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 3: Take Me Home Tonight
Sunday 1 Jul
Bridget awakened to the seriously pleasant sensation of gentle fingers playing along her hip. There sat Mark with a tray of food on his lap, clad in trousers and his undershirt, and she smiled. Breakfast in bed again. Spoiled, spoiled, spoiled.
As they ate, she remarked, "Eggs and bacon. You really want those curves back, don't you?"
He smirked but did not deny it. Upon swallowing the bite he'd been chewing, he said, "There's a message from your brother, came in while I was making breakfast."
"He should know better than to call before eleven on Sunday," she said wryly. "Did you catch what he said?"
"Seems he's actually been in London for a couple of weeks, left a phone number for you. Fled the hills as soon as he got a job."
"I bet he did. Probably bored senseless in Grafton Underwood, or driven mad by our mother." She sipped her coffee. "Wonder whose couch he's crashing on?"
"How about if he stays here?"
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Come now, Mark. I love my brother but he'd completely cramp our style."
"I've been thinking," he said, sounding and looking so suddenly serious that she set her fork down. "Why don't you let your place to Jamie and come live with me?"
The shock - akin to being hit in the solar plexus - must have registered on her features in abundance, and from the way he visibly shrunk back it must have not been a positive reaction. "Never mind. Forget I asked." He looked to his plate, but seemed to have lost his appetite.
"Hold on. You've just thrown me off balance, is all." She looked to him and waited for his eyes to return the gaze. "Mark, we never spend any time there. You don't seem to like being there much, and you really don't seem to like having me over there. So this just seems so… random. So out of the blue."
He tilted his head ever so slightly, contemplating his words. "It is true that I'd much rather be here than there, but that's because you're here. I want to bring your personality, you, into that home. After all, I doubt very much that we'll still have separate places after we're married."
Her stomach once again fluttering at the word 'married', she realised that he was absolutely right. "I know, but—" She sighed. "I don't know why the concept makes me so nervous. It's not reasonable! Maybe I'm afraid if I'm around you all the time and you don't have anywhere to retreat to, I'll drive you bonkers and you'll chuck me… and what if you drive me 'round the bend with your boxer short-folding and other weird habits I don't even know about yet?"
He was silent for a few minutes. "All morning, I've been mentally pacing about the same thing."
"So…?"
He steepled his fingers, suddenly looking very barrister-like, which was ludicrous considering his state of dress. "So instead we consider the positives. Like my working the longest, most awful day of my adult life and not having to worry about whether or not it's too late to come over to see you to regain my sanity, because all I'd have to do is go upstairs and find you in my king-sized bed."
A smile invaded the corner of her mouth.
He continued. "Breakfast with you every day."
Sternly she said, "But not eggs and bacon. Not every day."
"Only on Sundays. And dinner together every day, too."
The idea was more appealing than not, and she offered, "And we could stop in the middle and shag if we wanted to."
"Well, we do that anyway," he smirked, "but there we'd have a plethora of rooms to choose from. Which also works out well if you need to retreat from knife-creased boxer shorts."
The smile broadened across her entire face.
"Plus… I have a housekeeper. She likes to cook. And hates cooking for one."
Glancing covertly around her bedroom, looking at the pile of clothes waiting to be washed, the stockings and bra dangling from the lamp, and thinking of the crap food she usually ate for breakfast, lunch and dinner, she realised to her embarrassment that a housekeeper who also cooks might just have been the clincher.
"Really."
He nodded.
"Well. I think that seals the deal then," she pronounced, a lightness in her voice that belied the mental marveling at how much things had changed since she'd returned: affianced, spontaneous displays of delightful public affection from a Martian and now on the verge of cohabitating with said Martian. It was enough to make a girl reel.
"I somehow knew it would." He leaned forward and kissed her lightly. "In all seriousness, I have some quirky habits that I'm not likely to shed now that I'm nearing forty, and I can only hope you can tolerate them on a daily basis."
She reached to him, placed her hand on his cheek. "I'll manage somehow."
"I'm unbearable during football," he warned.
"Just you wait until the Oscars."
He finally broke into a broad smile, then turned his head and planted a kiss on the inside of her wrist. "I will say that it will be a test of my willpower to work at home knowing you're just a few steps away."
"All work and no play…" she said, trailing off, threading her fingers into his hair and pulling him into another kiss, this one longer and much more desirable than the ends of breakfast.
"I haven't been a dull boy since you came into my life."
Monday 2 Jul
"Whoa, whoa, whoa! He what?"
Bridget took a drag from her cig and sat onto the sofa next to Shaz. "He asked me to move in with him."
Shaz's mouth remained open wide. "He wants to move you into his domain? Fucking— wow."
"I know. You could have knocked me over with a feather."
"It must be fucking love," she said, drawing hard on her own cigarette, then exhaling. "So. What's the cost?"
"What do you mean?"
"Surely he's asked you to give up something."
"Well, no… not really."
Shaz fixed her with a steely, all-knowing gaze. "He doesn't want you to see us," she guessed indignantly. "Bastard!"
"No, Shaz. He likes you. He likes all of you."
Shaz flushed red. "Oh." Shaz at a loss for words was a rare sight indeed.
Finally Bridget said, "Fags."
"Huh?"
"He wants me to quit smoking."
"Oh! Well, that's not so terrible," Shaz said, taking another long drag off of her own. "To hear you tell it, you barely smoke when you're with him, anyway."
"I know." She added, a slightly dreamy expression invading her countenance, "Anyway, he's better than cigs."
Still smiling, Shaz punched Bridget playfully in the upper arm as she said, "I'm gonna fucking hurl."
"Besides," Bridget continued, "like I'd want to smoke in that pristine house, stain the ceilings yellow, stench up the draperies. It'd be like smoking in an art gallery!"
"Plus all those health risks, being on the Pill again, and all," pointed out Shaz, stabbing her finger at Bridget. "You'd be adding years to your life! Years spent… well, shagging Mr Perfect, for one!"
"Exactly!" She punched up her right hand victoriously, which unfortunately had a cigarette perched between the first two fingers. She lowered it, staring at its glowing end, then put it out in the ashtray and sighed. "It isn't as if we could realistically live here, but honestly, I wonder if I'm going to feel like a lone bean rolling around in an empty can. The place is enormous. And the kitchen's steel-plated! You can't tell the pantry from the pots and pans cupboard from the dishwasher!"
"Like you'll spend any time at all in the fucking kitchen. Hey!" Shaz perked up, for her own place was even smaller and more cluttered than Bridget's. "What are you doing with your place?"
The entryphone buzzed and Bridget said, holding a finger up, "Excellently timed, Shaz; I believe that's the answer to your question." Shaz looked utterly puzzled.
As expected, it was her brother Jamie. As soon as the living situation had been decided, she'd rung him up; he'd thought about it for about three seconds before accepting. He hugged her and said, "My little sister's moving up in the world. Holland Park - fancy that!" Jamie then spotted Shaz on the sofa, and stammered apologies for his rudeness for not seeing her sitting there.
"Jamie, this is Shaz—er, Sharon. I'm sure you remember her."
"Yes, I do," he said, beaming with a smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again." He walked to the sofa and extended his hand, taking hers and bowing to plant a kiss on the back of it.
Shaz was thunderstruck. Twice in one night must have been something of a record. "Nice to see you again, Jamie."
"So there's your answer, Shaz. Jamie's letting the place as of the first of August."
"Ah. That's terrific. Welcome back to London. Where've you been again?"
"Rome. Just got back a day or so after Bridge, apparently."
"Ah! So how long's it been since I saw you last? Were we still in university?"
"I think it might've been. God, that was a long time ago…"
And they were off. As they chatted, Bridget suddenly heard from behind her a key in the flat door lock. She whipped around to see Mark step through the door, hop up to the first landing, then stop abruptly when he saw there were others present.
"Oh. Hello," he said, flushing pink. This made Bridget very curious.
"Hello, Mark," said Shaz and Jamie in unison, not looking up from their conversation.
"Hello, darling," Bridget said, stepping up on tiptoes and kissing his cheek. He did not move to embrace her, which she found equally curious. Then she whispered, "Are you all right?"
His gaze was focused into the living room, then he looked to her and asked quietly, "Do you remember the night before the Alconburys' garden party?"
"Mm, yes," she smiled, thinking of the romp on the sofa.
"Before you left to meet your friends."
His gaze was piercing, as if he was willing her to understand, and suddenly she did. He had come up with a very single-minded purpose.
"Oh."
Bridget turned back to Shaz and Jamie, who had taken a seat next to Shaz. They continued animatedly talking to one another. She didn't know how to politely get them to leave.
Mark however beat her to the punch in a completely novel and unexpected way. "Sharon? Jamie? Do you mind if we step into the other room for a few minutes?"
"No, no!"
"Go ahead!"
Again, neither turned to look at them.
He grabbed her hand and pulled her into the bedroom, wasting no time placing his arms about her and grabbing her backside.
In a hushed whisper, she said, "Mark!"
He shut the door behind them. "Bridget," he said in a low, throaty voice.
"Shazzer… and my brother!… are still out there…." She pointed to the bedroom door.
"Were you interested in inviting them to join us?" he asked in that same husky tone. Very saucy of him.
Her mouth hung open in surprise, which he took advantage of, pouncing upon her with a kiss, backing her rapidly towards the bed. She had to admit his urgency was quite arousing.
Well, she did say she'd wanted more spontaneity.
……………
When Bridget emerged from the bedroom, having hurriedly dressed in case her company was still present, she found that in fact Jamie and Shaz were gone. A note left on the writing table by Shazzer indicated that they'd gone out for dinner together, signed off with a crude yet sweet reference to what she and Mark had departed the room to do.
She crumpled it up but could not wipe the smile from her face.
"Have they gone?" called Mark from the bedroom.
"Yes."
He crept out, bare-chested and dressed in trousers, hangdog look on his face, his earlier brazenness having waned. She asked him what the matter was, and he replied hesitantly, "I don't know what comes over me when I'm with you. Or just thinking about you. For a man who spent years practically celibate…"
"You? Surely not."
He shrugged. "I have never been one who's cared for a casual fling. And I simply didn't have time at Cambridge for relationships."
Not for the first time, she wondered about his life at university, specifically how a man like Mark and a man like Daniel were ever mates. It was so difficult to picture, for they were as different as men could be.
He studied her face. "What's on your mind?"
She didn't know if mentioning Daniel would upset him, but because she continued to strive to be completely open and honest, she asked, "When you mentioned Cambridge, well, it made me wonder how you and… a certain someone became friends."
"Ah." Mark smiled, though he look troubled, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, folding his arms in front of his chest. "We were in the same College. Different backgrounds, different matriculations, personalities like night and day. He was unlike anyone I'd known growing up, and we got on famously. I was, well, me, only quieter, less confident, with the expectations of my parents riding heavily on my shoulders, not to mention lofty goals I'd set for myself. Daniel was an apprentice womanizer perfecting his moves and his lines, no surprise there. Under his influence though I became a little less reserved." He cleared his throat, his voice full of pain. "I never had any reason to distrust him until that Christmas Eve."
One of these days, she told herself, her curiosity was going to be the end of her. She felt awful, and drew her fingertips along his forearm. "I didn't mean to dredge that up."
He waved his hand. "It's all right. It's not at if we would always be able to avoid the subject. He was a part of both of our lives."
She supposed it was true, never mind she would probably have to still see Daniel occasionally on a professional basis. She'd cross that bridge when she came to it. "Well, at least where it counts, you've bested him."
He drew his brows together. "How do you mean?"
She held out her hands in a demonstrative pose that would have made a magician proud. "Ta da."
She'd hoped that would make him smile, and it worked, the troubled look dissipating from his features. He embraced and kissed her. "Hm. Victory never felt so good," he said, running his hands across the small of her back.
Monday 16 Jul
Two more weeks of renewed relationship bliss passed relatively quickly: for the most part, working during the day and Mark coming by for dinner in the evening, usually staying the night. She mused that they were practically living together already. On the weekends his motivational tactics were successful in getting her to start organising her belongings (with a thought to packing; one step at a time) and weeding out items to be donated to Oxfam.
Fifteen days after the initial proposition to move to Holland Park with him, Mark said as he came into the flat, "I have something for you."
Another motivational tactic? Mmmm. Though he didn't look particularly happy about it.
He dug into his jacket pocket, advising her to close her eyes, which she did. "Hold out your hand." She did as told, and he placed something warm and metallic in her palm. "Okay."
She looked to find… a key. For a split second she thought he was returning the key to her flat, which was weird all things considered, and that confusion must have been evident on her face. "Bridget," he explained, "it's a key to my house."
Sheepishly, she said, "Oh." She wrapped her fingers around it protectively.
"Unfortunately, it comes with some rather… disappointing news."
Alarmed, she asked, "What?"
"I… have to go to America for a month," he began.
Please, God, not…
"…New York, specifically. I leave tomorrow."
"Oh, Mark, no."
He looked sad, apologetic. "I only just found out today. If I had any choice in the matter, believe me… I don't want to be away from you for a month. It's far too long to be without you near me. I won't feel complete."
It was incredibly sentimental of him, and she threw her arms about him, holding him tight.
"In the interim, though," he murmured into her hair, "I thought you might like to start moving your things over. Hence the key."
Yes. That was a very fine idea. In fact… "Order a pizza, I'll pack a suitcase."
"Are you going somewhere?" he joked.
"Home with you," she said matter-of-factly.
He was speechless.
It ended up being two suitcases as well as a toiletry bag; fortuitously, his car was just downstairs, parked at the kerb.
……………
Bridget had always thought that the stunning grandeur of the Holland Park house must have been more than enough to obliterate the terrible memory of discovering his wife's infidelity, or he would have sold the place long ago. Neither was the house a site of fond memories so far in their own relationship. She thought specifically of the night she thought he'd brought Rebecca Gillies home for a shag, and the night she'd foolishly left him. Aside from the occasional drop-in after dinner to pick up things for an overnight stay at her place, they had spent almost no time at all there; in fact, she hadn't stayed over once. Strange as it sounded, she had never even seen his bedroom. She hadn't really given it a lot of thought because it was not where they'd spent the time together, but that they'd spent it together.
Now she entered the house with the view that it was to be her home, and she saw it with new eyes. It was as different from her place as she was different from him: it was as capacious as her place was tiny, as orderly as hers was chaotic. His décor matched perfectly while hers had been cobbled together over the years. If nothing else, it was a strange sort of symmetry.
Her stomach flipped nervously as in silence he led her directly for the stairs with her bags. Mutely she followed up into brand new territory, wondering with each step how it must have felt for Mark to scale this very staircase in anticipation of surprising his wife, only to find her writhing in pleasure with his best man. Mark paused at what she supposed was the door to the master bedroom, looked back to her and smiled somewhat tensely then turned the knob and opened it.
At first she had no words.
She stepped in and realised she'd seen entire flats that weren't as large as this bedroom; hell, she'd lived in one during university in Bangor. It had an en suite master bathroom, a fireplace flanked by a little sitting area populated with an upholstered sofa, chair and armoire. Everything was decorated in rich jewel tones like hunter green and cordovan, and all of the wood was dark cherry and gorgeous. The crowning glory there in the center was an absolutely gigantic king-sized four poster bed fitted with pristine white linens and an actual canopy. It was so picture perfect that if asked to wager on it, she couldn't say for sure that she would bet that Mark had ever actually slept in that bed.
Setting the bags down just inside the door, he asked expectantly, "What do you think?"
She blurted, "All you need is a mini-fridge and you'd never need to leave!"
That was not the reaction he expected, and he laughed. "But do you like it?"
"Oh, Mark, absolutely. It's gorgeous."
He smiled, but looked to his feet. "I have to be honest. You're the first woman I've had up here since—well, you know."
She blinked in disbelief. "Not even Natasha?"
He rolled his eyes. "God, especially not Natasha."
Utter confusion. She'd been under the impression that they were practically (if not actually) engaged. "What about what your father said at the Ruby Wedding?"
"Ah. That was Natasha planting ideas in his head, which I'd had a feeling she'd been doing. I can guarantee you I never mentioned marriage. I knew precisely what her motives were and I wasn't about to give her any ideas." It was evident he was uncomfortable saying what he was saying. "But I couldn't very well say so in front of everyone and embarrass my father. And then you left. I thought you were disgusted with me for letting you say all of those things knowing my imminent departure was about to be announced."
"Not disgusted. Was just dreadfully sad." Bridget smiled. "But in the end, pretty pleased with how everything turned out."
Allowing a smile to play across his lips, he reached for her hand, pushing the door closed, saying, "Come with me." She willingly did as he asked and followed him over to the bed where he guided her to sit on the edge, before stepping back to analyse the scene as if a film director, framing the room with his thumbs and forefingers.
"Mmm. Yes. Exactly what this room needed."
She tossed her hair back then looked to him through her lashes in the manner of a seductive screen goddess. Chuckling after the fact probably negated its full effect, but he still approached her with that very distinct look in his eyes that told her they'd be occupied for the better part of the evening. The pizza could wait.
Tuesday 17 Jul
Bridget awoke with the wholly disconcerting sensation of having no idea where she was, swimming in a sea of bed linens in an enormous bedroom at what appeared to be the break of dawn. She sat up with a start, saw Mark standing in the doorway, leaning against the jamb, fully dressed, arms crossed over his chest and a huge grin on his face. Ah, yes. Mark's house. Mark's bedroom. Mark's very large and very accommodating bed.
"Good morning, love," he said.
"What're you smiling at?"
"This bedroom has never looked so appealing."
"Chuh," she said dismissively, secretly pleased as punch. "What time is it?"
"Just after four-thirty."
"A.M.?" Her mouth hung open in horror. "Why?"
"Early flight."
"But you're so… awake! Shaved, showered and dressed!" She gave him a sidelong glance. "You're one of those scary morning people, aren't you?"
He chuckled, stepping towards her, placing his hand on the top of her head, stroking her hair, then sitting on the bed. "You hadn't figured this out already?"
It clicked into place. "At my flat you tended to follow my schedule. Oh God." Dread washed over her. "You're going to turn me into one of you."
At this he outright laughed. "What have you gotten yourself into?" he teased.
……………
Four-thirty in the morning was too damn early, Bridget decided, to have the love of one's life wrenched from one's bed and flung overseas. She pondered this as she watched through the window, saw the taillights of the silver Bentley slip away from the kerb and into the foggy dawn, and she sighed. His flight wasn't until seven-thirty, but with customs and the prospect of traffic and all, he'd had the car come around for him early. Mark insisted she remain behind so that they could share a more private good-bye at the house, and promised he'd call as soon as he could in New York.
The firm always liked to get him there a day early when traveling abroad to allow him to acclimate to local time, and that made perfect sense, but it didn't mean Bridget had to like it. She felt as if she'd been robbed of a whole extra day with him, leaving so early in the morning. They hadn't even eaten breakfast together.
She tromped back upstairs, looked at the bed still in disarray from the night's activities, and sighed. Best try to get a few more hours sleep, she told herself, undoing the canopy to help block the light, then flopping dramatically down onto the bed, reaching for Mark's pillow, content for now with his lingering scent.
When she awoke a few hours later from a sleep she didn't remember drifting back into, she emerged from the bed and found the largest vase of blood red roses she'd ever seen had appeared on the bureau there in the bedroom. She blinked. Where had those come from? She stumbled for the card. Printed meticulously on it in block letters was the phrase, "I MISS YOU ALREADY".
Her eyes welled with tears, remembering from earlier in their relationship when he'd caught her about to send him that very text message, thinking to herself once again how foolish she'd been then and how lucky she was now. It was going to be a very long four weeks, and it was going to make Thai prison seem like a cakewalk.
……………
"Bloody hell, Bridge, where the fuck are you?"
She had just been finishing a call into work to tell them she was not coming in that day, when another call had come in. Bridget had barely gotten out a greeting when she had to hold her mobile away from her ear lest she lose her hearing. "Shaz! What are you going off about?"
"Jamie and I went back to your flat with another of his bags and you were gone. No note, nothing, and your mobile was off. We had no idea how to get in touch with Mark. We've been worried sick!"
Whoops.
"I'm so sorry, Shaz. I'm at Mark's."
Silence, then, "I don't think I heard you right. You're where?"
"I'm at Mark's."
"Really?" She imagined Shaz's mischievous smirk.
In the background she could hear her brother's voice ask where she was, and Shaz repeated herself to him. Curious, Bridget asked, "Shaz, where are you?"
"I'm at your flat, durr."
"Did you… stay over?"
Another stretch of silence before Shaz replied, "Yes."
Ugh. Too, too weird to think of Shaz and Jamie!
"Well, you were missing and he was really worried; we both were!"
Oh.
Bridget effused, "I'm really sorry, really. After Mark told me he had to leave in the morning for New York, I packed a few things and came over with him."
Shaz whistled. "New York, eh? Isn't that where Evil Natasha is?"
Double ugh. "Yes, but I trust Mark implicitly."
"Uh huh, uh huh. Look, are you coming back here?"
"Maybe in a bit. Why?"
"Um…" she hesitated, her voice dropping to a whisper. "It's just that Jamie and I have hit it off really spectacularly over these last two weeks, and…"
"And?"
"We've seen each other a lot over that time."
"And…?" A feeling of foreboding came over her.
"Well…" she said coyly. "I hope you don't mind sharing your box of Durex."
Bridget gasped, "Sharon!" She wondered how she did not know this, then realised exactly why: she'd been so wrapped up in being back with Mark that she hadn't been as connected with her Urban Family as she usually was. Still— "I didn't want that mental picture!"
Shaz laughed.
Bridget glanced at the clock on the armoire, found that it was still ungodly early (in her opinion) at ten A.M. "How about any time after noon? You can help me pack some things."
"Great. See you then. Bye!"
She never thought she'd see the day come when she'd need permission to return to her own flat.
Bridget decided she would wander down to the kitchen and see what she could whip together for breakfast. She took a shower in Mark's bizarrely modern bathroom (with fixtures as equally puzzling to operate as the kitchen cupboard doors), mentally noting that she needed to remember to bring back her own hair washing products. Unruly as it was unconditioned, she pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail, and dressed. Feeling like something of an intrepid explorer, she walked out on to the landing, descended the staircase to the first floor, and came face-to-shoulder blade with…
"Rebecca?"
The willowy young woman turned sharply, her eyes lighting with a distinct glow at the sight of her crush. "Bridget! So lovely to see you! I didn't realise you were here." Her arms were filled with papers and notebooks she'd just been concentrating rifling through.
Bridget drew her brows together in confusion. "What are you doing here?"
"Well, I'm heading to New York on a later flight and Mark had asked me to bring some files, except I realised I had left them here in Mark's office a few weeks ago."
"How did you get in?"
She smiled. "Sehana let me in."
"Who?"
"The housekeeper."
"Oh." Bridget felt really stupid. She hadn't even met the housekeeper yet.
"I used to have a key for convenience's sake," she continued, "but Mark asked for it back, to give to you. I thought that was really sweet." Rebecca looked a little dreamy. "He told me you were moving in. He's such a lucky man."
Bridget cleared her throat. "Yes, well, thank you." They stood there for a moment more before Bridget continued, "Well, I was just going to have some breakfast."
Her eyes brightened. "May I join you? I have an hour or so before I need to be on the road to Heathrow."
"Um, sure, sure." After all, she didn't want to be rude.
Bridget was pleased that she at least knew where the kitchen was, and descended one flight more to the kitchen. There she found a portly, dark-haired, bespectacled Asian woman stocking the pantry out of grocery sacks. Upon seeing Bridget and Rebecca, she stopped. "Hello, Miss Rebecca," she said in a deferential, lightly-accented voice. "And Miss Bridget. Mr Mark says nice things about you and your soup." Bridget turned pink. "It's good to meet you. I hope I didn't disturb you this morning."
"You didn't— Wait, what? When?"
"Mr Mark asked me to place the roses in the bedroom for you after they were delivered."
"Oh." Bridget felt her face positively blaze with colour this time. "No, you didn't wake me."
"Roses?" Rebecca queried. Bridget swore she was pouting. "How… absolutely lovely of him," she commented, followed by a sigh.
Sehana continued, "Good, good. Would you like some breakfast?"
Ah, yes. The housekeeper who liked to cook.
"That would be lovely. Is there any, er, muesli? Maybe some vanilla yoghurt?"
"You don't want fried breakfast?"
"Sorry, no, watching my figure," she said, patting her tummy, stopping when she realised she wasn't the only one.
Sehana nodded, pulling a box of muesli from the pantry. "Yes, Mr Mark had me get some. He knows you like it."
So thoughtful.
Not only had she picked up the right muesli, but the best vanilla yoghurt on the market. The two of them sat eating bowls of muesli-enhanced yoghurt, drinking some extremely potent espresso roast coffee and making rather animated and pleasant small talk about celebrities and politics. It was after a discussion of respective childhoods in England and Australia that Rebecca made the dive back into more personal conversation. "Mark told me all about your ordeal in Thailand. I'm so sorry that happened to you. I wish there had been something I could have done."
"I appreciate that, Rebecca, I really do." She studied the younger woman's face, so open and earnest. "You know, I'm really sorry if I treated you badly before, but I thought you were having an affair with my boyfriend."
She offered a bittersweet smile. "Completely understandable."
"And I'm also sorry if I hurt your feelings, you know, when I… showed up here looking for Mark."
Rebecca cast her eyes down. "I know you didn't mean to, Bridget. I really do. And I wasn't realistically expecting anything. I just… had to let you know, both for myself and so that you would know that Mark really was faithful to you."
Bridget nodded. "That was very much appreciated."
She looked up again. "And I did get to steal a kiss from you, so it wasn't a wasted effort." She actually grinned, then deftly changed the subject. "So… did they treat you well there?"
Bridget shrugged. "It was a cell filled with women, straw mats on the floor for sleeping, quite public, er, toilet facilities. Rather unsanitary. And they called me 'Beeshit' because they couldn't say my name properly." Rebecca laughed lightly. "But no, I wasn't, you know, beaten or physically violated or any such thing."
"I'm glad to hear. I'd hate to think of you being mistreated." She finished her breakfast and glanced to her watch. "Hm. I should probably dash."
Sincerely, Bridget said, "It was nice talking with you."
"And with you." She smiled, and made to leave.
"Rebecca," said Bridget, waiting for her to turn back around. "I truly hope you can find someone to make you as happy as Mark makes me."
Her smile thinned ever so slightly in a melancholy manner, and Bridget wondered if she hadn't stepped over the line. "Don't suppose you have a twin sister who likes women?" she asked, half-jokingly.
Bridget pouted. "Sorry, no, only a brother who likes women."
She sighed, still smiling sadly. "Ah well, it was worth asking."
……………
"Thanks, set that right there."
Shaz set another suitcase of clothing near the chair and took in the room with a low whistle. "This house is amazing. I shudder to think what this place cost! And oh my God, that bed!"
Bridget smiled somewhat proudly. Sehana had made up the bed and retied the canopy and it looked magnificent, straight out of an architectural magazine or high-end catalog.
"So have you gone, you know, looking around?"
Bridget shrugged. "I've been here less than a day. Besides, I don't want to pry."
"'Pry'? You're going to be living here! You have a right to look around."
"And he has a right to some privacy, Shaz, sheesh." She hoped Shaz wasn't poking around in her own private things! Good thing her diaries made the trip over in the first suitcase full of things.
Shaz took a seat in the sofa against the wall, next to the window, and her eyes connected with the roses. "Oh, Bridge." Smiling, Bridget fetched the card for her to read, and Shaz's eyes welled with tears. Shaz, tearing up! Hard to believe. "This is just…" She sniffed then pulled herself back together, returning to subject. "Aren't you just a little bit curious?"
"Of course I am. It doesn't mean I should go poking around willy-nilly." She had to change tack or she'd go mad. "Speaking of curious, what on earth's going on with my brother?"
Shaz blushed. Tears, now blushing. Pod person!
"He'd better not hurt you," she muttered. Then, her tone changing to one of protective younger sister: "You'd better not hurt him!"
"It was a shag, for Chrissake," said Shaz petulantly. "We're not picking out fucking china patterns!"
They stared at each other for a moment or two before breaking out in simultaneous laughter. Bridget said, "Okay, fine, fair. Sorry. Didn't mean to go all Mother on you."
"It's all right. Though I do have to say it was a little weird waking up in your bed."
"Yeah, I bet." Bridget laughed, then held out her hand and pulled Shaz off of the sofa. "Come on, Sehana said she was making dinner."
"Oooh!"
……………
After Shaz left, her words resounded in Bridget's head, and she decided she would take a closer look at her new home; the thought of actually residing here in this veritable castle made her head spin. She decided to start with the most familiar area, the bedroom, so she looked more closely at the armoire, the fireplace, the bureau, at the objets d'art, impressive little plaques, framed photos of his family… and a small one of her on his side of the bed that she hadn't previously noticed. Its presence there touched her deeply. She noticed a lovely little inlaid cherrywood box on one of the shelves of the armoire and, glancing about guiltily, slid it out. She opened it, and inside sat two pieces of jewelry.
One was a gorgeous ruby and pearl ring in a very classy gold setting; Bridget figured it must have been the heirloom engagement ring he'd confided he couldn't give to her.
The other was larger, a plain band of gold.
She picked it up carefully and examined it: Mark's wedding band. She turned it over in her hand and was suddenly filled with sadness, not only for the distress the whole situation had caused him, but God, all of those hints to try to get him to propose when he had been hurt so badly the first time around… she felt like a fool. She also wondered why he had kept his ring. He really was romantically nostalgic in his own way, but why about this?
She heart the faint ringing of her mobile phone, which snapped her to reality. She jumped up, found the phone, and flipped it open. The display said it was Mark's mobile, but how was that possible? He was in New York!
"Mark?" she asked tentatively.
"Hello, Bridget."
"Mark! Where are you?"
He laughed. "In New York, love. First chance I've had to give you a call."
It was so unbelievably good to hear his voice. "How can you be on your own phone? You're in America. I thought they couldn't work there."
"I have satellite service. I'm sorry, I should have told you. The phone works wherever I go."
"Good to know." She turned the ring over in her palm, looking at it still. "How was your flight?"
"When I wasn't catching up on sleep? Interminable." There was a pause before he spoke again, his voice much quieter. "I miss you."
"I miss you too." She glanced over to the vase. "Thank you for the roses. You rendered me a puddle of tears."
"Darling, I'm sorry, I didn't mean—"
"No, no, it was a good cry. A happy cry. It's all right."
"Ah." He cleared his throat. "Well. I hope you're staying out of trouble."
She smiled, looking down to the ring in her hand again. "I haven't set the place on fire yet, if that's what you mean," she said, chuckling nervously. She released a pent-up breath. "Look, Mark, I have to apologise."
"Whatever for? You just said you didn't burn down the house."
Her voice was strained when she spoke. "I realised that I might have been a little, um, single-minded about marriage at one point, there."
He was silent for a few moments. "Where did this come from?"
She didn't want to admit to sitting there with his wedding band in her palm, so she said, "Well, being in your house, I just… started thinking about things, and I realised I probably put some unfair pressure on you to propose."
More silence. "Have you had a change of heart?"
"Oh, God, no, Mark, I have not, I would not."
"Well, neither have I, and you didn't, so there's no need to apologise."
"I didn't?"
"Remember when I asked you to go on the ski weekend?"
How could she forget? Ugh. Awful weekend.
He continued. "I have a confession to make. That wasn't originally what I was going to ask you. Nerves. Failed first marriage does that to a man."
She was stunned. "Really?" Tears sprang to her eyes.
"Yes. So I had been thinking about it quite independently - you didn't pressure me into anything. It was just far too soon for me. Then things went to hell, and—" He was quiet again, then took in a breath. "God. Why didn't we talk like this before?"
"Before your trip?"
It was good to hear him chuckle softly as he said, "No. I meant before we split up."
Durr. She laughed between those tears. "Stupid. I was stupid."
"We both were. Fortunately, we got better."
She heard a brisk knock then a man's voice speaking behind Mark, and he said to them, "Yes, yes, I'll be right there. Look, darling," he said back into the phone, "I'm being compelled into an early dinner with the New York crew. I love you, and I'll speak to you very soon. Sleep well, all right?"
"All right. Good night, Mark. I love you too."
"Oh, Bridget?"
"Yes?"
"Be sure to put the rings away where you found them."
She gasped. "How did—"
Too late. He had disconnected.
That man was a little scary sometimes.
Notes:-->
Reference / Links:
Section title: "Take Me Home Tonight" by Eddie Money (with Ronnie Spector).
According to a website on the mythology of the Phillipines, Sehana is the Filipino goddess of love. Found it too appropriate.
