Tabula Rasa
By S. Faith, © 2009, 2010
Total words: 128,281 -- I decided to fill in a missing gap here, no pun intended, so the total word count will end up being more than this now. Probably three new chapters in all in addition to what I already had.
This part: ~5,738.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, etc.: Please see the Prologue.
Author's request: Please keep the comments speculation-free. :)
Chapter 24
"So."
He replied rather unimaginatively, "So."
"You staying at your parents' for New Year?"
"Yes." She made a little sound. "You?" he asked, even though he already knew the answer.
"Oh, no, no, no," she said with emphasis, as if he were some kind of fool for thinking so. "I was in London at a party last night so I'm afraid I'm a bit hung over. Wish I could be lying with my head in the toilet, like all normal people." No, not fool; rather, some kind of freak, anything but normal to choose to be with one's parents for the New Year instead of with one's friends. He felt himself getting tense all over. She chuckled, then added with a sigh, "New Year's resolution: drink less. Oh, and quit smoking." Undoubtedly at seeing his staring pointedly at both the drink and the cigarette—which felt like a betrayal in and of itself—she looked a bit chagrined, and added, "Mmm. And keep New Year's resolutions. Oh, and, uh… stop talking total nonsense to strangers." She leaned forward and poked him in the chest, surprising him completely, causing him to tense again. "In fact… stop talking, full stop."
He had been expecting a coolly polished woman brimming with confidence. Instead he had gotten a Bridget so like the one he had always known, nervous and saying whatever was on her mind despite the consequences; this took him so thoroughly by surprise on so many levels, feeding his building annoyance, that he said the first thing to come to mind.
"Yes, well, perhaps it's time to eat."
………
Stupid thing to say.
He had just been revisiting the conversation he'd just had with Bridget—irritated and angry at his own words, at her for intimating he was some kind of freak when he was still in love with her, at himself for still being in love with her when she'd done what she did, when they could have had seven more years of love instead of the overwhelming pain he'd endured—when his mother's voice penetrated the haze and pulled him back from his thoughts. He turned to his mother, who looked to him with obvious concern. "I'm sorry?" he asked.
"I said how did it go?" she asked patiently.
He did not answer right away. "Fine," he said curtly at last.
"Mark, don't lie to me," she retorted.
"Not fine, then," he said. "She intimated I was some sort of aberration for staying in Grafton Underwood with the two of you for the holiday, and she was clearly put off—" He was going to say 'by the jumper' but didn't want to hurt his mother's feelings. "—by me. It's pointless. You should just stop while you're ahead."
She scoffed at him. "I don't know. It's not as if you have anyone else, and there's no reason why you couldn't ask her out. Start fresh. Or maybe even as a surprise, something her mum could arrange, to meet you somewhere nearby to where you live. Apparently she lives just 'round the corner from you."
He was not going stand for it—his mother hinting he was that desperate, her mother coercing her into a blind date when her feelings were evident—and consequently he lost his temper, lashing out with, "Mother, I do not need a blind date. Particularly not with some verbally incontinent spinster who smokes like a chimney, drinks like a fish and dresses like her mother."
However ill-thought-out and incorrect his statement was, it was even more unfortunate that she should be in the blast radius of this insult. He became aware of her presence behind him when his mother turned to look, and he looked too. She plastered a smile on her face, holding up the plate of food.
"Yummy. Turkey curry. My favourite."
With that Bridget passed between the two of them on the way out of the room; as she did, she looked up at him, the pain of his regretfully derogatory comment clear in her eyes even as she held on for dear life to that smile. Her eyes, though… it reminded him so much of the last time he'd said something to her that he didn't mean.
"Mark," hissed his mother as Bridget went well out of earshot. "I know you didn't mean that."
He thought about what Colin Jones had said on Boxing Day, thought about how bad an idea it was all around to try to win her back. He hadn't meant it, but he did not dare say so lest she, Pam and Una took it as a sign of encouragement. Instead, he only said, "If she dislikes me, then that's better for all concerned in the long run."
………
No blind dates were in fact arranged, and Mark congratulated himself for having survived not only the evening but for evading further efforts by the Grafton Underwood hens. Before he knew it, winter passed into spring. He worked hard as he always did, probably a little too hard, but he made time to socialise with his colleagues. He even had dinner with Magda and Jeremy at their home on occasion. Seeing their two children, Constance and Harry, made him a little wistful though for how things might have been had he and Bridget been married all this time. It did not help matters that Constance spoke so much about 'Auntie Bridget', wanting to know when she would be able to come over again and play, or if she was ever going to be their babysitter again. To their credit, both Magda and Jeremy looked sheepish whenever Constance spoke this way, but Mark would always dismiss their embarrassment by pointing out that Constance was only a child, after all.
He could not deny, even to himself, that the thought of Bridget babysitting was a charming one… though amusing, as to his knowledge she had no experience watching children. He asked about previous babysitting endeavours.
"We haven't asked her again," admitted Magda reluctantly, "because the two of them, two little partners in crime, conspired together to eat an entire chocolate torte."
It made him chuckle, which made Constance's parents feel a little more at ease, even as he wondered what a child with Bridget might have been like.
She really had not changed much at all.
………
"Mark."
He looked up from his desk to see the same tall thin woman who had been clearly after him since his arrival back to chambers. She smiled as he did so.
"Yes, Natasha?"
"A friend of mine's put me on the guest list for a book launch this evening," she said, sitting casually on the edge of his desk. "At The Ivy. I happen to know through Jeremy, Giles, et al. that you have nothing at all to do tonight, so I refuse to take 'no' as an answer." She certainly did seem to be ready to stay perched on his desk until he acquiesced.
He thought it might be interesting to meet authors; it was not like he would be completely alone with her, and the food and drink was guaranteed to be of the very highest calibre, so he agreed. She looked for all the world as if she had won a major battle. "Great," she said. "I'll see you at six. We can drive together."
The book turned out to be something by someone he'd never heard of, but apparently had created enough of a buzz that the place was awash in well-known writers and other celebrities. Mark contented himself at the periphery of spirited literary discussion with a glass of red wine in hand, piping in only when he thought he had something meaningful to offer, but overall disappointed at the shallowness of said conversation. Natasha was in her element, though, looking quite triumphant, and did not stray far from his side. She did, however, excuse herself from the group to look for the friend that had gotten her on the invite list. Shortly after that, the others in the group wandered away, leaving him alone amongst strangers.
He was quite in shock, then, when a shapely blonde woman turned, revealing herself to be anything but a stranger as she nearly walked directly into him.
"What are you doing here?"
It was Bridget, as surprised to see him as he was to see her, though by all rights he should not have been. He had no reason to suppose she hadn't stayed in the publishing industry. She looked absolutely beautiful with her hair swept up, the low neckline of her form-fitting dress, but the thing that caught him most off guard was the presence around her neck of the necklace he had bought her so many years prior. He tried to calm his still-racing heart and offered a casual reply. "I've been asking myself the same question. I came with a colleague. So how are you?"
It could have been his imagination, but she seemed to be regarding him in a slightly different way than on New Year's. She did not seem as nervous. "Well, apart from being very disappointed not to see my favourite reindeer jumper again… I'm well."
This snappy retort was so like the Bridget he'd known and loved he didn't even notice at first how disparaging it was. He supposed he'd deserved it after the insult he'd delivered to her on New Year's Day. Between this and how stunning she looked he was quite distracted and could not think of a reply, from which he was saved by a woman's nasally voice:
"Anyone going to introduce me?"
The woman, obviously from a wealthy family of some standing, was blonde, slightly rotund with a ruddy complexion. She looked between Mark and Bridget, waiting for said introduction. After a moment's hesitation—during which Mark became convinced it was he this woman wanted to know, not Bridget—introductions were made.
"Ah, Perpetua," said Bridget with an obviously forced smile. He recognised this as Natasha's friend's name. "Uh, this is Mark Darcy. Mark's a top barrister. Oh, he comes from Grafton Underwood." He supposed she thought she was being clever in this introduction (with its somewhat mocking tone), as this was likely what her mother had repeated to her ad infinitum. She then turned her gaze to Mark. "Perpetua is one of my work colleagues."
Perpetua's eyes lit up. "Oh, Mark, I know you by reputation, of course."
At this, Bridget seemed slightly taken aback. He did not venture a guess why, though reasoned it was closely connected with her previously mocking tone.
At that moment, his companion for the evening returned. In an effort to keep the introductions going, he said, "Natasha. This is Bridget Jones. Bridget, this is Natasha. Natasha is a top attorney and specialises in family law. Bridget works in publishing and used to play naked in my paddling pool." At the conclusion, he sipped his wine, feeling slightly smug at her startled expression. He could verbally parry, too.
Natasha blinked in her own surprise. "How odd."
Bridget laughed nervously.
Unflustered, Natasha pulled Perpetua aside for a chat. Mark, however, heard nothing of what was said, because at that moment his eyes locked on a most improbable sight: his former best friend, Daniel Cleaver, whom he had not seen since he'd caught the man having sex with his new wife.
For his part, Daniel looked equally shocked to see Mark, was equally frozen and unblinking until he pulled his gaze away to ask Salman Rushdie a question before popping into what he presumed was the loo. The more Mark thought about it though, the more he realised it was not so improbable. Daniel was, after all, in the publishing business too.
Remembering his surroundings, he looked to the side, and found that Bridget had gone. He looked around and did not see her, but saw a crowd of people moving towards the main room. He thought perhaps the official launch was about to begin, so he followed them. As he entered the room, he realised Bridget was on the stage. Within a moment, she began to speak.
She had never been great at speaking in front of crowds, and coupled with her inability to keep close watch on what came out of her mouth, she was babbling away in a most incoherent manner. Mark was in turmoil. He was mortified on her behalf, but was also filled with an aching nostalgia at this reaffirmation yet again that she was the same Bridget he had always known. When she stumbled on Mr Fitzherbert's name, he wondered what she was trying desperately not to let slip from her mouth, what mental nickname she might have given him like she had for her cold-hearted arse of a teacher. There was a small level of amusement on Mark's part, too, in that what she said revealed none too subtly what she thought of the book itself.
They did not cross paths again, though he did see her one more time, standing by the drinks table, cigarette in hand and deep in thought. He knew the posture, knew the expression; she was chastising herself mentally for screwing up yet again. He made a motion to go to her, to reassure her that she hadn't screwed up as badly as she thought she had, when out of nowhere, Daniel swooped down on her, placed his hand on her hip in a very familiar manner, then swept her away towards the exit. Mark was stunned. How precisely did they know each other? Were they actually seeing one another?
How badly Mark wanted to race after them, warn Daniel that if he hurt her he would pay for it; but then he wasn't supposed to know Bridget that well at all, and how could he possibly explain such protectiveness? He considered briefly too on trying to warn her in some way not to get tangled up with a man who would be destined to break her heart, but her opinion of Mark, based on meetings thus far, did not seem all that high. It was unlikely that she would even listen.
If Daniel only knew he was leaving with the much-mocked 'childfriend'… Mark shook his head. Maybe they're just friends, he told himself, even though he knew it unlikely.
And then he wondered why he was giving it a second thought at all. It was over between them; he was dead to her, and she was clearly not interested in him without their shared history. When was he going to learn his lesson, and truly move on at last?
At that moment he felt a hand touch his forearm. He turned and saw Natasha smiling at him. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asked.
"I was just wondering if you'd like to go out for supper," he replied.
………
Without much conscious effort he found himself in something of a relationship with Natasha. They'd had a nice time at dinner; he'd had a bit too much wine and wound up spending the night at her house. Like Tamiko, she was too thin and sex with her was a little too mechanical. He also found that when they had sex, it was always he who did the initiating. He always came away feeling like she'd done him a favour by acquiescing; she honestly seemed far too concerned with not mussing her hair too much. He found this pattern of behaviour quite tedious; he wanted someone who was a little more proactive, a little more enthusiastic in the endeavour.
Despite this, he was convinced that this was exactly what he needed. He figured that perhaps she would warm over time. Clearly she adored the idea of being his girlfriend, beaming proudly when they went out together. He could be patient for the rest to fall into place.
It was some months later, the weekend of a big summer fete at the Alconburys', that he would see Bridget again in the unlikeliest of places; Natasha and he had taken a room at a nearby estate-turned-hotel, and he was quite surprised to see that Bridget—with Daniel, which made his heart sink—was there as well. When he first saw her, they'd just arrived, and her hair was snarled and windblown, but she lifted her chin and with every ounce of dignity she could muster she stomped right on by him and upstairs to their room.
Mark was distracted for the rest of the day, knowing that she and Daniel were on the premises. He hoped the pleasant, relaxing boat ride Natasha had planned would take his mind off of things.
It would prove to do exactly the opposite.
Daniel and Bridget had taken boats, too, and it was clear that they were having a wonderful, fun time. Natasha barked her disapproval but Mark only longed to be part of that fun; he missed the friendship he'd had with Daniel, but even more he missed the friend and lover he'd had in Bridget. Watching her in the boat, her hair lit up like gold, her smile rivalling the brightness of the sun itself, he was utterly captivated… and was nowhere near to being over her as he thought he had been, nowhere near to being indifferent as he thought he could be.
He fought the feelings as much as possible even though she made it very difficult for him. The following day at the picnic, she arrived curiously alone, and done up as a bunny girl; it was clear she hadn't been told that the Tarts and Vicars theme had been dropped. However, just as she had the previous day, she held her head high despite leering looks from the men and catty commentary from women, specifically from Natasha. He could only think that Bridget was how a woman ought to look, could only think how nice it was to see those curves again.
Their one and only encounter that day would leave him more determined than ever to focus on his current girlfriend. It would also leave him confused. When prompted by Una Alconbury, he honestly said to both her and to Bridget that he didn't think Daniel was good enough for her, to which Bridget retorted that Daniel would say the same about him, but added the puzzling, "given your past behaviour." As she said it, her posture brought back memories; the challenging look, the crossing of her arms over her chest, spoke of a defiance he had once known all too well.
However, he had no idea to what she could be referring, to what Daniel could have possibly told her about him. Aside from poor judgment in his first wife, the fact that he'd had a girlfriend four years younger than him during university but with whom he'd spent years and years, was about the worst thing Daniel could possibly have honestly said about Mark's track record with women.
Clearly, unsurprisingly, Daniel had not been truthful about their past.
………
Mark's plan to carry forward into the future would have worked quite well but for one fateful day, a day of explosions, of fireworks, of treason; really, Mark should have seen it coming.
Preparing for final arguments in court for the Kurdish freedom fighter in the upcoming week, he happened to be watching television in an effort to gauge the current public opinion. Television was not something he indulged in that frequently, but he thought he ought to know what the week would be bringing him outside of the courtroom.
That was when she appeared, surprising him into utter silence; she literally dropped into the scene from above down a fireman's pole. However, the cameraman was clearly not expecting her; he was too close, and she came down too fast for him to move. The screen was graced with a close-up shot of her rear end before both the cameraman and she fell to the side. She quickly recovered herself, as did the cameraman, and after a moment's babble the scene wrapped up.
After the screen changed to another story, he found that he was laughing to the point of tears, even as he wondered what on earth she was doing on television. "Oh, Bridget," he muttered to himself as he recovered his breath, "God, I miss you."
As he said it, he realised how true it was, realised no amount of time or distance was going to change how he felt about her. Perhaps it was fate, then, that that evening he had been invited to an anniversary dinner at Jeremy and Magda's—it made him a little dizzy to think it had been ten years since their wedding day—even though Jeremy had not been certain Bridget was going to be present. Natasha had been invited too. It did not mean he could not make an appeal to Bridget, if she came.
She had, in fact, turned up. Alone. It was revealed pretty quickly that she was no longer seeing Daniel, which also explained to an extent why she was no longer working in publishing. He did what he could to hint to her that he was an ally in that room of overly rabid couples, but it was not until dinner was over and she had taken leave of the party that he would get his chance to approach her.
He would in fact have his say.
He followed her downstairs and caught her putting on her coat. "I very much enjoyed your Lewisham fire report, by the way." As soon as he said it, he realised it sounded flippant, sarcastic.
She angrily yanked her coat's sash tight. "Thank you," she said without an ounce of sincerity as she turned around, frowning at him.
"I just… yeah, well. So." He decided to change tack, and asked, towering over her, "It didn't work out with Daniel Cleaver?"
She looked irritated, like she thought he was a dullard for having to ask. "No, it didn't."
In all honestly, he replied, "I'm delighted to hear it."
She was obviously even more irritated, and she let him have it: "Look, are you and Cosmo in this together? I mean, you seem to go out of your way to try to make me feel like a complete idiot every time I see you, and you really needn't bother. I already feel like an idiot most of the time anyway—with or without a fireman's pole." At that moment the doorbell buzzed. "That'll be my taxi," she said curtly. "Good night."
Having said exactly what was on her mind—as she was so good at doing, and one of those things he had always loved about her—she turned to go. He pushed down the irrational sting of her words, that she could ever think he could hurt her or think she was stupid, but she did not know him anymore. He only knew he could not let her leave this way; he didn't quite know what he would say, but knew he had to start talking. "Look, um… I'm sorry if I've been…."
It worked. She stopped. "What?" she barked.
"I don't think you're an idiot at all. I mean," he said, "there are elements of the ridiculous about you. Your mother's pretty interesting. And you really are an appallingly bad public speaker. And you tend to let whatever's in your head come out of your mouth—" At this he mimed words falling forward out of his head. "—without much consideration of the consequences. I realise that when I met you at the Turkey Curry Buffet I was unforgivably rude and…" He flashed back to that day with a renewed sense of guilt. "…wearing a reindeer jumper that my mother had given me the day before. But the thing is, um…" He faltered a little, but sallied forth. "… what I'm trying to say—very inarticulately—is that, um… in fact… perhaps, despite appearances… I like you. Very much."
To his surprise, she had begun to smirk. "Ahh," she said knowingly. "Apart from the smoking, and the drinking, and the vulgar mother… and the verbal diarrhoea—"
"No," he interrupted firmly. "I like you very much—just as you are."
Judging by her reaction at the end of his little speech—blank, unblinking stare, slightly agape mouth—he seemed to have hit a target of sorts. He wondered, though, by her odd, faraway look, that if his closing phrase hadn't verged dangerously close to stirring the somnambulist.
He did not care. If the phrase stirred some memory in her that Lacuna had missed, all the better.
She said nothing more after he finished. She would not have a chance before he was summoned back to after-dinner coffee in a most humiliating manner by Natasha, snapping her fingers and calling him upstairs as if he were an errant puppy. It was something that Bridget would never have done, and something she looked quite horrified by.
As he sipped his coffee, ate his dessert, he continued to wonder about whether or not his words had had an effect. As it turned out, he would only have to wonder for another four days, which was when he ended up encountering her again. It was the day of the verdict in his big case… and it also happened to be her thirty-third birthday.
………
It was only supposed to be a quick stop for cigarettes for Eleanor Heaney, the wife of the man he'd successfully defended that day, but when the woman in the queue in front of him turned to him, when he saw who she was, he found himself a bit at a loss for words. He only politely said, "Good afternoon."
Bridget too seemed a little stunned, so stunned that her internal editor slipped and she muttered almost breathily, "Hi. You like me just the way I am."
Disbelieving that he had heard her refer to his comment of a few nights' prior, he replied, "Sorry?"
"Nothing," she said quickly and with some embarrassment. It appeared she might have said more, but her cameraman and sound man showed up to advise her that the man they'd been there to interview, Mark's own client, was already gone. She looked completely crestfallen. "Oh God," she lamented. "I'll be sacked. Did the others get interviews?"
He couldn't stand the thought of Bridget getting sacked. Coming out of his reverie, he said, "Actually, nobody got interviews."
She looked both surprised and sceptical. "How do you know?"
"Because I was defending him and I told him not to give any interviews."
At her open-mouthed look of shock, he decided at that moment to allow her to interview him. He knew her honesty and her integrity, and she would do right by them.
The interview went very well. He was pleased to discover that she was genuinely touched by Kafir's story, and not trying to use this to simply advance her career; she was actually tearing up as they talked. He found himself distracted by her very presence during the interview, but what surprised him was that she seemed to be distracted by him, too. He could not believe his eyes.
He thought about it the rest of the day, as he saw Kafir and his wife home, as he picked up a newspaper at the newsstand… and before he'd quite realised it, he was standing in front of the building for which his mother had so slyly provided him the address.
This is where she lives, he thought; he wondered if she'd been here all this time since they'd split. He went to the building door and found it unlocked; it was further reassurance that he was meant to be there. He looked on the mailboxes and found her name, found she had the top floor flat. He went up the stairs, raised his hand to knock, and hesitated.
"Stupid," he muttered to himself. "Just knock."
She opened the door shortly after he did, and to see her splattered with something that smelled strongly of oranges was something he found charming, even as he realised it was possible she was having company come over. Maybe even a new boyfriend.
"Oh!" she said.
"The door was open," he said. What reason could he possibly give for dropping in? Suddenly inspired, he held up the newspaper. "I came to congratulate the new face of British current affairs… but I see I might have come at a bad time."
"No," she said quickly. "Just my friends. Please. Come on up."
The genuine nature of her smile, the sparkle in her eyes, told him she was sincere. His heart was pounding in his nervousness as he stepped up into her flat. If he had been shown photos of a variety of different flats, he would have picked hers out instantly; it was so homey, charming and, yes, messy, even considering she had friends coming over. She went right for the kitchen. He followed.
Her dinner preparation was not going well; she had somehow managed to produce blue soup, clumpy greenish gravy, and no main dish at all. She looked a little stressed out, so he suggested she have a drink, which he poured for her.
"Happy birthday," he blurted, raising his glass.
If she thought he shouldn't know, she didn't say anything, only said, "Thanks." She chuckled; he sighed in his relief. With great sincerity, she asked, "Did I really run 'round your lawn naked?"
"Oh yes," he said, feeling his nervousness return. "You were four and I was eight."
"Well, that's a pretty big age difference," she said, clearly teasing him. "It's quite pervy, really."
"Yes, I like to think so."
A yawing silence opened, and he realised his misstep immediately, regretting his words. However, she was kind enough to let it slide by, asking instead, "What are we going to do about this dinner, then?"
At his suggestion they ended up preparing a frittata, and as they did so, after an initial tentativeness, Mark felt himself slide into the easy comfort of being with her again; conversation was light and effortless and they joked about her mother's and Una Alconbury's gravy obsession. In her own nervousness she repeatedly tucked her hair behind her ear, something she had always done without thinking, and had twice dropped the unused block of cheese before returning it to the refrigerator. When another knock on the door sounded, his anxiety returned; what would her friends think about his being there? He looked down, adjusted his tie, and hoped they'd like him at least a little.
While clearly taken aback by his presence, they were friendly to him, regarding him in a curious way; when Tom, the man of the group, asked if he was staying, Bridget was quick to jump in with an answer in the affirmative.
Her dinner was not particularly good. The soup was bland; the frittata was egg and cheddar and thus jokingly referred to as a big omelette; and dessert tasted like a too-sweet bowl of orange marmalade. Her friends, though, didn't seem too bothered; they seemed to not be concerned with the lack of perfection, but the effort and the affection that had gone into its preparation. He was, if nothing else, glad she had friends that truly, sincerely liked her for who she was.
Tom, at the conclusion of the meal, said as he looked between her other friends Sharon and Jude, then dabbed the table napkin at the corner of his mouth, "Well done, Bridge. Four hours of careful cooking and a feast of blue soup, omelette, and marmalade."
She blushed and laughed. "Thank you."
Tom continued, "I think that deserves a toast, don't you? To Bridget… who cannot cook, but who we love… just as she is."
"To Bridget," the three friends echoed. "Just as she is."
Mark barely heard it, did not join in himself, as he looked to Bridget; Tom's toast was clearly echoing his own words from a few nights before. The implication was not only that their conversation had impressed her enough that she had told her friends all about it, but was notable enough for them to make this pointed reference to it tonight. They in turn seemed to approve of him, for which he was glad; these words had apparently been reiterated almost to encourage him. He simply gazed at her, time freezing for that moment as he considered that perhaps she really was interested in him, after all. Belatedly he realised he should partake in the toast, and with great reluctance turned his eyes away from her and brought the glass to his lips to drink.
It was then that the doorbell rang.
………
Afterwards, at home, Mark examined his reflection in the mirror. Physically, there had not been much damage done during the fight. However, he still felt quite battered and beaten down.
At the door had been Daniel, of all people, grovelling with a bottle of wine for a second chance, clearly trying to weasel his way back into her life, surprised to see Mark there but the very presence of his former friend making him seem all the more determined to win.
It was unlike Mark to resort to physical violence, but at seeing what appeared to be the possibility of success with Bridget, at thinking of what Daniel had done to him, everything had come to a head, and he had challenged Daniel to a fight.
Mark had ostensibly won the battle and knocked Daniel out, but in the end had lost the war, because it was Daniel's side she'd chosen. She'd hurled words at him about how, despite seeming nice and normal, he was no better than 'the rest of them'. Mark had heard enough. He had turned and left for home without once glancing back.
Now as he stood before his bathroom mirror, daubing peroxide at the scuffs and cuts to his face, he realised that he'd had no idea that allowing himself even the slightest amount of hope would hurt so fiercely.
It made him all the more determined to put her behind him.
When the phone rang out of the blue, when the friendly, familiar voice of Robert Abbott on the other end of the line began talking of feeling the absence of Mark's legal presence acutely, advising that Mark's ex-wife was no longer with the firm, and offering him a full partnership, he thought it might just be another sign.
He would be leaving just after Christmas, just after his parents celebrated their fortieth anniversary together, just after what would have been his own seventh wedding anniversary with Bridget, had that fateful night in July never have happened.