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 5
Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.
When next she opened her eyes, she saw he was again fully dressed, pad and pen at his side, as he scooped out what appeared to be the last forkful of his curry. "I'm taking care of everything."
"Wha?"
"Tonight."
Oh, right.
He ate that bite of curry, set down the box and fork, reached over and consulted the list he had already made.
"Let me see."
She reached and plucked the pen and paper from his hands. She couldn't read a word of his list – did lawyers have congenitally bad handwriting like doctors? – so she wrote a new list just beneath.
Things needed for Perfect New Year's Eve:
1.) Champagne.
2.) Mark Darcy.
3.) Kiss at midnight.
The final period was dotted with great flourish, then both pen and paper were handed back to him, a triumphant smile upon her face. He read her addition and looked utterly without words, something that clearly didn't happen often. "Well," he said at last, his tone serious, setting the pen and paper down on her bureau. "Don't imagine I have a leg to stand on, challenging this." Another introspective pause. "Let's go over the list, shall we? Number one. Hm. I've got something suitable in my wine cellar. Number two, present and accounted for." He leaned towards her. "And, well, no harm in continuing to practice for number three."
As she lay in bed, lazily dozing as she snuggled up with Mark, Bridget realized she had not in fact been fully dressed since Friday. A giggle escaped her. When he asked what was so funny, she told him, and he tightened his embrace. "Hm, from the outside, it might rather look like I'm holding you hostage in here as a sex slave," he said thoughtfully. She laughed again, continuing to be delightfully surprised by this man.
"Ah, but 'hostage' implies being there against one's will," she said matter-of-factly. "Though, hmm, I should ring up Jude and tell her not to count me in for anything tonight."
"Thought you said you didn't have plans…?"
"They were only the sketchiest. And as my Perfect New Year's Eve list has you on it and not Jude, Shazzer, Tom, et cetera, I can say with utmost confidence that I've chosen well."
He squeezed her again.
"Jude, it's me!" Bridget spoke into the phone in something of a ridiculous stage whisper. "Mark's sleeping."
"Still there, is he?"
"He is, Jude. He is!"
"Hmmmm! Guess there's no judging a book by its cover, hm?"
"Definitely not." Then even more quietly, "I've lost count."
Silence. Bridget imagined Jude's mouth was agape.
Finally, Jude exclaimed, "Oh my God, a veritable shagathon!"
"I know!" She looked toward the bedroom door. Ridiculous. As if he could possibly hear from there. "So… um… Mark and I are spending New Year's Eve together."
"Not coming to 192 then?" Jude did not sound shocked.
"Durr." She felt a smile creep across her lips.
"Bridge. I can hear you smiling. Just try not to be too smug about it, okay?"
"I'll try, but you've got to let me know if I do." Jude laughed. "I'm serious! It won't be easy to keep from being smug, here." She heard sounds behind her. "I should go."
"Ta, Bridge. Happy New Year."
"Happy New Year."
She set the receiver down and felt a hand graze her hip.
"'Smug', hmm?"
She blushed as she turned to face him.
"Darling, you don't have to sneak around and make secret phone calls to your friends or they will think I'm holding you captive."
She raised her hand to caress his cheek with her fingertips, an inexplicable frisson of delight running through her core at the term of endearment. "I know. Just didn't want to wake you."
He effected a stern expression. "It's six o'clock in the evening. I shouldn't be sleeping anyway." He briefly embraced her, planting a kiss on the top of her head. "How about dinner outside of our little bolt-hole? I have yet to take you on a date."
She grinned playfully. The idea of a first date at this juncture was somewhat comical. "Well, there is the Greek place across the street…"
He looked grim. "Sounds fantastic, except I think I'm still persona non grata there."
"Ooooh, right." She reflected upon the options. As close as they were, pizza and curry were out of the running because a.) they'd already had both and b.) they were takeaway. Local options were dwindling; she didn't want to have to do an immense amount of travel. Then she had a brainstorm. "How about the pub downstairs?"
"Yes. Yes." He looked contemplative. "It's close while still being out, and far less formal than, say, Hintlesham Hall, which is probably booked solid for New Year's Eve…."
Hintlesham Hall! One of those upper echelon places she never thought she'd see the inside of. She suddenly felt the usual insecurity welling up, paired with a strong desire to go.
Transparent as glass, he'd said before. "Unless you'd rather I'd try…?" he asked.
"No, no, the pub is just fine." Her tone sounded like she thought otherwise, and she avoided meeting his eye.
"Is there something else?"
She took in a breath, looked to him. This was it. Worst case scenarios flashed past her mind's eye, of him seeing the error of his ways, fleeing for home for a three-day-long decontamination shower. "Be honest, Mark. Would I really fit in with your crowd at Hintlesham Hall, with my mad hair and, well, Brazil-sized bottom?"
She waited as he considered her intently, until finally he said with serious conviction, "I do not sleep with women who have mad hair. I happen to like your bottom as it is, and you'd fit in because I say you would." Her insecurities were beaten back into submission for the time being. Patting her bottom as if to underscore the point, he added, "Now get dressed, and let's see if we can't get through one whole meal without stopping to, well, you know – shag."
Bridget almost fell over in shock. He'd actually said the word.