The Space Between
by S. Faith ©2006
Disclaimer: It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.
A look at what might have happened between the end of Bridget Jones' Diary and the beginning of Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason.
Part 2
Saturday 30 Dec, Cont.
The sun was fully risen when she next awakened, and this time, the bed beside her was empty. Moment of terror. Meekly she called out, "Mark?" She grabbed the sheet and wrapped it around herself, tiptoeing to the threshold of the bedroom. 'Please don't be gone, please don't let there be a note tacked to the fridge saying "GAH! Hugest mistake ever!"—'
She called out again, "Mark?"
…and then she stopped.
What was that smell? Bacon? She furrowed her brow. She went into the kitchen to see that Mark, dressed in an undershirt and uncharacteristically wrinkled trousers, was hovering over her range as if he were cooking. Wait a minute… he was cooking! Mmm! Breakfast! Coffee! Hunger got the best of her, and she padded towards him just as he turned. He took her in with an approving look, and she realized she had been so concerned he was gone that she hadn't bothered to check what a fright she must have looked. "Good morning, Bridget," he said. Her heart flip-flopped.
She smiled timidly, wanting to dive into the bathroom to brush her teeth, comb her hair or even shower, but for some reason remained rooted in place.
"Hope you're hungry for eggs and bacon."
She nodded.
"Milk in your coffee? Sugar?"
She nodded again.
"Cat got your tongue? Or maybe…" He mimed patting down his own trouser pockets. "Hm. Nope, don't have it."
"Sorry, no," she admitted with a sigh, feeling pathetic, smoothing down peaks and horns of hair with one hand and holding the sheet up at chest level with the other. "I just can't imagine what a sight I must be… and look at you, being all sweet and perfect and making breakfast."
"Come here." She did just that and he cupped her face in his hand, lifting her chin. "You won't believe me, but you look absolutely…. Hmm… may I suggest you do put something on before I forget that I care about burning breakfast?"
Mark served up breakfast on her little-used dinner plates on the dining room table, she now clad in her pyjamas. He sat at the head and she sat to his left, the corner between them. She dug in with great vigour and honestly hadn't tasted anything so wonderful in eons, but that might have had to do more with the appetite she'd worked up than anything else. She told him so.
"I was highly motivated to make a good impression," he said.
"Oh, you succeeded." His smile told her he knew she meant more than breakfast. She sipped her coffee, and popped the last bit of a toast point into her mouth. Then she thought for a moment. "Did I actually have eggs, bacon, bread and coffee?"
"No."
She furrowed her brow. "Then where…?"
"The market down the street. I appropriated your keys." She saw the corner of his mouth turn up wryly.
They continued to eat for a number of comfortably quiet minutes, until he raised his eyes to her and their gazes met. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling at a loss for words. In the past, the 'morning after' for Bridget had often been weird, awkward, and even at times nonexistent. Thus far it hadn't been any of those things. Mark was different than most in many ways, but especially in that she wasn't anxious for him to leave; rather, she was anxious that he would. She didn't want to do or say anything that would hasten his departure.
Admittedly, though she really liked him and he clearly liked her, they didn't really know each other all that well. The number of times they'd encountered one another over the last year could probably be counted on one hand. He was a barrister, while she worked in tabloid television. What did they really have in common? Oh God. He'd probably get bored and leave before too long. He was also used to hobnobbing with the social elite; she felt emphatically common, and decided on the spot to never use the word 'shag' again.
"So," she said with a calm she did not feel.
"So," he repeated.
She asked the first thing she thought of: "Did you sleep well?" Gah! As if he were merely a guest who stayed the night on her sofa. Immediate regret washed over her.
He only smiled again. "I slept very well indeed." After a beat, he added, "That is, when I actually slept."
Slight embarrassment mixing with pride, she looked down. "Um."
"I'm not complaining." He reached out a hand and brushed the backs of his fingers along her cheek, then lifted her chin up with his fingertips. His gaze had become mesmerizing and smoky, and she was unable to break it. "Not complaining at all."
Maybe conversation was overrated.
She met him halfway as he bent towards her. She felt his eager fingertips at the back of her head, which traveled down to her shoulder to settle on her hand, and he took it in his own. He stood and pulled her to her feet.
The uneaten remains of breakfast grew quite cold.
Grateful for a chance to do a bit of bathing, Bridget left Mark sleeping off his intercontinental exhaustion to step under the tap with a washcloth and a bar of soap. She had washed herself up in the tub, then had gotten as far as scrubbing her face at the sink when she heard footsteps outside the bathroom and a voice calling for her.
"I'll be right out." She splashed warm water on her face, blotted it with a towel, and with the comforter from the bed wrapped around her shoulders, she opened the door and looked to him inquisitively. He had a cotton sheet around his waist.
"Was just wondering where you'd gone. Ah." He spotted the washcloth beside the sink basin. He stood against the door jamb, arms folded across his chest, his expression one of satisfaction.
"Was just feeling a bit crummy," she said, her fingertips running along his forearm. "All better now."
He reached out to take her into his arms, planting a kiss on her temple, inhaling deeply. "Yes indeed."
Later, he commented languorously, "I don't know what sort of soap you use, but I just may have to buy stock in it."
Thank God for delivery.
They sat curled together on the sofa under a blanket, eating pepperoni and cheese pizza, drinking wine, and half-watching the news on the telly. The sun had long gone down on the best day of Bridget's life so far, and it showed no signs of ending yet. As they kicked the empty box away and snuggled sleepily on the couch together, Mark spoke. "Bridget, I have regrettable news."
She sat up, turned to look at him, slight alarm evident on her face while his own was oddly impassive. As if sensing her unease, he continued, "It isn't anything major. I just… I'll have to go home soon. I have a lot to do this week, including a trip to Inns at Court."
She felt suddenly, irrationally guilty. She was glad that he had returned from New York for her – Most Perfect Man and all, and without a doubt Best Shag Ever – but he'd given up so much. Watching her features play this drama across her face, he smiled and stroked her hair, patting down stray wisps. "Bridget, you are as transparent as a pane of glass. I'm confident I'll be invited back. I haven't made a single sacrifice I didn't want to, or couldn't afford to."
He leaned forward to kiss her when the telephone rang shrilly, giving them both a start.
"I'll let the answerphone get it." Most sensible thing she ever said.
He nodded, moved towards her again, then was startled by—
"Hellooooo darling!" Oh, heavens. It was her slightly off-center mother, Pamela. "Sorry you aren't in, because I've got wonderful news! Just heard from Elaine Darcy that her Mark is back, back!, from New York! He's left behind that harpy, and with the Turkey Curry Buffet in two days, you may just get another chance! See you at lunch tomorrow, darling! Byeeee!"
Stunned silence, followed by howls of laughter erupting from the sofa. If she only knew. Radiant and flush, and still grinning, they moved to kiss once more.
The bloody phone, again. Answerphone, again.
All that could be heard this time was, well, what sounded like smooching sounds, then the unmistakable voice of Jude: "Briiiiiiidget! Didn't go to Paris after all! We're at 192 – come down!" Then Sharon: "Well, if you want to fucking come up for air!" Laughter nearly obliterated Tom's voice, fainter, further away in the background: "I wouldn't!" Sounded like they'd had a head start on drinking. The call then disconnected.
Bridget turned purple with embarrassment. 'Will kill them. Slowly. Painfully.'
Mark looked a bit self-conscious himself. Clearly he was not used to having his personal interactions with women analyzed from every angle. "Well, I'm sure they're just… dying to pry information out of you, what happened after they left."
"Oh, undoubtedly. But some things a girl likes to keep to herself. Besides, Shazzer's right." She swung her leg over to straddle his lap, leaned forward and kissed him. "I don't want to come up for air just yet," she said tenderly.