M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.


Part 2: Here With Me

Friday 1 Jun

"Do my eyes deceive? Can it be Bridget Jones, awake and on time?" said Richard Finch, eyes wide as saucers as Bridget made her way into the conference room.

"It is, and I am," she muttered, deciding not to tell him to go sod off. Discretion, valour, and all that. She drew her hands under the table.

"It is truly a miracle. Now that you're well rested from your little break—" As if Thai prison equated a luxury vacation! "—I've got an excellent pitch for you. I'm thinking House of Lords, I'm thinking nubile young girls—"

Bridget never ceased to be amazed at how truly easy it was to tune Finch out, and today was no exception. Her eyes were drawn to her hand and to her ring, and an all-too familiar smile found its way across her face. She wished she could be anywhere but at that meeting. Mark was back to work as well, and she amused herself by imagining him equally distracted by thoughts of last night's Chinese takeaway and après-dinner bunny dress up. Then dress down. Mmmm. So difficult to prise self out of bed this morning, though coffee and chocolate croissant did help to ease the pain. Breakfast in bed - in the buff no less - would have had very different results had he not been so determined to see her off to work on time. Dreamily she thought of the morning light on his skin, his chocolate-brown eyes casting loving looks upon her, the electric spark when he took her hand, that moment of breathless anticipation before his lips met with her own… or connected with her skin—

She realised the drone of Finch's voice had stopped, and as she came back to reality, she saw that every pair of eyes around the entire table was directed at her.

"Well, Bridget," Richard asked irritably, arms folded across his chest, "care to share with the class?"

"What?" she queried innocently.

"Whatever it is you're so distracted by."

"It's nothing." She resisted the urge to sit on her hand.

From next to her, Patchouli glanced over the edge of the conference table and into Bridget's lap. "Oh my God, Bridget! Is that an engagement ring?"

Mouths gaped around the room. Reluctantly she lifted her hand and showed off her ring. "It is."

Patchouli looked impressed but hugely confused. "I thought you'd chucked that human rights bloke."

She cringed to remember it was she who had done the chucking. "We're back together."

Finch whistled. "Must have cost a bloody—" He cleared his throat. "Well. Congratulations, Bridget, but—" He snapped his fingers. "—I need you front and center. House of Lords. Attractive, sexy young girls protesting in miniskirts. Are we clear?"

Bridget managed a sincere-looking smile, and nodded curtly.

Wanker.

……………

Taking a long drag from her cig outside the studio - and a break away from the insanity that was Richard Finch - she felt her mobile vibrating.

Flipping it open, she said brusquely with an impatient release of breath, "Bridget Jones."

A moment of silence, then, "Darling?"

She sighed, smiled, her attitude changing in a heartbeat. "Hello, Mark. Sorry. Rough morning."

"I can tell. Listen." He paused. "I debated this all morning and decided to make you an appointment for a check-up this afternoon at three. Just want to be sure all's well."

As sexy as his take-command voice was to her, she was torn between unbelievably touched and a tad indignant.

"I know you said you feel fine. But please just go for me."

"I'm not a child, Mark." As soon as she said it, she regretted it.

"Of course you're not." He cleared his throat and his voice dropped an octave. "You've demonstrated that amply."

She smirked, her initial irritation melting away. "All right, then. Message me the address. I'll be there."

"Thank you."

Bridget sighed. "I'm sorry we can't see each other tonight."

Mark had a boatload of backlogged work to catch up on, resulting from when he'd continent-hopped on her behalf, as well as several late meetings, rescheduled due to same. It wasn't as if she would be sitting at home twiddling her thumbs, either. She had her ludicrous new project to begin on, and wasn't even sure exactly what Finch wanted.

"Believe me, I'm sorry too. I have quite gotten used to waking up beside you."

"Likewise." She sighed once more, dropping her cigarette end and stomping it flat. "I should get back up to the office."

"Hmmm. I should get back to the grind as well." There was a pause, perhaps to ensure colleagues were not in earshot. "I love you, Bridget."

She smiled. She knew he wasn't embarrassed by loving her; he was just so protective of his privacy. She was hugely touched that he'd said it at all.

"I love you too. Bye."

As she snapped the phone shut, she was suddenly enormously grateful for her fiancé's incredible thoughtfulness, as she realised a doctor's visit would allow her to kill two birds with one stone, not to mention not having to deal with Finch for a good chunk of the afternoon.

She smiled again.

Friday 8 Jun

"Where've you been?"

It was not something she expected to hear upon arriving home at her own flat, spoken by Mark no less, whom she hadn't actually seen in the flesh for longer than she liked to think about. He looked to be in a state of agitation, apparently caught mid-pace in the sitting room.

"Houses of Parliament, concluding a ridiculous social experiment involving scantily clad protesters." She set her bag down, which tipped over, sending her notebook and mini-recorder spilling out. She released a frustrated breath, furrowed her brow, and crouched down to gather her things back into the tote. "I get the feeling I'm late for something. Am I?"

He bent down also, rounding up an errant pen and pencil. "No… I just thought you'd be home sooner." He held out his hands to clasp hers, and helped her back up to her feet. "I was beginning to worry."

"I thought you were working again tonight so I wasn't expecting you to be here. If I did, I might have phoned."

"Sorry." He smiled almost hesitantly, averting his eyes. "The alternative was to go home to an empty house."

Lest he think she was upset, she opened her arms to him, his warmth and scent suffusing her, banishing the evils of the day away. "It was a long day and Richard Finch is the devil incarnate." She closed her eyes and let a long, slow breath out. "I would never dream of complaining about finding you here to greet me."

They remained like that for some minutes before Mark suddenly pulled back. "Dinner," he said, as if he'd just remembered it was the right time of day for that meal. She expected him to slip into his shoes but instead, he headed for the kitchen.

As she realised what that meant, her eyes widened. She followed him. "You made dinner?" she asked with probably too much disbelief in her voice.

He pulled on a couple of oven gloves and looked serious. "Doubt not my kitchen skills," he said, pointing an overly large mitt in her direction. "You haven't forgotten my masterpiece omelet already, have you?"

She could not suppress a giggle. "Indeed not."

He pulled a baking pan out of the oven, which held two chicken breasts deliciously spiced with rosemary and onion, surrounded by cubed potatoes and carrots. How she hadn't noticed the mouth-watering smell as she walked in, she did not know; probably she just subconsciously assumed it wafted up from neighbour Vanessa's lower flat, as was usually the case.

She pulled down some plates, flatware and wine glasses as he served up dinner, which they took to the table along with some white wine. As he finished pouring her glass, she brought a bite of chicken to her mouth. It was easily as good as anything they'd had at the various restaurants they'd patronised, and she told him so.

He smiled in gratitude, though his tone was self-effacing. "You are probably just hungry."

"Oh, stop that," she said, smacking him gently with her serviette. "You're going to spoil me, you know that?"

"That is my fondest hope."

They continued eating in pleasant, too-hungry-to-talk silence for some time when the telephone trilled away. "Hey Bridge," said Jude's voice through the answerphone. "Hope you haven't forgotten, we're waiting for you at 192… we haven't seen you in forever so if you can tear yourself away from your sex-god…" As if poked by a silent companion, Jude's voice suddenly changed to one of panicked embarrassment. "Um… hi, Mark, if you're there… ohGaaaawdsorrrrrrreeeeebye!"

She could not contain a laugh; Mark simply hid his face with his hand. He would never get used to being under that kind of scrutiny by her friends.

Her lovely friends! She hadn't seen them or spoken to them for the same reason she had hardly seen Mark all week: Richard Finch's stupid project. Oh, how she couldn't wait to show off the gorgeous ring he'd gotten her, tell them of their lovely reunion…

However, she realised he looked almost disappointed. "Is it all right if I go?" she asked.

He didn't answer right away, and when he did, his voice was rather terse and he looked back to his dinner. "Bridget, you don't need my permission."

The way he spoke to her surprised her. Her own voice was curt when she replied. "I'm not asking for permission, but I would rather like to know if it's going to bother you if I do go. I mean, I don't want to leave you here all sullen and brooding." She looked at him piercingly.

He looked back to her, offering a hint of contrition in his reserved smile. "That wasn't fair of me. I'm sorry. It's just been a grueling week without you as my relief." He set down his cutlery and looked to her, his voice still low. "It's not who you're going out with, or even that you're going out. But I'd like you to promise me something."

"What?" she asked too quickly, eager to see where this was heading.

He drew out the suspense, considering his words. "Promise me when you get in I will not have to carry you to the loo to keep you from getting sick on my feet." He took her hand in his, his voice even softer when he continued. "And promise me you won't get in so late that I won't get a chance to ravish you senseless like I've been thinking about doing all week."

She blinked, again stunned, but in an entirely different way. "Really." It was a statement, not a question. "All week." Thoughts of him fighting back lustful thoughts (among other things) while in chambers raced unbidden through her mind, and suddenly she didn't care so much about meeting her friends. She stroked the back of his thumb with hers. She leaned forward to kiss him, but he pulled back.

"No," he said, a half-grin playing upon his lips. "Go on and meet your friends. Just… promise me."

She nodded mutely, then watched as he then continued with his dinner as if the conversation had never happened. All she could think about now was shagging him; she shifted uncomfortably in her seat.

Sometimes he could be the most maddening man.

……………

"Bridget! You made it!"

It was Shazzer, waving energetically to her from the table that she, Jude and Tom had occupied. All three were smiling, but whether it was from happiness at seeing her or blissful intoxication Bridget could not be sure.

"Of course I made it! I had to come and see my lovely Urban Family." She flattened down the back of her dress before sitting, grabbed a glass and poured herself a chardonnay. She took a long draw from the glass, her mind mostly still back in her flat. They still stared at her. "Honestly, it's not like he has me chained to the bed."

Shaz and Jude shared a look. "Like you'd tell us if he did," said Jude.

With his eyes fixed on the hand holding the glass, Tom piped up, pointing, "Holy fuck! Is that what I think it is!" Jude's and Shazzer's eyes widened.

Smiling, she set down the glass and splayed her left hand, wiggling her ring finger. Tom grabbed her hand to inspect it. The diamonds twinkled, grabbing and reflecting what meager light was available.

"Wow. That is one gorgeous ring," said Jude.

"When did he get it? Where?" interrogated Shazzer.

"Last Thursday he took me to… Asprey." Bridget almost felt guilty as the name of that illustrious shop slid through her teeth.

Jude whistled.

"And again I say, 'Holy fuck!'" said Tom.

"Bridge, it's gorgeous," Shazzer said wistfully, then raised her glass. "To Bridget, who has managed to find the last non-fuckwit in all of Great Britain." They all raised their glasses and drank.

"Aside from having to face Richard Finch again, being back has been rather good, indeed." She dove off into telling them all about finding him asleep in her bed the night she'd returned, the ring shopping, the bistro lunch (complete with Natasha/Daniel double horror), Chinese takeaway, bunny girl escapades, and dinner he'd made that evening, stopping just short of revealing what had been haunting his thoughts all week.

"Awww," said Tom and Shaz in unison.

"Hmmm," commented Jude, examining the sorry state of the level of the wine in the currently open bottle. "We ought to get another bottle or two now that Bridget's here."

She held up her hand. "No need. I'm only staying for, ooh, forty-five minutes more, then I've got to go home," she said, glancing at her watch.

"Oh Bridge, surely not!" Jude pouted, her eyes decidedly unfocused, thick dark hair mussed about her face.

Tom looked to Shaz, commenting, "'P-whipped' doesn't seem quite the right word, does it?"

"Be serious. It isn't as if I've been ordered to report in. I just…" She thought of how best to word it. "I have another date of sorts to keep."

Her friends did not quite know what to say, though Shaz said it best by remarking over the next glass of wine that Bridget was lucky to be henpecked in such a manner.

……………

When she returned to her flat, Bridget found Mark sitting on the sofa, dozing with a book on his lap. With only two glasses of chardonnay under her belt, she was pleasantly buzzed but not downright pissed, and feeling quite frisky. How dare he get her all revved up like that then practically push her out the door! She shed her cardigan and shoes, slipped out of her smalls, gingerly removed the book and placed it on the end table, and straddled his lap. Unsurprisingly, he roused from slumber and blinked groggily.

"I'm home," she said, her voice smoky, fingers threading into his hair.

He was instantly awake. "Indeed."

"Been thinking about you all night." She slid her arms about his neck, lowered her face to his, then started in on his earlobe, biting gently with her front teeth.

"Mmmm." She felt his hands sliding up her smooth, bare legs and under the hem of her silky soft rayon dress… and a definite firmness growing against her thigh. She leaned against him as his hands reached her unclothed bottom. "How I do love summer…. Oh. Ohhhh." Sense overcame him and he stopped. "Bridget… darling," he said, speech now a challenge, "the condoms are in the bedroom."

She sat up, her hands trailing down to unfasten the top of his trousers, slide the zipper down, and part the sides. She then pressed her chest to his, nibbling next at his neck. "Doctor said that I'm healthy as a horse," she began, on at what at first seemed to be a wild, veering, unwelcome tangent. "One hundred percent not pregnant, and on the Pill for a week now. So… we don't need one."

"You don't… say," he muttered, his voice faltering as she shifted her hips further forward.

She raised up her head and met his eyes; her lips formed a slow, devilish grin. "Surprise." Then she placed her mouth greedily over his.

Saturday 9 Jun

Bridget was beginning to hate Mark's mobile phone with the fiery passion of a thousand suns.

"Gah!" she exclaimed, sitting up in bed, hair performing feats of acrobatics. "Why is that bloody thing going off? It's Saturday!"

Slumbering on his stomach, Mark roused, mumbling into his pillow, "Alconburys." His arm snaked out to switch off the phone, then turned over to look at her.

"Ohhhh, Jesus." She dropped back down, scooting herself up close to him and wrapping her arms and legs python-like around him. "Don't make me go. I want to stay here curled up in bed with you, all day, just like this."

"Like this, hm?"

"Yes," she advised very seriously. "All day."

He fought to suppress a laugh. "Well, I can think of other positions I'd rather spend all day in with you, but we are very much expected. I told my mother we had… a surprise."

"Oh, you didn't."

He took advantage of her momentary discombobulation to break free of her stranglehold, maneuvering so that she was once again beneath him, wrists pinned to either side of her head. She arched back her head and he kissed her throat. Mmmm. The discussion of what had or had not been said to his mother was rendered immediately unimportant. She wriggled beneath him, which only enflamed his ardour.

"Mark?" she managed weakly. "What about getting up… getting dressed… going?"

He didn't stop, only paused long enough to mutter, "I set the alarm to go off a bit early."

……………

"You look absolutely…" Mark began.

She'd picked out a new dress at Debenham's while at lunch with her mother on the previous Wednesday. She'd been careful to stow her ring into her handbag and was probably much quieter than normal lest she give away their big secret. Her mother interpreted it to mean that she was depressed and lonely, and sprung for the dress to try to win back Mark, peppering her with compliments on her post-prison thinness. Bridget mused that it was little wonder she had such a screwed-up body image.

So she now stood before him in a pretty floral patterned summer dress, practically strapless but for a single broad band running from side seam to side seam around the back of her neck, the lower hem brushing her knees. She had decided on pinning her dark blonde hair off to the side at one temple with a hair grip in the same manner that she had at the infamous Ruby Wedding celebration. On her feet she wore sling-back, low-heeled shoes.

"What?" she asked, slightly paranoid she was bulging weirdly at the hips or stomach.

A contemplative look on his face, he said at last, "I don't think the English language has a word that sufficiently conveys how I think you look."

She smiled, flushing pink.

He continued looking appreciatively, and came close to her, taking her hand and planting a kiss on her shining ring. "The car's downstairs. Let's go make your mother gleefully happy."

She grabbed her handbag and they descended the steps. She nodded, then furrowed her brow as comprehension set in. "My mother? What about your mother?" Mark didn't reply. She knew why. "You told her more than just 'we have a surprise', didn't you?" she asked.

"You know I'm not good at keeping a secret from my mother, but at least it goes no farther than her."

"You're lucky I know that or else I might be very cross—"

As they emerged on the street, Bridget's jaw dropped. It was the silver Bentley with the tinted windows that had brought her back from Inns at Court, complete with the same smiling blond driver, who raised his hand to the brim of his cap in a gesture of greeting, recognition and respect.

Mark leaned in close to her. "This way I get to sit in the back with you," he said under his breath. Then, louder, "Jeffrey?"

The driver nodded and pulled open the door; Mark gestured that she get in. He stepped around to the passenger side door, which somehow Jeffrey had managed to reach first and open. Mark nodded in acknowledgement, then got in beside her.

Curious, Bridget leaned and whispered, "He works on Saturday?"

"He works when needed." He leaned forward, directing Jeffrey to head north to Grafton Underwood, and the car eased away from the kerb. Mark settled back into the leather seat, resting his arm along the back, inviting her to settle into his embrace for the one and a half hour drive.

He wasn't one for public displays, especially in front of those he knew in a professional capacity. She knew her little speech in front of the Peruvians had probably been his worst nightmare come true. So an offer to snuggle up in the back seat of his car in plain view of the driver's rear view mirror (on the heels of his recent "I love you" phone call from work) was quite a surprise, akin to the average man streaking naked across the pitch during a sold-out football match.

However, she was unwilling to look a gift horse in the mouth, and happily she scooted over to settle in against him. He brushed his fingers along her bare upper arm in a lazy pattern, raising goose pimples and causing her to shiver. Her mind was quickly overrun by thoughts of other possible public displays he might be cajoled into; absorbed in thought, she absently placed her hand on his knee, squeezing gently. Softly he placed a kiss at her temple. Quietly he said, "This is going to be a very long ride if you continue that."

"You started it," she said testily, pulling her hand back to her own lap.

"You're right, I did. I'm sorry." Yet he did not cease the movement of his own fingertips. The upside of their reunion was a reversion to new-relationship hair-trigger libidos. Unfortunately, it also appeared to be the downside as well. She suddenly wished for a car with a privacy divider.

"Mark?"

"Hmm?" He was lost in thoughts of his own.

She placed her hand atop his to settle his restless fingers. "Long ride."

"Right. Sorry."

"Maybe I should just…" She cocked her head to the right, to the seat behind the driver.

"Yes. Maybe."

She shifted away from him into the recesses of the driver's side rear seat for her own good, and glanced to him guiltily. She could see his eyes fixed forward, on what she couldn't immediately determine; then she realised he was watching the driver's face in the rearview, monitoring where his attention was directed. His eyes flitted down to her and he smiled, glimpsed back up to the mirror, then, satisfied Jeffrey was focused solely on the road, he silently moved closer to her and kissed her.

"Let's see how much trouble we can get into back here, hm?" he breathed into her ear and, glancing up to the mirror again and being wholly pleased with what he saw, slid his hand up past her knee.

Bridget was astounded, but not so astounded that she refused his attentions, thanking the heavens for at least the darkened windows, or fellow travelers on A1 might have gotten something of a show.

……………

"We're on the outskirts of Grafton Underwood, sir, miss."

Bridget had never appreciated discretion more in her life as she looked down to see Mark napping on her shoulder, hand resting lazily on her abdomen after that lovely little snogging session. 'Okay… a bit beyond a snog,' she thought with a smile as she planted a kiss in his wavy brown hair; he started and sat up, clearing his throat and smoothing down his hair. She reached for her handbag, drew out a makeup compact and gasped when she saw what had happened to her hair. Must fix. And a reapplication of lipstick.

After tending to hair and makeup, she looked closely at Mark. After staring at him with a scowl of concentration, she dug out a tissue, offering it to him. At his confusion, she reached over (devilish grin firmly in place) and wiped the lipstick away from his mouth. He smiled despite himself.

Bridget was weirdly nervous, as if this group of people was a new crowd she was meeting for the first time. Acutely aware of the last time her mother had asked her if they had set a date, she said, "Let's be sure to keep our stories straight."

He chuckled. "Is this a garden party or a police interrogation?"

"You know she's going to want details, and we have none to give yet. And oh God, we need to be firm and not let her plan this, lest I get lavender bridesmaids."

He knew who the unspoken 'she' was. Mark offered jokingly, "How about I tell her we're heading up to Gretna Green?"

"Oooh. Don't tempt me." Although knowing her mother, Pamela would likely think it was plans for a mini-break holiday and not a threat of elopement.

Mark directed the driver to the Alconbury's home and Jeffrey stopped the car along the side of the drive. Bridget reached to open her door out of habit but Mark held up a single index finger to stop her, and she quickly understood why when Jeffrey appeared on the other side to open her door for her. So not used to this.

After opening Mark's door, Mark rose from the car and leaned towards Jeffrey, silently giving him instruction. Jeffrey nodded and got back in the car, presumably to park the car and do whatever it was chauffeurs did between driving out to the country and back. Mark pointed towards the house and asked, "Shall we?"

She took in a deep breath. Here goes nothing.

The first to spot them was Una Alconbury, who saw them walking together towards the pavilion. She smiled broadly, holding her hands out. "Mark! Bridget! So lovely to see you both! Your mother is just there by the buffet, Bridget; she's wanting to speak to you straightaway. She has quite the surprise!"

She could not stop her eyebrows from shooting up nor could she stop a laugh. "She has a surprise for me?"

"Mmm, yes, go on now, there's a girl," said Una, surprisingly and uncharacteristically sweeping her away from Mark and into the general direction of the buffet line, then turned back to Mark. "I hear you've been busy!" began Una.

"Yes," he said, his eyes locked on Bridget, who silently pleaded with him to accompany her. "I should perhaps…"

She hooked her arm through his and hijacked Mark, dragging him off to where a clutch of her mother's friends waited. "Nonsense! I haven't seen you in an age! You must tell us about the latest case. Your mother tells us how you've been flitting hither and yon around the globe and we're beside ourselves to hear…"

That was as much as Bridget could discern as Una moved out of earshot and closer and closer to Mavis Enderbury, Jean Earnshaw, Penny Husbands-Bosworth, Audrey Coles, Aunt Shirley and a few other ladies she didn't immediately recognise from behind, who all stood huddled clearly waiting for fresh meat. As yet she had not seen the Darcys but was certain they must be here. Her stomach fluttered.

"Mum, Dad, hello," Bridget began tentatively, hands folded in front of her. Right over left.

Colin, her dad, ever taciturn, simply leaned forward, smiled in his reserved way, and pecked her cheek. "Lovely to see you, Bridget."

Her mother Pamela, on the other hand, was effusive, and as always, noisily loquacious. "Oh my godfathers! Did you only just get here? Blast those trains, they're running later and later. You do look marvelous in that dress! Haven't seen Mark Darcy yet, still single as much as I know…"

Her eyes managed to connect briefly with Mark's across the expanse of lawn as she butted in, "Mum, in fact—"

"Tut, tut, I have a surprise for you. Close your eyes!" She did as Pamela grabbed Bridget's right wrist and pulled her even farther away from Mark. Pamela dragged her a for a bit, then stopped abruptly and announced, "Look who's here!"

Bridget opened her eyes to see… her brother. Her only brother, Jamie, elder by four years, whom she hadn't seen in at least three because he had previously been living in Rome with his useless twit of a girlfriend (Catarina, Carolina, Catriona… she couldn't quite remember her name). There he stood with his short blond curls and blue eyes, a grin blooming over his handsome boyish features. She felt her jaw drop at the sight of him and she had trouble forming the words she wanted to say. Instead, all she could do was throw her arms about him and hug him.

"Oh my God! What are you doing here?" Bridget finally gushed.

"Nice to see you too, Bridge," he laughed.

"So are you… back?"

"Yep." He was still smiling.

"Still with, um, er…"

"Nope," he said, his voice surprisingly light, so it must have not been unexpected.

He released her from his embrace - actually, he had to push her away because she was reluctant to let him go - and took hold of her hands. "Mum's told me all about your little Thai adventure."

"She probably thinks I spent it in the manner of an exotic spa," she replied in a low voice.

"Hm, yes, I think she does. Oh, Bridge, I'm so glad you're out of there and back home." He looked her up and down. "You look terrific."

The continued references to her 'terrific' prison-induced physique continued to grate on her nerves, yet she found herself unable to suppress a smile. "Everybody keeps saying that! Why? Why?"

He grinned. "Well… fine then. You look like shit." It was like they had not been apart at all. "Perhaps you can launch a new business! Market a new diet plan: the Thai Prison Diet! Lose a stone or two in just ten days!" She giggled. Suddenly he drew his brows together, turning her left hand over in his palm. He raised his eyes to her with a knowing smile. "So who's the lucky fellow?"

Oh, shit. She pulled back her hand and blazed crimson; her mother's head snapped around and she dove upon her daughter, grasped her wrists with her eyes fixed upon that ring, mouth flapping wordlessly. Her father looked utterly stunned.

Amidst the chaos she heard her name: "Bridget."

She turned to see Mark standing there; while his features were typically inscrutable, she could tell by the cool, formal inflection in his voice that he was upset, even a little angry.

Pamela looked ecstatic. "Mark!" she exclaimed, turning to him, hands wringing indecisively. "Lovely to see—"

Mark looked to Bridget, then back to Jamie, veritably shooting daggers from his eyes as he curtly interrupted Pamela. In that same icy tone, he said, "I don't believe we've been introduced."

She could see the muscles in Mark's jaw tensing and relaxing just beneath the skin. It was almost exactly like when Daniel showed up at the bistro in London, and that had Bridget boggled. Was he actually… jealous?

"Jamie, this is Mark Darcy, my—" (she glanced to her mother) "—fiancé." Her mother, looking shell-shocked, made a short, sharp, high-pitched squeal, then covered her gaping mouth with her hands. Then with a wry little smile, Bridget finished, "Mark, this is Jamie Jones, my brother."

Bridget watched Mark's features change from vexed to embarrassed as the information filtered into his brain; imperceptible to the casual observer, the nuance was obvious to her. Mark cleared his throat and pursed his lips, staring at her, then back to Jamie. "Your brother." He could not stop himself from breaking into an apologetic half-grin, jutting his hand out. "Of course, Jamie. It's been a very long time. A pleasure to see you again." They shook hands; Jamie's smile was easy, open, and forgiving.

"Bridget!"

Having come to her senses, her mother's shrill voice cut through the pleasantries like an air raid siren. "After you told me there was no hope! When—how—when did this happen?" As if Bridget had shaved off most of her hair, dyed the remnants blue and tattooed a giant spider on her cheek, instead of becoming engaged to the one man Pamela herself had been wanting her to snag for almost eighteen months.

"The day I got back." As she said it she mentally braced herself for the accusatory onslaught.

As expected, it came.

"What!" Pamela shrieked. "I'll bet half of London knows already, and your own mother finds out more than a week later—!"

Mark spoke up. "We decided to wait and announce it to the family today. It was my idea. I apologise."

Bridget fancied she actually saw her mother's eyes dreamily glaze over. Clearly she thought Mark could do no wrong, and that was just fine by Bridget. "Of course, of course… oh my stars, Bridget!" Her mother wrapped her arms around Bridget and squeezed so tight she thought she might burst into a million pieces. Her father, still silent, smiled and she saw the corner of his eyes moisten with tears as he extended his hand towards Mark as an offer to shake. Her mother continued excitedly, "I have so many ideas, I can't wait to start shopping for you… oh! I mean with you, of course—"

Terror must have blanched the colour out of Bridget's face, for she saw Mark step back into her periphery and place a hand on Mrs Jones' upper arm. "I've already contacted a wedding planner, so there's no need to trouble yourself."

Bridget added, "…especially with your own ceremony to plan."

With a moony look still upon her face, Pamela nodded. "Oh, Mark, you're so thoughtful. Isn't he thoughtful, Jamie?" she asked, turning to her son.

Jamie stifled a laugh. "Yes, Mother."

Mark wrapped a protective arm about Bridget's shoulders. "Darling, let's get you some lunch. You're looking a bit peaked."

Bridget smiled. "Please."

As they slipped away from the crazed family tableau, she leaned into him as they walked.

"'No hope', eh?" he asked quietly. It was only when she looked up to meet his eye that she caught the playful glint there.

"She asked me at the airport, before I found out all you'd done for me." Realising the multiple meaning as she said it, she continued, her voice filled with deep affection, "Thank you for saving me." She glanced back to her family to see her mother still grinning like an idiot.

He kissed the hair at her temple. "All part of the service. You don't get to be a successful trial lawyer and not think quickly on your feet." He hesitated upon the next step. "You know… if you want to, we can hire one."

"A lawyer?" That seemed wholly redundant.

He laughed. "No, my dear. A wedding planner."

"Oh."

The idea kind of stunned her, and she momentarily flashed back to her early teen years when she'd first started mentally planning the perfect fairytale wedding. She always knew the planning would be difficult but had never even entertained the thought of putting the work in someone else's hands. She frankly liked the idea but the thought of being so indulged, so aristocratic - so Magda-like - was a little revolting. She did not want to turn into a Smug Married!

Mark noticed her silence. "You can think about it."

She nodded mutely.

They reached the buffet and he handed her a plate. That snapped her back to reality and he began loading roasted chicken and potato salad onto it for her. As she glanced back, she saw her mother accosting Una Alconbury, who reacted much as one would expect her to upon hearing the news: flapping her hands, her mouth a perfect O. Then Bridget glanced up and saw Malcolm and Elaine Darcy waving happily to the two of them from a table in the shade. Bridget beamed and waved back. "Mark, let's sit with your parents. You know, the sane ones."

……………

During the ride home, Bridget took her turn at dozing on Mark's shoulder. She pondered the fête fondly. Her parents had been friends with the Darcys for as long as she could remember, even though they had been from somewhat different economic strata. She appreciated the ease at which her parents could socially move with the like of the Darcys; even still, she never expected to be so easily accepted as a future daughter-in-law. Malcolm and Elaine had known Bridget for most of her life and her mother had undoubtedly shared Bridget's most embarrassing moments with her friends, Elaine Darcy among them… yet they approved of her nevertheless. She mused to herself that Mark's first wife had probably cured them of any notion they might have had of Mark being happiest with a high society wife. Hm. In a flash Bridget realised she knew next to nothing about the woman, not even her name.

She wished her own family, particularly her mother, was easier to take. She'd seen Mark speaking genially with her father and brother at the very least, and that made her happy. In her past experience, social occasions tended to cause him to clam up and recede to the edges - oddly like his Austenian namesake - but today he looked very comfortable and at ease. Her thoughts then wandered to the reaction he'd had to her brother before realizing who Jamie was. She figured that Mark had probably been preparing to go off to Eton when he'd last seen her brother, so of course they would not have recognised one another now that they were in their mid-thirties.

She sighed happily. "That was adorable, by the way," she said drowsily.

"Hm?"

"The way you went all protective and jealous back there when you saw me with Jamie."

He cleared his throat but otherwise did not reply. She sat up and in a flash of passing headlights saw that a flush of embarrassment had flared up around the collar of his shirt. She raised a hand and tenderly stroked his cheek.

"All I saw was a handsome man with his arms around you… you had that look in your eyes, and I… don't know what came over me." He placed his hand over hers. "I cannot believe I forgot about your brother, Bridget. I'm so sorry."

Mental images of Mark pummeling Daniel in front of Kalispera - and the scene she could only imagine in the fountain at Kensington Gardens - caused her to smile. "Oh, Mark, don't be. I love that you fight for me." It was mid-sentence that she realised with a ballooning dread that her choice of words so closely paralleled her acidic parting shot the night she'd chucked him. She continued to hold his gaze with her own even though it was extremely painful to do so, and as she did his eyes softened.

"You continue to surprise me," he said quietly. He folded her into his arms and held her close, and that was the last he spoke until they reached London. Even then, there was little actually spoken.

Saturday 23 June

It was a fine summer day, thought Bridget from her place at the writing table, as she gazed dreamily up through the window of the flat and out into the bright London sunshine. Surely it was a day to be outside, strolling through, say, Hampstead Heath, perhaps with a picnic basket, a bottle of wine and one's fine barrister fiancé's head resting lazily in one's lap…

"Bridge, Bridge, what about this one?"

She snapped back to attention to look at Tom's impatient face. Beside it he held up a glossy magazine, opened to an artsy photo of a sunken-cheeked raccoon-eyed stick insect of a model posing decidedly un-nuptial-like in what Bridget supposed was a very modernly designed white satin wedding dress.

"Tom. Tom. I would have to lose at least two stone to get my toe into that thing. Besides, I don't want to look like I dove into a pile of satin scraps and elves sewed my dress together where I landed!" She sighed. "Does no one make a decent, classic-lined bridal dress for women who have, you know…" Bridget held her hands out by her stomach then her hips, gesturing, miming the girth therein.

"…Curves?" supplied Tom.

She eyed him suspiciously. "Have you been talking to Mark?" Speaking his name served to unhappily remind her that he was spending the weekend in Lyon for a case. Hence no happy summer picnic, only this ruthless review of bridal-type magazines with Tom.

"Very funny." Reaching for a pad and pencil, he asked, "Bridge, you're never going to find a dress unless you have some idea what you're looking for."

She sighed in a petulant manner. "You've asked me this a hundred times. It isn't something I can describe… but I'll know when I see it."

Like a mother tending to a fussy baby, he sighed patiently. "All right." He put the eraser end of the pencil against his lower lip. "How about… what you don't want?"

"Let me think." She set her chin in the palm of her hand. "Number one. Definitely no lace. Or at least not a lot of it. I don't want to look like a doily."

Tom scribbled away. "Good start, good start."

"And ugh, no big puffy shoulders or sleeves in manner of Cinderella. I don't want or need to add any other weird bulges to my body."

"Excellent!"

She hopped up from her chair and started pacing like a mad professor. "Ah! Absolutely no high Victorian collars! Or fussy buttons!"

He drew his brows together. "That kind of goes with the lace thing, but all right—"

She was on a roll now. "Oh! No hair poufs either!"

"Honey," drawled Tom with a smirk, "where are you going to find a straight stylist?"

"Ha." She shot him a look. "And ugh! No five-mile-long train! I do not wish to accomplish housecleaning in the form of sweeping on my wedding day!"

As she said those words, her stomach did a nervous flip. In fact, every time she said or thought the words the same thing happened. She wondered if that would continue clear up to the Big Day Itself.

Hm. That time, instead of a flip, her stomach did a full-on lurch.

"Well," said Tom. "I think we have a great, um, anti-list. Sit, relax, have another drink."

She dropped back to the sofa, sipped her wine and poked at another magazine. One model was wearing a shiny silky fabric and the other, a smooth-looking, unusual but pretty plush velvet.

"What do you think: silk or velvet?" Bridget asked aloud.

"Hmmm," began Tom thoughtfully. "Silk. Without a doubt. So much more comfortable, and natural fibers breathe amazingly well. The real questions are: shantung versus dupioni? Bouffant skirt? French bustle? Princess waist? Décolletage neckline?"

Tom had suddenly turned into an alien, and she stared at him as such. "Tom, I don't even want to know how you know what these things are."

"Isn't this why you asked your poofter hag fag friend for wedding fashion advice and not, say, Shaz, Jude or Magda?"

As alarming as it was, he had a point. Shaz probably would have told her to fuck tradition and wear a sarong and a big red flower in her hair. Jude would likely have burst into tears because Vile Richard was such a well-known commitment-phobe. And Magda - she dared not think about Martha Stewart Overdrive. She sank down into the sofa. "I am the worst bride-to-be ever."

"Bridgeline, it isn't like it's next week." Tom paused. "When exactly is it, anyway?"

"We haven't set a date."

"Have you talked about it at all?"

"Um. No. We've been too busy, um, reacquainting ourselves these last few weeks."

"Say no more," said Tom, then breathily added, "Say. No. More. Mmmm."

He was hopeless. Bridget snapped her fingers. "Would you please stop fantasizing about my boyfriend and stay on target?"

Tom pouted. "You're no fun - a single boy needs something to fixate on." He grinned. "All right. I really think you'll need to set the date first. Fur-lined cape and muff, versus sleeveless bustier mini dress. See what I mean?"

Her frustration level was growing, not with Tom, but with the daunting task before her. "You have a point. I just feel like I don't know the first thing about this."

"Well, silly, of course you don't. You've never been married before." Tom stood and poured two more glasses of wine. "Take Mark's offer. Find a wedding planner."

"That's like… admitting defeat."

He swirled his wine around in his glass. "Would you try to… plumb your own toilet? Attempt an infill extension on your own without a builder?"

"Well… of course not. No."

"So why attempt such a massive undertaking without the assistance of a professional?"

Bridget looked petulant, then said sullenly, "Fuck. I hate when you're right."

Tom looked like the cat that ate the canary. "So you just need to set a date and find a dress. Now." He sat beside her. "Let's talk about the wedding party." He fluttered his eyelashes at her.

Monday 25 June

"I see what you've been doing this weekend."

From upon the sofa of her flat, Mark bent forward and picked up one of the ridiculous bridal magazines.

"Ugggggh," she said. "Tom is, as I've always suspected, a sadist. I thought the bride was supposed to be deliriously happy and carefree." He beckoned her to the sofa and she settled into his arms.

"I'm sorry," he offered. "The offer of the planner still stands."

"I know. But there's so much to think about, even still."

"There's no hurry."

"I know." She sighed, resting her head back on his shoulder. "Gretna Green is sounding better and better."

He kissed her temple softly. "I don't suppose I should even ask if you've found a dress."

"No," she said miserably. "You shouldn't."


Notes:

I'm basing Jamie partly on the book and partly on hearing that the actor who played Mr Bingley was to have played Jamie in the movie but the part was cut. I haven't been able to substantiate this, but the seed was thus planted. I'm ignoring the book mentioning him spending 4 years in Manchester with Becca, the vegan Tai Chi enthusiast, because I can. :D