "And to think I accused you once of impotence. Oh, God. How rude of me. And the fact that you hauled me up the stairs without a stitch in your breath should have been my clue—"
At this he laughed outright though low in his throat, as he nuzzled into hers. "Hush," he commanded with gentle authority, "or you'll never get your cake."
"Is that a threat," she said, tracing her fingers down the valley of his spine, "or a promise?"