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 4
Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.
The hot water felt like a blessing as it sluiced over her blonde hair and ran down the length of her body. She hadn't really realized how much she needed the heat and steam of a full-on shower. She was ashamed to admit it, but she was sore all over; it was a good kind of sore, but sore nonetheless. Out of shape, out of practice, but she didn't care. Every aching muscle was well worth it. Squeezing herbal shampoo into the palm of her hand, she languidly lathered up, fighting the impulse to wash up as quickly as possible and rush back out to him. He'd amply demonstrated that he really wasn't going anywhere, and if he did go, he came back.
She fell into a daydream as she traced the soapy loofah over her skin, revisiting the whirlwind of hours since he'd turned up on her doorstep, how surprisingly ardent he was, how patiently understanding, and how much he clearly adored just being with her. She could easily fall in love with him.
With the loofah midway down her raised calf, she froze as the very thought thwapped her between the eyes. Surely too soon for that…? She shook her head. No sense in over-thinking things.
After running the a razor over her legs and under her arms, she wrapped her terrycloth robe around herself, cinched it closed, and turbaned her hair into a towel. She looked at herself in the mirror. For once she was momentarily convinced she saw, instead of a slightly chubby blonde thirty-something Singleton, a happy young woman. Hmmm.
When she stepped outside of the humid warmth of the bathroom and padded towards the living room to find Mark, she realized something seemed enormously different. She couldn't immediately place what it was, but then it came to her: the flat had been straightened up to the point where it didn't look like a tornado had blown through. The blankets were folded neatly over one arm of the sofa, and with his head resting on folded elbow on said blankets, Mark was apparently sound asleep. He must have cleaned at record speed, then sat to wait for her to finish in the bathroom. Certainly he was the first man she'd ever had clean up the place after shagging, a record two days of shagging, no less. She was extraordinarily touched by the gesture.
She sat beside him, placing a warm pink hand on his jeaned knee. His eyes flickered open, and when he saw her, he mumbled apologies and sat up straight. "Nice look on you," he quipped, placing his hand over hers.
She was about to reply when her stomach made a rather rude rumbling sound; her face blazed in response. Instinctively she placed her free hand on her abdomen. "Sorry. Not very attractive."
Mark patted the hand on his knee. "It's been a while since coffee and chocolate croissant this morning. I'm hungry, myself." He stood, pulled her up by the hand, then pressed his lips to the back of it. "Why don't I venture into the bag and serve it up while you get dressed?"
"Brave soul." She smiled warmly, watching him walk towards the dining table, where the paper sack containing the mystery lunch sat. "And on the subject of things domestic, thanks for tidying up. It's so small here it doesn't take long to get mussed and for me to start feeling like it's all closing in on me."
As he picked the bag up, he looked to her again, appearing quite serious and thoughtful. "I don't think it's too small at all. It's cosy and full of character. I rather like being here."
"And I rather like you being here."
They smiled at one another until she forced herself to turn towards the bedroom, realizing that if he'd been closer she might have been tempted to ravish him again. She was hopeless. Once in her room, she divested herself of her robe and towel. Finger-combing her damp locks away from her face, she knew they were still a tousled half-hearted mess, and that frustrated her: why should Most Perfect Man have to suffer looking at grotesque yeti? Despite his protestations, she knew that men liked well-groomed women and she was feeling anything but. Maybe he'd give her a little time in the bathroom. Surely he'd understand.
After some digging, she pulled on a pair of pants and khaki-coloured casual cotton slacks. She had just fastened her bra and retrieved a long sleeved rayon pullover to wear when she realized a rapidly approaching Mark was speaking to her. She turned to face the door, holding the shirt up in front of her. Her hair was not only mad but wet, and she was only half-dressed. Her expression was undoubtedly one of mortification. It was one thing to seduce a man fresh out of the shower, but to be disheveled and between stages of dress, hair wild and sopping, seemed anything but sultry.
"…appears to be steak and kidney pie for one, Bridget. I— sorry, didn't mean to— um." He cleared his throat, standing there in the doorway holding a Styrofoam clamshell food container; he seemed to be memorizing every square inch of her, or possibly staring in shock. His voice much quieter, he added, "I was just going to say I don't care much for steak and kidney pie."
Rather than abandoning her in terror, he dropped the clamshell into the bedroom trashbin, took the shirt from her hands, and tossed it onto the bed. He enfolded her into his arms, nuzzling into her neck and nibbling at her earlobe. She felt fingers fumbling with the bra clasp and her knees went wobbly all over again.
"I thought you said you were hungry," she managed between sighs, feeling the bed at the backs of her legs.
He had found success with the clasp and now his hands slipped to the waist of her khaki trousers, pushing them down over her hips.
In a low voice, he said, "I should have specified what for."
Damp terrycloth heaped on the floor. Her mother would scream bloody murder.
A voice penetrated the haze: "I really am quite famished now."
They were sprawled upon the bed with her half across him, her arm across his chest, her leg over his, and her face mere inches away from his on the pillow. Her eyes were closed, thinking briefly of the towel and robe but mostly about the tingling in her toes. She grunted noncommittally.
"Bridget, did you hear me?"
She raised her head, opened her eyes, and looked at him. "Sorry. All three of you will have to wait on lunch for just a bit longer."
He smiled, raising his hand to caress her face. "I'll take you out."
She thought about it momentarily, imagining the acrobatics her once-wet hair had achieved after that session. There was also the matter of her legs and the fact that she did not seem to have regained control of them yet, though she tried. Wiggling her toes was about as far as she got. "Hm. Not sure I can walk at the moment."
Gently he slipped out from beneath her. "Right. Curry takeaway it is."
"It's New Year's Eve," he said quite apropos of nothing as they ate yellow curried chicken and naan right there in bed. He'd found a tee shirt for her to slip on and her legs were covered by the sheets, while he had dressed again in his jumper and blue jeans to fetch their very late lunch. He was sitting by her side on the edge of the bed, facing her, with one foot tucked under himself and one foot on the floor.
"Yes, that's true." Honestly, she'd kind of lost track of time.
He looked down into his takeaway container, fishing his fork around in a fidgety way as if attempting to sort the remaining chicken bits into their respective sizes. "I suppose you already have plans?" he asked at last.
She thought of the previous year, being alone, getting pissed and singing badly along with adult contemporary radio. She also vaguely remembered tentative plans with Tom, Jude, Vile Richard, Shazzer and Simon that involved going down to 192 in an attempt to avoid the same fate this year. She swallowed her mouthful. "I don't, actually."
"Ah." He continued fidgeting. "Don't suppose you'd want to spend it with me, hm?" He finally looked up, hope in his big brown eyes.
She would be utterly powerless to refuse anything he asked at this point (as if she'd wanted to), but kept her voice neutral nonetheless. "What did you have in mind?"
"Well… my initial thoughts" – his eyes flicked down to appraise her – "involved considerably more clothing: dinner amongst the social elite, champagne flutes clinking at the stroke of midnight in a room full of sparkling evening gowns and crisp tuxedos, that sort of thing. Frankly, I'd rather have a root canal. So I amend my offer and suggest perhaps a quiet night in, right here, with you."
"Hmmm." She bit her lip and lowered her lunch to her lap. The prospect of a fancy New Year's Eve out on Mark's arm was absolutely delicious to ponder. She hadn't been out socially on a New Year's Eve in ages. But the thought of finding the right thing to wear in practically a moment's notice and not looking like a sausage link, not to mention meeting and mingling with all of those high society women, was enormously stressful. She was suddenly reminded of the Kafka's Motorbike book launch, the evening from hell concluding in one of the biggest mistakes she'd ever made, and the choice became clear.
She narrowed her eyes and said with mock seriousness, "I don't know. I may need some convincing."
In a most atypical manner, he raised a single eyebrow. He took her curry container away, set it down along with his, and slipped out of the jumper and undershirt. Bridget fought very hard to keep her true thoughts from reflecting in her features, and crossed her arms across her chest and leaned back against the pillows. He reached over, tugged the bed sheet down, ran one single hand up along her hip, the other pulling her arms away from her chest, and he bent over to kiss her.
Within minutes the jumper was joined by a pair of blue jeans and an old rock concert tee shirt. A little while later, Bridget announced as she tried to recover her breath, "I accept your offer, Mr. Darcy."