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 3
Sunday 31 Dec
Oh, bollocks.
There was the sun, shining defiantly from a place in the sky that confidently told Bridget that not only was morning but that it was certainly past the time for her to be up and getting ready to meet her mother. And there was a head full of short, wavy brown hair impeding her ability to sit up on the sofa where they'd fallen asleep.
She whispered desperately, "Mark! Mark!"
He jerked awake. "Oh, damn." He sat up, combing his hair back with his fingers, as she apologized at great length for keeping him another night when clearly he had a lot of important things to do for the week ahead and—
He stopped her from talking by kissing her. "Bridget. Don't look so distressed. I can ring up Jeremy," he said quietly. "Everything else can wait. I'd rather stay with you."
She was nonplussed. "Are you sure?"
"Absolutely." He seemed to consider something for a moment, his fingers stroking his chin. "Though I may need to pop home and grab a few things. Like my razor. Some clean clothes. And restock on… other items." He cleared his throat. "And you, Bridget, you must summon the best phony cough you can rally and ring your mum that you're sick…"
Mark Darcy, advocating truancy for a family obligation? It seemed so very wrong. The man was filled with all sorts of surprises. Like the words that he spoke next.
"…because right now, I can't get enough of you."
Having done an admirable job of playing sick over the phone, Bridget stood by the window. She'd intended on showering while Mark ran his errands, but she could do little more than gaze lazily out onto the snowy street below with an indelible grin on her face. She was dressed in nothing but the turtleneck shirt he'd worn when he'd arrived (which came halfway down her thighs), her arms wrapped around herself almost as a placeholder until he returned – she'd sent him home in only his undershirt, trousers and coat, insisting on keeping the shirt while he was gone.
The phone connected to the front door intercom buzzed, bringing her from her reverie, and she hopped to answer it. "Come on up!" she said, pressing the button to open it without thinking.
She swung open the door of her flat, huge grin on her face and was suddenly horrified to see not Mark Darcy heading up, but…
Oh no. It was her mother, who chose that moment to look up and engage her daughter's eyes. There was no time to change or cover up, let alone straighten up the flat.
"You're alive! Thank goodness!" she exclaimed in her usual overly-dramatic way. Indicating a brown paper bag folded over at the top, she continued, "I thought maybe you'd like a bit of comfort food, always liked this when you were a small girl— Bridget! What's that you have on?"
The urge to slam the door shut in her mother's face became overwhelming, but it was too late; her mother strode across the threshold.
"Did you hear me, darling? What are you wearing?"
"Um…" She pushed up the sleeves in order to hide the fact that they hung down past her fingertips.
Pamela looked around, spotting Mark's forgotten scarf and definitely-man-sized leather gloves resting on the blue chair, the pizza box, two wine glasses, and the overall more-than-usual disarray of the flat. She may have been a flighty woman but she was not unobservant, and quickly put together two plus two. "Oh. Ohhhh. I sense I've come at a… bad time." In a lower tone, she added, her tone scolding, "You're not sick at all, are you?"
"No mum, I'm not. Sorry for the fib." Noticing her mother was looking very nervously around herself, Bridget added, "Don't worry, there's no one else here now."
Her mother's face brightened. "You did get my message then?" At Bridget's nod, she continued, "Fabulous news, isn't it? Though, well, I suppose you don't think so now…" Her gaze connected with the wine glasses accusingly.
Why did she hesitate to tell her mother that the man she'd been trying to fix Bridget up with for the better part of eighteen months was the same man whose arrival back to her flat was imminent at best? Perhaps she liked having this little secret all to herself, an oasis in the world of insanity in which she normally resided.
However, she resigned herself to the inevitable. "No, mum. You see… in fact…"
The front door intercom buzzed again. "Ah. Just one moment." She returned to the phone and raised it to her ear, this time offering a greeting and waiting for a response.
"Bridge, it's Tom."
"Tom!"
Her mother's head snapped around at the sound of Tom's name, then looked back to last night's leftovers. Bridget knew what Pamela was thinking and shook her head vigorously. (It was Pamela's opinion that if Tom just stopped "being lazy" he could find a woman and drop that "homo" business. Best to derail that train of thought before it left the station.) "Tom," she continued in a whisper. "It's not the best time. I'll try to call you later."
"Oh, is Mr. Tall-Dark-&-Handsome still— well, no," Tom's tone changed to bewildered, "of course he's not, because he's walking this way. What is going on?"
"Mother. Is. Here," she hissed sub-audibly into the phone.
Tom realized the seriousness of the situation immediately. "Right. Well, I'll just ring you up later or something, as you've got your hands full here." Just the slightest hint of double entendre, damn that man. "I'll give you to Mark."
After a moment of silence, during which Bridget could hear Tom give Mark a hissed "Mother!" warning, Mark's authoritative voice came on the line. "Bridget, pretend I'm still Tom and pretend I need to desperately meet you for coffee. When I see your mother leave, I'll ring again."
She smiled conspiratorially, filled with a bursting adoration for him. Obviously he didn't want to let her mother in on their little secret just yet, either. Obediently she said, in the most serious voice she could muster, "Yes, Tom, I'll come down soon as I can. Right. Coins, in twenty minutes. Bye."
Bridget turned with pleading eyes to her mother, who amazingly had been silent during this entire exchange. "Mother, Tom's having a major crisis with Jerome, and an urgent tête-à-tête is required. I appreciate the lunch but I need to get myself together and head down there."
"You will be down for the buffet?"
"I'll be there," she advised in a resigned tone. She reached over, pecked Pamela on the cheek, and corralled her mother out the door in a manner Pamela herself would have been proud of.
Several minutes later, the phone buzzed again. She answered with a neutral, "Hello?"
"The coast is clear, as they say."
She pressed the button to allow Mark passage.
He entered wearing a navy cotton jumper and blue jeans (Blue jeans! Really, she thought she'd seen everything) and bearing a little travel case (Tom would never let her hear the end of this one). He shed the coat, and as she flew into his arms, the smoothness of his cheek and slight dampness of his hair as she threaded her fingers through it told her he'd stopped to shower and shave.
"Mission accomplished," he murmured. "Jeremy assures me they'll have me back as of the second."
"Bloody brilliant," she replied, relieved.
He stepped away from her and surveyed every inch of her. She knew she looked no different than she had when he left. With mock sternness, he said, "Please tell me you didn't spend the whole three hours mooning and staring vacuously out of the window."
She tried to effect an indignant expression but failed because he was completely right. "I also phoned mum sick, practically verge-of-death sick! I was really good, so good my mother came, you saw her, and—!"
He laughed, short and sharp, took her by the shoulders and directed her towards the bathroom. "As fetching as you are in my shirt, it's time for shampoo and soap, Ms. Jones. And it is only the height of restraint on my part that I'm not going to join you to personally supervise the process."