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 7
Monday 1 January
"Bridget, wake up."
His voice came to her as if through a pool of water into which depth charges were being dropped. She blinked blearily, mumbling, "Uhhhdonwanna—comebaktobed."
"I have three words for you. Turkey. Curry. Buffet."
"Oh, shit." She sat bolt upright. That had gotten her attention. She had been so wrapped up in her little weekend of heaven that she had completely forgotten about the Turkey Curry Buffet, even after her mother's prompting. She glanced at the nightstand clock and saw that she was expected to be there in less than three hours. "Double shit!"
She threw back the covers. He watched with amazement as she scoured the room for clean clothes, rampaged to the bathroom for her hairbrush, cursed over the lack of time all around, while uttering the occasional "Gah!" and "Argh!".
"Um," he said, trying to waylay her in passing.
"What?" she groused, stopping in her tracks.
"You are forgetting something quite vital."
"What's that?"
He reached out for her hand. "Three letters. B. M. W."
A smile found its way to her lips, which erupted into a giggle. This would all take some getting used to. In that case…
She queried, "Shower?"
Mark considered for a moment. "Yes, I think there's time."
Devilish grin. "I wasn't asking for permission. That was an invitation."
Driving together to the annual New Year's Day buffet in Mark's gloriously comfortable car, Bridget was more than a little nervous about showing up to a family function with Mark, not for any reason that had to do with him, but, yes, because of her own mother. Bridget was a grown woman. No mother ought to have this sort of effect on a daughter.
She agreed readily when he'd asked her to wear the snowman jumper, if only to acknowledge, however wordlessly, a thank you to his mother, a much more sensible woman than her own. Bridget liked Elaine very much. Bridget was especially pleased to hear that Elaine had never liked Natasha, and had hoped for her son to end up with Bridget. She beamed to think of it. He wore his new jumper as well, and while she found the idea of matching jumpers a bit appalling, it would be awfully fun to watch people deduce that they were there together. She even fantasized about Mark Darcy punching out pervy old Uncle Geoffrey in her defense after seeing him pinching her bottom for the last time.
"Mmmmm," she murmured lazily, a smile lingering on her lips.
"What's that?" he asked, changing lanes in anticipation of the correct junction.
"Was just thinking it will be delightful to not endure a barrage of questions about when I'm going to find a boyfriend." Realizing how awfully presumptuous she sounded, she sat up in the seat with a sudden surge of utter panic and added, "I mean, if you are— I mean, if you consider yourself to be— ah— well—" Sinking back into the seat as much as she could, she decided to shut up, not wishing to dig herself in any deeper.
He was focused and quiet as he continued driving, his expression unchanged. Sometimes he was so hard to read. Even his voice was inscrutable when he spoke. "Bridget, I realize we've gone from zero to one-hundred in five seconds flat—" He glanced to her and only then cracked a smile, resting his left hand upon her knee. "—but yes, I think you can safely consider me your boyfriend." The smile lingered, and she considered what a handsome smile it was. "I am far more interested in you beyond this remarkable weekend."
Mark had a special gift for leaving her speechless.
A short time later, they arrived at the Joneses. Mark parked in the only spot available at the end of the drive. They emerged from the car but as he walked up the drive, Bridget hung back by the car. He turned around, furrowed his brow. "Bridget?"
She fumbled with the contents of her handbag, found her quarry, and held up a packet of Silk Cut. "I'm going to have a quick cig. I know you don't like my smoking but I need a bit of… mental reinforcement before I head in there."
"Do you want me to wait with you?"
She shook her head, gestured as if sweeping him towards the entrance. "Go on ahead."
"If you're sure."
She nodded. He smiled and headed towards the door.
Watching his figure recede, she leaned up against the car and drew in a long drag. She hadn't had a cigarette since Friday and felt guilty for having one now. Hell, it was an excellent trade, cigs in for shagging, and it wasn't as if she'd have to think more than a second to choose the latter over the former. But it did all happen so fast, didn't it? It had only been a little over two days since her friends intended to sweep her off to Paris for the weekend to help her forget about him being in New York with that viper Natasha. What if, after the glow faded, he decided she wasn't worth it after all, or realized he'd made a terrible error?
Gah. She was overanalyzing things again.
After the final drag, she stubbed the butt into the snow with the toe of her shoe, sat for some minutes more before grudgingly headed up the drive towards the front door. She was met at the door by her mother (Terror! Mother would surely be able to tell instantly!), who collected her coat with nary a comment, walking away back into the party. Hmmm. Perhaps "I slept with Mark Darcy" was not in fact written on her forehead in ink that only mothers could see.
She walked into the sitting room, briefly conversing with Uncle Geoffrey as he grabbed her bottom (she hoped dearly that Mark had seen). With an eerie sense of déjà vu, she saw Mark standing with his back to her, drink in hand, in the very same place she'd seen him the previous year. For a fleeting moment she thought the whole year (and certainly the past weekend) had been nothing but the product of her imagination; as he turned, he saw her and bestowed a smile upon her that told her that it had been no such thing, not in the least.
She heard her mother come up from behind with all the subtlety of an approaching ambulance. "Mark! Mark! I'm sure you remember Bridg—" At precisely that moment, her gaze fixed upon his jumper, then onto Bridget's; the fast and furious mental calculations were plainly visible on Pamela's face.
"Mrs. Jones. Of course I do." He reached his hand out towards Bridget, which she took with her own. He pulled her close, wrapping his arm around her waist. Her face raged red involuntarily, which deepened when she felt his hand move to her bottom (she hoped dearly that Uncle Geoffrey had seen).
Her mother at first looked shocked, then slowly grinned from ear to ear. In fact, Bridget struggled to think when she had ever seen her mother look so happy or proud of her.
It was dark when they departed the best Turkey Curry Buffet in living memory. No harrassment about the state of love lives; they mostly stayed at one another's side, holding hands and chatting amicably with family and friends. His parents seemed pleased; she watched his father for signs of disapproval as she was nothing like that clever Natasha, but could thankfully find none. Her father was overjoyed to see his daughter so happy and her mother was beside herself with glee that Bridget had hooked such a magnificent catch (imagery that frankly made Bridget squirm, but it was her mother, after all).
The ride back to London was as smooth as could be, and so after such a magnificent day it was easy for Bridget to fall asleep during the drive home. She was dreaming of champagne, well-placed kisses and chocolate when she felt fingertips playing upon her cheek. Her eyes fluttered open and looked to him. "So sorry to wake you, but we're back."
She stretched and yawned. "Mmmm."
"I think that went well, didn't you?"
"Mmm hmm."
"Look, Bridget," he began, looking down through the steering wheel; her heart plummeted into her feet. She sat up, realizing he had stopped at the kerb outside of her building. "Tomorrow I have to work, as do you, so given our track record so far it's probably a bad idea for me to come upstairs with you."
She sighed. "You're right; I know you're right. I just don't want it to end."
He placed his hand on top of hers, and said quietly, "I don't either. But the reality of it is—"
She looked up to him. "Reality sucks," she blurted petulantly.
He chuckled, undoubtedly reminded of previous comments regarding verbal incontinence. "That it does." He stroked her cheek, looking rather conflicted. "Tell you what. I'll come up to get my things, and we can give our excellent weekend a proper send-off before we have to face the harsh, cruel reality of our lives."
"Okay."
They walked up the stairs hand in hand. She slipped her key into the lock and they entered the flat, in a slight if comfortable disarray once again. He helped her out of her coat, and rested it over the staircase railing, then removed his own and laid it beside hers. He looked to her, and said in a low tone, "…just can't imagine."
"What's that?" she asked.
He was silent for many moments, searching for the right words to adequately describe his thoughts. Finally, he said, "Logic and reason says this is just the newness of it all… but every time I look at you… I can't imagine not wanting to immediately take you in my arms and take you off to bed."
Her heart did another little flip-flop. Undoubtedly Most Perfect Man. Cautiously, she asked, "You shouldn't stay over though, right? Get up, go to work, harsh reality and all that?"
"I don't have to stay." He approached her, took her hands. "Let's make the best of our evening here." He then reached and pulled the edge of the jumper upwards and over her head, saying, "Let's also get that silly jumper off, hm?"
Tuesday 2 Jan
It was morning.
"Bloody hell," said Mark Darcy.
The end.
Note:
I know in at the start of The Edge of Reason, she arrives to the Turkey Curry Buffet by taxi, but I could think of no logical way that she'd be arriving by taxi in the context of this story. I'm not sure why the movie handled it this way, either – as if Mark would make her taxi in from London:)