The Space Between Chapter 6: Part 6, a bridget jones' diary fanfic

The Space Between

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 6

Sunday 31 Dec, Cont.

They strolled from the pub hand in hand. The snow around them seemed to glow with an ethereal light, despite the sun's setting some hours ago. Bridget found it somewhat magical. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold, their breath clouding in a trail behind their heads as their feet crunched in the snow.

"I'm excited to see your place," Bridget said.

He shrugged. "It's kind of lonely. You'll see what I mean."

They stopped at the front walk of a house she'd passed many times before, each time gawking like a tourist and wondering who lived in such a grand place. She could hardly believe her eyes. Why on earth were they were spending all of their time in her tiny flat?

On the porch were two small holiday-themed gift bags that he picked up. He peeked inside of one, muttered a "Oh, holy Jesus" under his breath, and set them down on a table just inside the door. She followed closely behind him, feeling that holding on to his hand was the only thing that was keeping her from tripping over her own feet. The inside was just as dazzling and flawless as the outside, with furniture, wall hangings and draperies that probably cost more than she made in a year. Maybe even two.

In the front room, he released her hand, kept walking, and said, "I'll be but a moment."

Breathlessly, she said, "Oh, Mark, this place is amazing!"

He stopped, turned, and smiled. "I'd still rather be in your flat. For its size, it has none of the personality your place has." He headed for the kitchen.

She slipped off her coat and gingerly set it on a chair. She felt like she was in a museum, honestly afraid to touch anything for fear of ruining it. She did a circuit of the room. There were just a few framed photos of Mark and his parents, pretty lamps on end tables, clever books on shelves, but the more she looked around, the more she realized he'd been absolutely right: the place had no life to it, no soul. It was quite empty.

"All set."

She turned, feeling as if she'd been caught doing something forbidden. She realized that he had a lot more than just a bottle in his hand. He had two paper grocery sacks, the gift bags under his arm and he was grinning like a fool.

"I made some… arrangements while you were asleep earlier," he confessed. He indicated one of the smaller bags. "And this is from my mother. It's for you. I make my sincerest apologies in advance."

"Your mother? Why would your mother—?" Her mouth formed a perfect O as the reason became crystal clear. "Oh Mark, you didn't."

"I'm sorry." He looked uneasy. "I called her while I was here earlier, and I couldn't keep myself from talking about you."

"Oh my God." It was not his mother that she had a problem with. However, his mother would inevitably talk to her mother. And then— "My mother will never let me hear the end of it for not ringing her up immediately and telling her."

In an extremely penitent tone, he offered, "I asked her not to say anything to your mother. You know my mother; she won't."

Relief washed over her, re-solidifying his status as Most Perfect Man Ever (or Space Alien, however one chose to look at it). Earnestly she said, "Mark, I could kiss you. I will kiss you. Thank you."

"I do know what's good for me." His eyes sparkled when he smiled.

Always one happy for a present, she pointed to the colorful gift bag. "So what is it? Your reaction before left a lot to be desired."

"Remember: she means well," he stated cryptically, shifting both grocery bags to one hand and handing her the gift bag with her name on it.

She opened the package and pulled the object up in horror. It was her very own tacky holiday jumper, this one with a snowman wearing a scarf. Not just a scarf, but a three-dimensional scarf that protruded out from the sweater. "I have one that matches," he added helpfully, pulling another out of the second bag.

"Can I open my eyes yet?"

"Not yet."

Bridget sat at her dining room table, eyes squeezed shut, as she heard the bustle around her of Mark preparing whatever it was he had picked up at the store. She heard the clink of glasses (had he brought those too?) and the thunk of the bottle onto the table; also heard was some plastic rustling, cardboard folding and other sounds that were not so easily identified.

"Okay. Open your eyes."

She did and was stunned. He had a impressive little spread set out of finger foods: prosciutto and basil wrapped in mozzarella cheese and cut into slices, stone-ground wheat crackers with sun-dried tomato dip, Greek olives, marinated mushrooms and, in a small gold box, Belgian chocolates. He'd set up an array of candles and switched the lamp off, so the room glowed a beautiful amber. The centerpiece, though, was comprised of two stunning crystal flutes on either side of a bottle of champagne. She squinted her eyes, looking more closely at the bottle. It was either the best counterfeit she'd ever seen, or—

"Mark, is that Dom Perignon?"

"It is."

She felt her mouth gape in disbelief. "And you just sort of had a bottle… lying around?"

Looking pleased, he replied, "I was saving it for a special occasion. And as I'd never made it onto a Perfect New Year's Eve list before, well, here we are."

She had no retort to that, and instead turned her attention to the food (as was a long ingrained habit), scooping some dip with a cracker. She grabbed a few olives and popped them into her mouth. She picked up a slice of the mozzarella and prosciutto roll, and took a bite. All of it was divine, and not a beetroot cube, mini-gherkin or stuffed onion amongst the lot. She could only manage an "Mmmmmm" in approval.

"I'm glad you like it. Ah." He looked at his watch. "Five minutes to go, Bridget. I think you need a party hat." Out of the bag he pulled up a glittery cardboard tiara in the most amazingly garish shade of turquoise blue, and a sparkling red top hat for himself, the words HAPPY NEW YEAR emblazoned on both.

She set her new tiara on top of her head. He handed her a noisemaker, which she spun around on its handle to reveal an awful grinding clatter. That, she supposed, was the point. He picked up a fringed blowout that unrolled when blown into, which he demonstrated for her. It made a pathetic sound rather like a dying tuba. "Where did you get all of this?" she said, chuckling.

"A man can't reveal all of his secrets, Bridget."

He grinned slyly, grabbed the bottle of champagne and peeled back the foil. Popping the cork, he filled both flutes and handed one to her. She set her noisemaker down and took it. He glanced down to his watch again, looked to Bridget, held up his flute, and said, "To new beginnings."

They clinked glasses and sipped. With his eye still on the watch, he murmured, "5— 4— 3— 2— 1."

Then he kissed her deeply, the fizz of the champagne still on his lips.

Perfect.

Monday 1 January

There was, Bridget decided, a very good reason that Dom Perignon cost what it did. It was smooth and dry, and the buzz was supremely good. They were sitting (perhaps somewhat precariously) on the edge of the table, the champagne and the food (both three quarters gone) between them.

"Here, have the last one." He held a chocolate between his finger and thumb, which he offered to her. She opened her mouth and he fed it to her. She closed her lips around his finger, her teeth grazing his skin as he withdrew it.

"Bridget, you're a naughty girl," he said, his voice suddenly gravelly.

She leaned in towards him. "Is this a complaint…?"

"Just a point of fact." He emptied the rest of the champagne into their flutes, and he surprised her by drinking his down practically in one swallow, his paper top hat tumbling back to the floor. He then hopped down from the table, set his flute down, then turned around to face her. He scrutinized the table, then looked back to her in a calculating fashion, put a hand on each knee to separate them, and stepped as close to her as he could. Placing his hands on her waist and pulling her forward, he kissed her and said close into her ear, "Come on. Your table wouldn't survive the experience."

Feeling quite giddy, she threw back her head and laughed out loud. After knocking back her own champagne, she wrapped her legs around his waist. He lifted her up and carried her towards her bedroom, a bit unsteady on his feet, which might have had less to do with the drink and more to do with the fact that they kissed the for the entire journey, apart from one utterance he made which perplexed her: "I am drinking stars."

Note:

The puzzling quote I found online at www . thorntonwine . com /facts-wines-champagnes.html (emphasis mine):

In the late 17th century, Dom Perignon discovered that by blending the wine from several of his best vineyards, he could produce a wine greater than any of its components. Intrigued by its naturally sparkling tendencies and helped along by the introduction of glass bottles and corks, Dom Perignon is credited with developing the méthode champenoise, allowing his exquisite cuvée to ferment in individual bottles. 

When he first tasted his champagne, Dom Perignon is said to have exclaimed, "I am drinking stars!"