Tabula Rasa
By S. Faith, © 2009
Total words: 128,281.
This part: ~5,872.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)
Chapter 20
The month of May found a most unbelievable opportunity landing at Mark's feet: the possibility of working and practising with a very prestigious law firm in the United States. Even with the hurdle of passing the Bar exam in New York State, he learned very quickly that he was eagerly expected to apply by the senior barristers in chambers: it was perfect for a barrister practising as long as Mark had been (fewer than five years), it was on a contract basis, and it involved working with the United Nations.
He was, however, a little wary of broaching the subject with Bridget. He hoped to assuage her fears that it would not interfere with their wedding plans, as the job was not due to begin for nearly a year; the screening process would take a long time, not to mention preparation for licensing to practise law across the Atlantic, work visas and the like. He needn't have worried, though; the mere mention of New York City made her light up like Trafalgar Square at Christmastime.
"Oh my God!" she said, grinning madly. "I love it! You have to apply, Mark; it will be such a grand adventure!"
"Are you sure?"
"Yes!" she said emphatically. "And I could get on with something there, like oh, with Vogue or Cosmo…. Oh, when could we leave?"
He laughed. "Well, I haven't got the job just yet, darling," he said. "I'll apply straightaway."
Within a few weeks after sending off the application, Mark found he had progressed past pre-selection and had done marvellously on the first interview, designed to test his verbal skills. He was by no means complacent; quite the opposite, he knew some of the other barristers applying for the position, and they had more experience and better reputations than he did.
Bridget had great faith in him, which he knew all along would be unwavering; her faith, though was not based on objective fact, but rather on the firm belief that no one was better than he was, and that he had it all but sewn up. He knew rationally from his perspective that this was far from the case, and every declaration of hers that the job was as good as his only served to twist him up inside even further; it made him increasingly anxious to think of how much he'd disappoint her if he did not succeed.
He spent every spare moment he had reading up on United States law, particularly the laws of the state he hoped to be employed in, so that if asked, he could converse quite easily in it.
This preparation was not without its cost. His temper was much shorter than usual, what with his caseload on top of everything; he found himself snapping at her with the slightest provocation, usually at her reassurances that everything would be just fine. He knew he was hurting her even as he did it, and he would try to offer apologies, which she seemed to accept.
He knew he had been tense and irritable during this process; he would more than make up for it once this whole process was over, job offer or no job offer. He just did not want to fail. He did not want to disappoint her.
………
There was nothing quite like gazing up at the glowing green of sun-dappled leaves against the bright blue of a clear summer sky; nothing like the feel of soft grass beneath the palm of one's hand or the breeze against one's skin. Being surrounded by all of this peace and beauty was such a change of pace, a change of scenery, from the high-pressure world in London to which Mark was accustomed that he felt he'd been transported to a different universe altogether. It was a long-deserved weekend respite in Grafton Underwood; he'd told Jeremy where he was in case of dire emergency, but no one else, then whisked Bridget off to stay in the cottage he'd lived in at one time.
His bicycle was still there, and after pumping up the tyres rather comically with a manual pump, he had been goaded into climbing onto the seat and taking a pedal around the garden. "Wait," she'd said, then bade him stop and climbed up onto the handlebars before commanding him to start pedalling.
He could not remember when he'd laughed so much, could not place the last time he'd seen her so happy and so like the girl he'd known growing up, with no cares for work deadlines or an extra few pounds on the scale. He could only think that this was something they needed to do more often.
Now they sat beneath an aged tree—she enfolded in his arms as he rested against it—not too far from that long-ago dance serenaded by the car's radio; the breeze was enough to lift some of her ponytailed hair up and into his face. Laughing, he pushed it to the side then bent to place his lips upon her exposed neck for a quick kiss.
"This is nice," she said drowsily. He could see her eyes were closed, could see the faintest of smiles upon her face.
"Mmm," he said, his cheek resting against her hair. He tightened his arms around her. "I agree."
"It's going to be a busy year," she went on. "We really do need to take time to catch our breath or we'll run ourselves ragged."
She was right, of course, when he considered the wedding in December and the possibility of a move to the US. "One day at a time," he said. "One hurdle at a time."
"Not that you consider our wedding a hurdle," she teased.
He chuckled. "Of course not. More like a finish line I've been running towards and I can finally see the banners telling me I'm close."
"And there, dressed in rose pink vestments, is the vicar," said Bridget.
Mark laughed out loud. "I think we'll need to have a chat with him, ask him for something a little more subdued. We don't want him brighter than the bridesmaids." He snuggled her close again. "What colour are they wearing?"
"You're sneaky." She sat up then turned around to lie on his chest. "I told you, you don't get to know until the day."
"What about coordinating ties?"
"Tacky," she said. "White ties, I think, with black outfits."
"What, I don't get to choose?" he said, his spirits light. "What if I wanted a pale blue tuxedo?"
She pulled such a horrified face that he had to laugh. She pushed herself up and, grinning, gave him a light kiss, then another one, then covered his mouth with her own in a deeper, more languid kiss. He wrapped his arms around her, holding her close even after the kiss broke. They sat there gazing out to the landscape in the calm and silence of this perfect summer day.
"I wish," she said pensively, "that we could stay like this forever."
………
At the tail end of June, Mark began hearing murmurs that the law firm was in process of contacting the final candidates for a personal interview with one of the law partners himself; of the colleagues who had applied, he had only yet heard of one getting that phone call. Mark had himself not heard a word, and this had put him into a foul mood, even though he had known the odds of making it to the final round would be small.
Mark barely registered hearing the telephone ring on Saturday evening as he threw the pasta into the pot of boiling water for their dinner; it had been days since he'd heard any calls were being made, it was the weekend, and he had no reason to suspect anything but that one of Bridget's friends were ringing her for a chat. She answered as she usually did.
"Yes, hello?" she asked. He tuned out the conversation; he had to stir the sauce to keep it from burning or scorching. It was the sound of her voice shrieking his name that caused him to drop the wooden spoon onto the counter and sent his heart to racing.
"Bridget! What?" She had not even covered the receiver; whoever it was assuredly could no longer hear out of one ear.
"It's for you," she said, her voice overly hysterical and shaking; thoughts of injury or death to one of his parents ran rampant through his head. "A woman. Robert Abbott's assistant."
Without conscious thought he was suddenly at Bridget's side, taking the receiver from her hand. He cleared his throat before bringing it to his ear. "Hello, this is Mark Darcy."
"Hello, Mr Darcy. I'm Josie Winters, and I'm calling on behalf of Robert Abbott. I'm very sorry to bother you on a Saturday." The female voice on the other end was pleasant, even amused.
"It's no bother," he said. The sight of Bridget grinning and bouncing was distracting, so he turned away. "How may I help you?"
"I'm calling to see if you are available for a dinner meeting with Mr Abbott on Friday the tenth of July."
"In New York?" he asked, thinking at once of booking flights.
"No, Mr Darcy," she said. "He will be in London for the express purpose of final interviews. Your wife is invited as well."
He was slightly taken aback, and his eyes shot to her involuntarily. "Of course." She queried him with her eyes, grasping his forearm. He held up a finger, indicating he would explain afterwards. "Where?"
Mr Abbott apparently always stayed in the penthouse of The Plaza Hotel, and the dinner would be a private in the dining room of his suite. After advising him of the time and of her direct phone number should he have further questions, Josie said, "He looks forward to meeting with you, Mr Darcy. Have a nice evening."
"Thank you, I will."
He replaced the receiver on the phone cradle; it was barely in place when she began shrieking and bouncing again. "You got the job! I knew it!"
"I did not get the job," he said, feeling anxiety wash over him again. "I got an interview."
"But that's great! Hardly anyone else did!"
"But there are others, Bridget."
"Not many though!" She practically stomped her foot, scowling for a moment. "Come on, be happy about this! This is fantastic news!"
He took in a deep breath and realised she was right. Getting this far was a huge achievement.
"You will do wonderfully," she said. "When is it?"
"Friday night, the tenth of July. Dinner. And you're invited too."
"What, me? Why?"
"I don't honestly know," he said. "Probably it's a personality interview, and are asking you as a courtesy or a formality or something. It'll be fine. They're certainly not going to ask you law-related questions. You can wear your Valentino dress and be fabulous."
She smiled, looking a bit relieved. And then she looked alarmed again. "Mark," she said. "Something's burning."
At once he remembered the boiling pasta, the simmering sauce, and dashed back into the kitchen to find the pasta water had boiled dry and the sauce had burned to the bottom of the pan. He pulled them off of the heat and switched off the hob. Sighing heavily, he said, "Well. Nothing to be done about it. Dinner out."
She beamed. "To celebrate."
………
They went to a place relatively close to the flat, a place they'd been to many times before and where they were well-known; feeling happy and slightly playful, she'd put her hair into a couple of plaits, wore a short, light cotton dress with a floral motif, her legs bare, and on her feet she wore jelly mules. It was a warm and wonderful summer night, their collective spirits were quite high, and they'd each had enough wine to be pleasantly tipsy.
As they strolled home, with the sky darkened overhead, they traversed through Trafalgar Square; as always she ran to the fountain, sat on the edge, and ran her fingers through the water, the lights illuminating her smiling face. He sat besides her, said confidentially, "You should be careful how you stretch in that dress, love."
She giggled. "As if you've never seen my pants," she whispered with mock sternness before collapsing forward into him, throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him passionately. She twisted and he felt her leg covering one of his, as if she were thinking of climbing into his lap; he was both excited and mortified at the thought.
Nearby, he heard a firm throat-clearing, low and male. Bridget launched herself away, looking quite chastened, leaving Mark faced with a rather dour looking police constable.
"What's this, then?" he said, looking between the two of them. "Messing about with young 'uns, are you, sir?"
"This is my fiancée," said Mark; his voice was drowned out by Bridget's, though.
"He promised me candy," she said in a childish voice.
The constable looked even more serious. "Sir, please move away from the girl. Miss, how old are you?"
"Oh, really," she said, getting to her feet. "Durr. I was just kidding. I'm twenty-four." He heard the constable scoff a laugh. She began digging into her big patent leather handbag. "Here, I've got my—bugger."
"Yes?"
"My driving licence. I, um, left it at the flat."
"A likely story. Come on, mister. You're off with me."
Mark felt an ever-growing ball of ice forming in the pit of his stomach. "No, really, Constable. She is twenty-four. She's my fiancée."
"No, no," protested Bridget. "I'll go to the flat. It's just right over there." She pointed to the building. "I'll get my licence, and then that will be that."
"We can all go," said the constable with deadly solemnity.
"This is ridiculous," said Bridget as they began to walk. "There are real crimes being committed by real criminals and you have to bother us because I happened to wear braids." Mark noticed, particularly as they got closer to their building, that everyone they passed was looking at the three of them with a measure of curiosity as well as disgust.
"If in fact this story pans out, you were at the least skirting the boundaries of public decency," said the constable.
She made a dismissive sound. "It's not like I was going to shag him right there, for heaven's sake." Mark felt his face flood with his embarrassment.
"Bridget," he said harshly.
"Miss Bridget, is it?" said the constable. "Well, little Miss Bridget, we'll just see how this ends up for you both." They were in the building now, were passing their neighbours. Mark wished he could disappear, fade into the woodwork, or similar.
Once in the flat, Bridget quickly found her licence, and Mark found his voice. "Mr Constable sir, I am very sorry for the misunderstanding. I am sorry we got a little carried away out there. I've just had very good news, and we were out celebrating. It won't happen again." Mark shot an icy glare to Bridget as the constable scrutinised her driving licence.
"Well," he said. "I don't suppose any harm was done." Mark watched as his eyes travelled down to Bridget's chest then quickly up again. "I can see in the light in here that she is not underage." He gave her licence back to her. "Just watch yourselves."
Mark repeated, "It won't happen again."
"Yes it will," she said, making another dismissive sound. "No reason it shouldn't. We didn't do anything wrong. You just need to have your eyes checked, is all."
"Bridget, enough," snapped Mark. "Say you're sorry."
"For what? That he needs specs? He's the one that assumed I was underage. That's harassment in my book."
The constable actually took a step back. "Well. Good night sir, miss."
Once the constable had left, Mark exhaled long and slow before turning to her. He was furious. "Do you have any idea what just happened there?"
"Nothing happened, Mark."
"Did you see the looks we were getting, accompanied by the Metro police up to the flat? What must people have thought?"
"I don't know, Mark," she said coolly. "Everyone around here knows me. Who knows what they thought. Maybe that he was an old pal and he was coming up for a CD he'd loaned you."
"Maybe that'd be true," said Mark, "if you hadn't spent the entire walk in vocal protest."
"It was shameful, thinking that of you."
"He doesn't know me, Bridget!" he erupted. "True or not, I could have been looking at a charge that would have ruined my chances with the New York job, with any job in the law, for good."
"Mark, it was hardly my fault that he can't tell a twenty-four year old from—"
"You did not help matters," he said. "What were you thinking, joking around with the police so inappropriately?"
"I hardly believed he was serious," she said.
"Always assume the police are serious, Bridget."
She had no ready retort for that, just firmed her jaw. "Fine," she said at last. "In future, when—or rather if—you're snogging me in the park and I'm accused of being some kind of Lolita, I won't say a word."
"There's no need for such drama," he said. "You only need—"
He stopped short when she turned, but not soon enough to hide the fact that a tear had escaped and rolled down her cheek. She stormed off and away from him.
"Bridget," he said.
"Leave me alone." She went in to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.
"Bridget, let me in," he said. She'd locked the door.
There was a long pause before she responded; her voice was unsteady when she spoke. "Leave me alone."
"I can't bear to see you cry."
"I'm not crying."
After a moment of silence he heard the lock on the door disengage before it swung open; she answered, her eyes teary and reddened. He did not say anything, found he could not say anything, so full of pathos were her features. The best he could do was reach forward and take her in his arms.
"Sorry," he said close to her ear. Her only reply was to return the hug. He was very much looking forward to this entire process being over.
………
"Welcome. You've been expected."
So nervous Mark had been about this dinner meeting that he'd had a terrible time sleeping the night before; for most of the evening he stared at the ceiling pondering the infinite possibilities the night's direction could go off in. Bridget was excited about the whole thing, could not wait to get there and meet the man she was absolutely certain would be Mark's next boss; this only increased his nervousness, his fear of disappointing her should he not get the job. She'd worn her blue Valentino dress and wrap, and her hair was swept up in a very lovely twist, her fringe gently curled under and tamed, a couple of loose strands prettily spiralling down and framing her face.
Arriving at the appointed time and the appointed place, they were not late, but Mark had intended to be a little early, and that added to the pressure of the meeting ahead of them had put him even more on edge.
"You must be Mr Mark Darcy." The woman who'd answered the door smiled, then extended her hand. "I'm Josie Winters. We spoke on the phone. Please, come in."
"Yes, of course," said Mark, smiling in return. "I thought your voice sounded familiar."
Mark kept his suit jacket on, but Bridget slipped out of her wrap, which Josie offered to hang for her. "You must be Mrs Darcy."
Mark glanced to Bridget, who looked to him, then to Josie. "Oh," Bridget said, "we aren't married. Yet, I mean." She shook Josie's hand. "Bridget Jones. We spoke on the phone as well."
Josie Winters must have prided herself on her inscrutability, but even still, a brief look of surprise flashed across her face.
"Wedding's set for Christmastime," Mark added hastily, praying that the fact they were not yet married was not a deal-breaker.
"Oh, pardon me," she said, "I thought the file said that you were. My mistake." She looked to Bridget. "We spoke on the phone?"
"Yes," said Bridget. "The day you called for Mark. I answered."
"Oh!" said Josie. "That was you!" She grinned a little sheepishly, then looked to Mark. "I was wondering, because your file said you didn't have children."
Mark prided himself on his own inscrutability, as well, and hoped his fears—that Bridget was perceived as childish—were not being broadcast.
"Someday," said Bridget, glancing to Mark again with a lovely smile, "but not yet."
After a moment of comfortable silence, Josie said, "Well, Mr Abbott is waiting. Why don't I show you inside?"
"Thank you," Mark said as Josie led them further into the suite.
As she tapped on then pushed open the door to the sitting room, an older, grey-haired man Mark could only presume to be Mr Abbott folded the paper closed and got to his feet. "They've arrived, sir," said Josie. "This is Mr Mark Darcy, and this is Ms Bridget Jones."
Robert Abbott's smile was surprisingly unguarded as he offered his hand to shake each of theirs in turn. "A pleasure to meet you," he said; as he shook Bridget's he clasped his other hand over hers warmly. "Both of you."
"If you need me, let me know." With that, Josie withdrew from the room, pulling the door closed.
"Care for a drink?" asked Abbott as he walked to where a mini bar sat, complete with a selection of bottles along with some tumblers and other glasses. "A martini?"
"Sure," said Bridget quickly; he knew martinis could be hit or miss with her, but clearly she was aiming to make a good impression. Mark agreed as well.
The martinis Abbott mixed up, while good, were a little crisper and more bitter than Mark was used to; he watched her sip her drink, watched her jaw tense with the tang as she did so.
"Not to your liking?" Robert asked with a chuckle.
"Bloody Marys are usually more my style," she confessed.
Lest he be offended, Mark offered, "She usually likes sweeter cocktails."
"Perfectly understandable. My own late wife was not very fond of dry cocktails." He sat back, sipping the last of his own cocktail. "I'm glad you could come tonight," said Abbott as he sat on the sofa again. "I have been looking forward to meeting you, Mark. Your résumé is very impressive for a man working in the field for such a short time."
"Thank you, sir," Mark said, feeling his heart race a little more quickly; had there been others asked to interview who had refused?
"Mark, please call me Robert."
Mark allowed a small smile. "Thank you, Robert."
"You're the last; I return to New York tomorrow," he continued, more to himself than to either of them. "Spoke with John Prendergast, Richard Barton and William Archer—whom I believe you work with—and wanted to speak to you before making my final decision."
Mark knew all three men, felt his stomach drop to his feet; they were all older than he was, well respected, and much more experienced. "I'm honoured that you asked me," Mark said, his voice sounding stronger than he actually felt at that moment.
A quiet rap then the appearance of a man dressed in hotel livery opened the sitting room door. "Sirs, ma'am, dinner is served."
Robert Abbott rose to his feet; Mark quickly followed, helping Bridget to her feet. She slipped a hand through the crook of Mark's elbow, then beamed a smile to him before looking to Abbott and the hotel staff person, who, without another word, bade them follow to the dining room.
Bridget was seated to one side of Robert Abbott, who took the head; Mark was to sit to his other side, putting Mark across the table from her. His first thought was that it was a tactical manoeuver—divide and conquer—then chided himself for being so suspicious. After settling into their seats and draping table napkins over their laps, a plate filled with food was placed in front of each of them.
"My grandmother's meatloaf recipe," said Robert. "The folks here do an admirable job reproducing it, down to the tomato gravy."
On his plate was indeed a slab of brown meat covered with a reddish sauce; on the side was a serving of mashed potatoes and a one of carrot slices. Mark wondered too if this was some kind of test. Following Abbott's lead, Mark picked up the weighty fork, took a corner off of the meatloaf, then brought it to his mouth. He was rather pleasantly surprised, and took a second bite. Bridget allowed her pleasure at the taste of it to show a little more overtly.
"Oh, very tasty," said Bridget, spearing some carrots, then taking a sip of red wine.
"I agree," said Mark.
Conversation moved to work-related topics and Mark felt a little more in his element; Bridget's frequent queries on the subject matter, however, jolted him out of the professional headspace and made him feel a little panicked. On the whole, although dinner seemed to be going pleasantly, Mark felt very much under the microscope.
As the plates were being cleared away, Robert Abbott asked, "Mark, on a more personal note, would the distance be a problem?"
Mark had no earthly idea of what he was speaking. "Distance?"
"Your daughter… is she with her mother tonight?"
Whilst Mark was still very much in the dark pondering why Abbott would think he had a child with another woman, Bridget obviously drew some sort of a conclusion and began to giggle. "I'm afraid there's been a little misunderstanding," she explained. "Mark has no children. Your assistant spoke with me. I'm afraid I was a bit too excited on the phone and made poor Josie nearly go deaf."
"She thought you were a child?" he asked, amusement evident in his voice.
"Yeah," she said. "Okay, maybe I was more than a bit too excited."
Robert Abbott smiled. Mark's stomach lurched again. Abbott seemed quite genial and affable, but Mark could not help but think it was a cover for disappointment or disapproval. Mark did not want to serve to amuse the man; he wanted to be taken seriously. No matter how nice Abbott seemed, a man of his position and power did not like to be proven wrong on even the smallest things.
"Come," the man continued. "Let's have some coffee and dessert."
They went back into the sitting room, where a tray waited with a carafe of coffee and a plate on which biscuits and dessert squares were piled up high. Seemingly picking up on the previous conversation, Abbott continued, "That does make things a little easier, should we decide to make an offer. Arranging visas for a daughter as well as for you and your wife would have been a challenge."
Since they would be married by the time the prospective job would be starting, Mark did not feel it necessary to correct the misapprehension; however, Bridget spoke up. "Oh, we won't be married until December."
"Oh!" he said. "I'm mistaken yet again." He sipped his coffee. Mark suddenly just wanted the night to be over. "Well, no matter, I suppose; arrangements would not have to be made until after then anyway." He seemed to be studying Bridget. "Theoretically speaking, what sort of thing would you be doing to occupy yourself in New York?"
At this Bridget got very excited. "Well," she said; clearly she had been giving this some thought. "I was hoping to get on with an American magazine or newspaper, do some writing."
Robert's eyebrows shot up. "Working?"
"Of course working," said Bridget quickly.
"Hmm. That would change things," said Robert. Mark felt dread wash over him yet again. "Again, theoretically speaking, I mean. It would change the visa type. I'll have Josie note that."
She smiled, then smiled at Mark, who did not feel much like smiling back. "Mark's always been very supportive of my career choices, haven't you, Mark?"
Mark cleared his throat. "Yes, of course," he said, forcing a smile.
"So where do you work now, and what do you do?" asked Robert.
"I write and copy-edit for Londonium, devoted to life in London."
"Very interesting," he said; Mark thought he detected a bit of a patronising tone in his voice. "Have you done any coverage of the Winston case?"
Mentally, Mark cringed. Kate Winston was a UK citizen being held on murder charges in New Hampshire after a child in her care went missing. Prosecutors were charging that she had actually murdered the baby boy to split the man from his wife because she wanted him for herself. The nanny tearfully claimed the child was kidnapped, but could not offer any description other than a white male of average height and build. Her defence attorney claimed there was no evidence of her involvement at all, and that by pinning it all on Kate, the police were failing to investigate the real crime… not to mention that the child might still be alive and recovered.
"That kind of story's not really within the scope of what my magazine covers," said Bridget, "but I've been following the story online. We have the internet at work. What a tragedy. That poor girl."
"You don't think she did it?"
"Of course I don't," said Bridget.
"Mark? Have you been following it? What do you think?"
"Not in great detail—" Mark flashed to conversations held over the breakfast table, and Bridget's passionate and indignant opinion on the matter. "—but if it's true that there is no evidence of her involvement, she should be released."
"But the prosecutor must have some reason to hold her, don't you think?" asked Robert. "It's best to keep her imprisoned lest she flee the country."
"It's barbaric is what it is," said Bridget. "She was a victim too."
"We don't know that," said Robert. "We only have what she claims happened. We need to put our faith in the justice system and trust that the prosecutor knows what he's doing."
Before Mark could have a chance to reply, Bridget said, "Oh, that's utter bollocks. Innocent people go to prison all the time."
"I think what she means," said Mark, furious at her outburst and putting every effort into remain calm and collected, "is that because the premise of the American justice system is 'innocent until proven guilty', the police should have investigated the girl's claims more fully before declaring the case closed, and arresting her. It is the essence of Blackstone's formulation, and, I believe, an opinion of your own Benjamin Franklin, that it is better that ten guilty men go free that one innocent person suffer."
Robert said nothing more on the subject, just regarded Mark with an unblinking countenance, looking very contemplative indeed, even as he finished his coffee. He then set the cup down, and rose to his feet. Mark took it as a cue; seeing them both stand, Bridget put the rest of her biscuit into her mouth, chewed and swallowed, then hastily stood too.
"Well, Mark, Bridget," he said, smiling reservedly. "It was a pleasure to have you here tonight."
That was definitely a cue. Mark extended his hand and shook Abbott's. "The pleasure was all mine. Thank you for the opportunity."
"Yes, sir," said Bridget. "I had a most excellent time."
He nodded. "I'll show you out."
Abbott stepped forward between the two, surprising Mark when he saw Abbott gently place his hand on Bridget's back to guide her to the door. It seemed he could not get her out of his room quickly enough.
"I had a wrap," said Bridget. "Could you get it for me?"
"Oh, of course," Robert Abbott said.
She smiled and thanked him. Mark felt even more miserable.
Once down on the street, Bridget let out a long breath. "Wow!" she said. "I think that went really well, don't you? I think he liked you a lot."
He said nothing. He was too mired in his thoughts to reply, too angry at how badly things had gone and at her obliviousness to her own role in the interview failing miserably. She kept talking as they got in the car and during the drive home, bubbling with enthusiasm at the prospect of living and working in the US.
Once in the flat, Mark headed directly into the kitchen to pour himself a stiff drink. She followed him, carrying on with her observations. After he took a long sip, he spoke at last. "Bridget, stop."
"What?"
"Just stop," he said. "Tonight was a disaster, and I'm not going to get an offer."
"What? What are you talking about? He was nice and he clearly liked you." She came near, putting her hand on his forearm.
"He was nice," said Mark, "but I think it was clear he wanted to be rid of us sooner rather than later."
She furrowed her brows, withdrawing her hand. "What has you so irritable?"
"Because you can't behave yourself for one night, one very important night." He pressed into the corners of his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. "Bridget, if I hadn't spent my whole night fixing your mistakes, I could have left a better impression."
She looked stunned. "Mark."
"The night was a mistake," he went on, feeling the full brunt of his aggravation, feeling all of the stress and pressure that had built over the course of the application process on top of his usual caseload coming to an explosive head. "It has all been a mistake."
"You don't mean—"
"I feel like I've spent my whole life looking after your mistakes and trying to make you grow up—when you never will!"
Her eyes were wide and glossy; her lower lip was trembling. He could only think of that moment so many years ago when she had seen him with Julie Enderby; she looked as destroyed now as she had then. He felt immediately guilty for unloading on her so completely and unfairly. She said nothing, only left the kitchen.
He sighed, and decided to pour himself another scotch to calm himself before going to her again, to allow himself time to compose a proper apology. It was not as if they'd lost anything, after all; he still had his job and she, hers. The US job would have been nice, but in the end, what they had was pretty damned good. It was also not as if she had purposely tanked his chances; she had just been herself, and in truth, he did not want her any other way.
He set the empty tumbler down, took a deep breath, then left the kitchen and headed for the bedroom.
"Bridget, I—"
He stopped short. The bedroom was empty.
"Bridget?"
No answer.
As he went from room to room, his alarm increased as he realised:
She was not there.
NB:
Blackstone's formulation: "…better that ten guilty persons escape than that one innocent suffer…"