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 4: Englishman in New York
Friday 3 Aug
During the course of investigating the rooms she was comfortable snooping through, Bridget had made a delightful discovery: a telly, a VTR and a DVD player stacked on a rolling entertainment center, all kept stored in the closet, probably to wheel out for the football. She'd taken to leaving it set up so that she could watch telly before bed in lieu of physical companionship, but on her latest trip back to the flat, she'd unearthed her Pride & Prejudice DVD and decided it must return to Holland Park with her; after all, it was one of the essentials of life not to be left behind. Bridget decided to commemorate the halfway point of Mark's absence by cuing up the crucial scene; she was about to ring up the girls to join her for a bit of Wet White Shirt viewing when her mobile rang.
Calling identification told her it was Shaz. Excellent timing; she picked up.
"Shaz! I was just about to watch Mr—"
"Bridget. Panic stations. Panic stations!"
"What's wrong?"
"Can I come over?"
"Absolutely! I was just about to call you to come over anyway."
Silence, then a tremulous, "Can you come down and let me in? I'm on the front walk."
Bridget took the staircase two steps at a time and opened the door to find a teary-eyed Shazzer holding her own arms as if cold.
"Come in! Come in! What's the matter?"
She held up a previously-unseen chemist's bag that had been tucked under her arm. "Let's hope it's one blue line and not two."
Bridget's hand flew to her mouth. Shaz, a mother? Oh, God! Jamie a father!
They scaled the stairs and headed for the bedroom. Shaz held up her hand. "This part I'll do on my own." Bridget nodded curtly.
Momentarily, Shaz emerged from the bathroom looking quite green. "And now we wait." They sat on the sofa side by side, the test resting face down on Shaz's knee. "Jamie's out of town, I didn't want to do this alone and I knew you… well…" She glanced towards the test.
Bridget reached out and grasped her friend's hand, squeezing tightly for a moment. "I'm glad you came over." She looked towards the telly, where the handsome face of Mr Darcy blazed across the screen looking broodingly anguished (or possibly just squinting in the sun). "Shall I play something to make the time pass more quickly?" she queried.
Shaz smiled reluctantly, slight quiver still evident on her lower lip. "All right."
She pushed 'play' and the Wet White Shirt scene came to life. Bridget reached to fidget with her heart-shaped necklace only to recollect her neck was bare, for Mark had taken that piece of jewelry with him on his trip to have something of her near. Instead, she twisted her hair tightly around her finger. Shaz's knee bounced up and down with nervous energy. After repeating the scene enough times to fill three minutes, Shaz wrapped her fingers around the test, handing it towards her friend with a heavy sigh. "Bridge. I can't bear to look. Tell me."
Bridget took it and turned the test face up, squinting for a closer look. "Looks like one line to me."
Shaz gasped, grabbing the test out of Bridget's hand. "You're lying. Really?" She studied the plastic wand and after assuring herself there was only one line, she beamed in relief, exhaling loudly. "Fucking brilliant. Not pregnant! Halle-fucking-lujah!"
Bridget wondered how reliable the test was, and fumbled for the box. Ninety-seven percent accuracy in the earliest stages was nothing to sniff at. She threw the flattened box flying-disc-style and it wedged between the DVD player and the VTR. Score!
"Thank fucking God." She slumped back against the sofa.
"Want some wine?"
"Absolutely. Fucking absolutely. Call Jude." Bridget reached for the mobile. "And tell her to bring more wine and Milk Tray!"
Chardonnay, Mr Darcy, Milk Tray. Perfect night with the lovely girls.
Monday 6 Aug
It was dark and through the haze came the resounding trill of Bridget's mobile phone. Waking, she put the open phone to her ear and managed a sleepy, "Yes?"
"Sorry to call so late there. I… have some bad news."
Mark's voice was quiet and strained, which instantly alarmed her into wakefulness. She noticed the hour was indeed quite late, almost two thirty.
"Mark… what is it? Are you all right?"
"I'm… not in hospital if that's what you mean."
"Do you have to stay longer?"
"No. Well, yes." There was a very long pause. "I… I'm not coming back to London at all. I'm sorry to have to tell you this way, but… well, seeing Natasha again, I just— I realised my feelings for her hadn't gone away… and she's much better suited to be my wife."
He continued speaking, saying something about staying as long as she needed to there in Holland Park, to gather up her things and get her brother resituated in his own flat. There was however nothing she could say, no words that could be formed, just the repeating thought in her head that she knew it had been all too good to be true. As his voice continued on in apologetic tones, it was gradually drowned out by an ever louder ringing in her ears.
Ringing.
Ringing!
Bridget sat bolt upright in the bed, hearing the mobile on the bedside chirping away. She grabbed it with trembling hands, saw it was Mark; almost afraid to open it, she steeled herself anyway and timidly squeaked out a "Hello?"
"Sorry to call so late there." The same exact words. Her stomach did gymnastics, and she glanced to the bedside alarm clock to see it read two in the morning. "I've been working nonstop and I lost track of time." Her mind raced to analyse the tone of his voice; weary, perhaps, but lacking an aching, painful burden behind it. She realised she must have been silent for far too long; as he spoke again he sounded almost playful despite his fatigue. "Bridget, you haven't fallen back asleep, have you?"
She must have been too silent for too long, and blinked back tears she didn't realise had formed. Voice unexpectedly quavering, she said hesitantly, "Just woke me from a… horrid dream."
After a pause, he said, becoming instantly solemn, "Go on, tell me."
"I can't. You'll only think me neurotic."
"Darling, we can't possibly be held responsible for what our minds do while we're asleep. I would be the last person to judge mental flotsam churning to the surface."
"I…" She began, but didn't know how to continue. 'Don't want to?' 'Am too afraid to?'
"Please, Bridget," he persuaded gently. "It's bad enough I can't be there to comfort you - at least let me listen."
"All right," she agreed at last, and drew in a steadying breath. "I dreamt that you woke me up in the middle of the night with a call just like this to tell me you were staying in New York to be with Natasha. To marry her instead."
He did not answer right away. Clearly he had been expecting a 'no clothes at final exams' sort of dream. At last he managed tenderly, emotionally, "Oh, love. I'm sorry."
"It was so real." She could not hold back a sob. "I just feel like you've been there so long…"
"Not much longer. We've made fantastic progress and I'll be back before you know it." He was quiet for a moment. "I so wish I could be there with you, to reassure you that it was only a dream, and that my reason for calling has nothing to do with… that."
Sadness waning and curiosity piquing, she wiped the wetness away from under her eyes and asked, "Oh?"
"I was looking at my calendar just now and I realised that Wednesday marks ten weeks since the Peruvian conference."
Confused, Bridget thought she had momentarily drifted back to sleep and missed the middle of the sentence. "What?"
"Sorry - it was a work calendar. I should have said 'since we got back together'."
Ten weeks. It dawned on her that that was longer than their first go-around at a relationship. Had he any idea how significant that was?
"Bridget?"
She'd gone silent again, lost in thought. "Sorry. I was just thinking." When she explained what she was thinking about, he chuckled softly.
"Darling," he said patiently, "that's why I called. To tell you."
"Oh." How sweet that he'd actually kept track. Now she missed him even more. "Please tell me these extended trips are rare."
"Not as rare as I'd like, but rare enough." He paused. "Look, I don't want to keep you up all night when you have to work in the morning, but I…"
"What?"
He let out a short, quick breath. "Well. I suppose it's repetitious to say that I'm dreadfully lonely, miss you terribly, and needed to hear your voice."
She snuggled back under the sheets and up to his pillow, smiling then sighing deeply. "You can say it as many times as you like if it's still true, because I miss you too and I'll keep saying it until you're back."
"Another week and you can breathe it directly into my ear."
……………
"Bridget!"
She snapped back to attention from sleepy daydreaming and was brought crashing back into the 'Sit Up Britain' conference room, an array of annoyed faces all pointed in her direction. "Sorry, Richard. My fiancé's away for work, and he called late—"
"Yes, yes, we know, we know," cut in Patchouli.
Finch rolled his eyes. "We've heard this every day for weeks."
"I'm sorry," she said somewhat testily, "but he's still away and I still miss him."
"Anyway, as I was saying, the boys upstairs want you to cover InKon this year. Biggest convention of its kind. Are you up for it?"
She didn't know what the hell an InKon was but it couldn't be worse than sitting at home wallowing in loneliness in Mark's giant house, or wading through another dreadful meeting with Finch. "Me?"
"Unless there's another Bridget-sodding-Jones in the room."
"When is it?"
"As I said, this upcoming weekend."
"When would I leave?"
Finch, clearly peeved at having to repeat himself, said tersely, "Thursday. Clive'll be your cameraman, he's heading out on an earlier flight than you with his gear."
"Flight?" The vein in his forehead started to bulge and throb as she hesitantly asked, "Where is this thing again?"
"Manhattan."
She was barely able to contain a gasp, and it was a test of will to keep the utter glee she felt from showing on her face: Mark was in New York! What a delightful treat that would be!
In a detached tone, she replied, "Very well then."
"Terrific. You can go home, and you won't need to come in tomorrow."
Oh, goody!
Finch continued, "Your homework for the next two days - well, day and a half - is to learn everything you can about the fine art of body modification."
Bridget's face fell. "What?"
"Tattooing. Piercing. Scarification. That sort of thing. That's what the convention is all about." He smiled somewhat deviously.
She gulped. "Hurrah."
……………
The moment she left the office she pulled out her mobile. She debated whether or not to tell Mark about the trip to New York, then, not having made up her mind, she decided to ring him up anyway. After the trauma of discovering the subject matter, she just needed to hear his voice. It was just about breakfast time there, and it would be easy to imagine they were sharing toast and coffee across the bed, not conversing across an entire ocean.
The call connected. Her heart surged with happiness.
"Mark Darcy's phone - hello, Bridget."
Mark's phone should not have a vaguely familiar snooty female voice answering. Of this Bridget was certain. Maybe she imagined it?
"Um. Hello?" she asked uncertainly.
"This is Bridget, isn't it?" repeated the voice on the phone. Psychic, as well? Or calling identification?
"Yes it is. Who is this?"
"Natasha Glenville."
She kept her voice steady, pushing thoughts of the nightmare she'd had out of her consciousness. "Where's my fiancé, and why are you answering his phone?" she asked pleasantly yet pointedly from between clenched teeth.
"Mark's expecting a very important call and he asked me to sit with his phone while he's in the shower," she said smoothly.
Bridget felt her blood pressure skyrocket, but called upon Inner Poise. She told herself she must remain calm, must not take the bait. Mark would never betray her, certainly not with Natasha, especially after what he'd said about her, especially after last night. Still: why was she answering his phone?
Though… What if she'd somehow taken advantage of his extreme loneliness and managed to get him really drunk, or worse, slipped him one of those awful roofies, then seduced him, somehow convincing him in that impaired state that Bridget was no good for him? She wouldn't put anything past that woman.
"Are you still there?"
Shit. Silence was almost as bad as a screaming rage. "Yes, I am, pocket of static. Um. Could you please have him call me when he's available?"
"I'll give him the message, though I can't promise a quick return. He's been very… busy."
"Thank you," she said, again through her teeth. She disconnected, and fumed. That woman knew how to push her hot buttons. Like Daniel did for Mark.
In an effort to try to put the concern out of her mind until Mark called back - and he would, everything would be okay, deep breaths, calm blue ocean - she decided to jump with both feet into internet research about tattoos, piercings (ear, body, etc.), scarification and anything else she could find - the more out-there, the better. She didn't know where on earth she could connect to the internet in Mark's house, so she and her laptop headed for the flat. Jamie was not there - and she doubted he'd mind - so she was able to claim the line to research to her heart's content.
Many hours later, half-disgusted and half-fascinated with the images and content she was seeing, she was relieved in more ways than one with when her mobile rang. It was Mark. She answered and tried her best to not sound overly anxious. "Hello?"
"Hello, darling." She waited for a few seconds for him to launch into an explanation, but he only asked, "Are you there?"
"I'm here."
He chuckled. "Well, you called me before, so presumably you had something to say…?"
"Mark," she began, doing her level best to remain cool, calm, collected; "Why was that… woman answering your phone?"
Silence, then: "What." From the tone and terseness of his voice, he was clearly furious.
Bridget explained, "She said she was watching your phone while you were… in the shower."
He was quiet again, likely collecting his thoughts. When he spoke it was very measured, quiet, his emotions reined tightly in. "I ended up staying up all night working. I lost track of time, realised I was late for a breakfast meeting with Natasha to prep for the conference today. After breakfast, I returned to my room for a shower. I left my phone with her in the hotel coffee bar because I asked her to answer the phone for one specific caller only, as it was crucial to what we're working on here. When I returned to the café she told me you'd called but she intimated that she knew by the incoming caller display. I didn't have a chance to call back until now."
Did Natasha really think they wouldn't talk about this? Perhaps the Old Bridget would have sat on it and seethed until they had a row or worse yet, split up again, but not the New and Improved Inner-Poiseful Bridget. "Mark, even after that dream last night, I hope you know I didn't actually believe for a second that you'd slept with her." 'At least not willingly,' she added mentally.
He exhaled. "And I hope you know I am not angry at you for asking about it." He paused again; from the sound of ice clinking against glass, she guessed he was having a drink. "It would seem Ms Glenville and I need to have a chat about boundaries." His voice was still very tight and reserved.
"I didn't mean to upset you. I was just working on a brain-bending new project for 'Sit Up Britain' and needed to hear your voice."
She could hear him release a pent-up breath and when he spoke again, he sounded more like himself. "No. I'm glad you told me. I wouldn't want to you to be distressed." He paused; it sounded like a yawn. "I am just utterly exhausted. Going to have a bit of a lie down for a few hours before dinner."
She smiled. "I wish I was there."
"It's probably good for me that you're not, as I actually do need to sleep." She detected the hint of a smirk.
She said, "Have a good lie down, and I'll speak to you soon."
After exchanging endearments of affection, she hung up, feeling smugly satisfied about keeping her trip a surprise; he sounded like he could use a pick-me-up.
Thursday 9 Aug
Bridget had spent all of her time researching and packing, had barely spoken to any of her Urban Family in advance of her trip, and hadn't seen Sehana either (she came while Bridget was at the flat utilising the internet line, and left before she arrived back at the house). She did mention to Shazzer, Jude and Tom at 192 on Wednesday night that she had an important new project that she didn't want to utterly fuck up. She didn't even get pissed because as much as they wanted her to, hungover was no way to spend a transatlantic flight, and she wanted to do well not only to further her own career but to show Mark she was worthy of the Darcy name.
Having no way to get a hold of Jeffrey and the silver Bentley, she rounded up a taxi to get her to the airport with plenty of time to catch her one-thirty P.M. flight out of Heathrow for New York. She had a relatively smooth pass through the international flight queues and had enough time to spare before her flight to grab some coffee and panini at Caffé Nero. Mark would have been proud she was early. Surprised, but proud.
During the flight, Bridget realised that certain things were cliché for a reason: cramped seat, wailing baby two rows away, and the worst movie she'd ever seen with no escape from it (at least the headphones made it partially optional, but her eyes nevertheless kept being drawn to the image on the screen) made the seven-plus hour flight nearly intolerable. She half-expected for the airline to have lost her luggage upon her arrival at JFK, but thank goodness for small mercies, they had not.
Arriving in New York City at just after four P.M. local time, she mused that it was almost like time travel or magic that she could leave on a seven hour trip and arrive about two hours (by clock) after she left. The airport taxi took her to a swank place just south of the utterly gorgeous Central Park, but every mile of the drive convinced Bridget that a head-on collision would occur at any moment - driving on the opposite side of the road than she was used to was always quite unsettling. At the front desk, checking into her room, she tap-tap-tapped the pen impatiently. If she called him soon, they could meet for dinner.
The room itself was gorgeous, and, according to the taxi driver who'd dropped her off, rooms at this hotel were quite spacious by midtown Manhattan standards. She could hardly believe that the boys upstairs (as Finch had called them) were springing for such posh digs. As much as she longed for a shower and a nap, she headed for the telephone to call Mark. She did not have the luxury of a satellite mobile, didn't think to get Mark's hotel phone number, so she would have to make do with placing an international call.
She then realised she had no idea how to make an international call from America.
Hesitantly, she picked up the phone and held it up to her ear to hear a dial tone. She noticed a number for the front desk displayed on a list of important hotel phone numbers right there on the phone, so she punched it in; moments later, a woman's voice came on. "Front desk."
"Yes, this is Bridget Jones. I've just checked in, and I need some assistance in dialing internationally."
"For which country?"
"United Kingdom." Durr. Wasn't likely to be Tanzania!
"Do you have the number you wish to call?"
"Ooh, yes, just a moment." She had her mobile with her, currently well out of service range, but Mark's number was in the address book. She dug it out, turned it on, and opened it, scrolling to his entry. She also grabbed a pen and a piece of stationery off of the writing desk. "Okay. I'm ready."
After a short conversation rendering the woman on the phone somewhere just slightly scarier than a freakish, futuristic computer, and taking a page of notes that looked like a choreographed fight scene, she thanked the robot woman, took a steadying breath, and whispered to herself, "Here goes nothing."
After a few incorrect attempts (and mistakenly dialing a deli in the east end of London), she was finally certain she got the right combination of codes in the right order. She waited with bated breath as she listened to ring after ring.
Smooth, professional: "Mark Darcy speaking."
Hurrah! Success! "Mark!"
"Bridget!" he exploded. "Where the hell are you?"
It was not the reception she expected, and she furrowed her brows. "Hello and I love you too! What's wrong?"
"What's wrong! Where are you? I've been worried out of my head. You weren't at home or at the flat, your mobile's out of range, the calling identification is displaying alien characters…."
"I truly didn't mean to worry you!" she said, smiling. "But I think you'll forgive me when I tell you I have a marvelous surprise for you!" She paused for dramatic effect but when that elicited no response, she burst out with, "I'm in New York!"
She swore he was silent for a full minute before he made a sound. "You're where?"
"Remember the new assignment I told you about, the one Finch gave to me? I'm reporting on a convention in Manhattan! So I'm in New York until Sunday night!"
Continued silence. It must have been that he was so overwhelmed, he was at a loss for words. Double hurrah! "When… how… why didn't you tell me?"
"Because I wanted to surprise you, and didn't want to distract you from your very important meetings. So… where is your hotel? Can you meet me here?"
He sighed. "I'm afraid that I can't," he said sullenly.
"But why ever not?"
"Because…" He paused portentously. "Because I'm in London."
That was definitely not what she expected to hear.
"What?"
"Having finished ahead of schedule, I decided to… come home early and surprise you," he finished sheepishly. "Took a morning flight, touched down at about nine P.M."
"No. No!" She slumped into the seat at the writing desk, glancing to her mobile's display, still open, still set to London time. It read eleven-thirty. With five hours' difference, it meant he was arriving in London about the same time she was arriving in New York. "Please tell me you're joking!"
"I wish that I could."
Not fair! So not fair! Now she was stuck in New York with the world's greatest collection of freaks, and no Mark.
"It's kind of funny in its own way," he offered.
"How is this even remotely funny?" she said with a sigh.
"Darkly funny, not ha-ha funny. But oddly sweet, in the manner of 'The Gift of the Magi'. Just don't go cutting your hair off and I'll promise not to sell my watch."
The most pathetic sigh in history issued forth from her chest. "I have the worst luck sometimes."
"I'm sorry our surprises didn't work out," he said. "I am relieved you're all right."
"But you aren't here."
"I know, darling. But New York's beautiful; you might as well try to enjoy yourself. Where are you staying?"
She told him.
He laughed. "Oh, cruel fate. I was staying there as well. You're very near to Central Park, art museums galore, theatres, and the Empire State Building if you're feeling like a tourist."
"By myself? Gah. I don't even want to go out for dinner by myself."
"I can give you Rebecca's room number if you like; she's still there."
"Very funny," she said, then sighed. "All right, what is it?" He told her, and she took it down. "So. You're not threatened that I'm going to dinner with a woman who has an avowed crush on me?"
"Bridget, it was my idea."
"But how can that not bother you?"
He didn't answer right away, and when he did his voice was huskier. "Darling, your enthusiasm when we're… together tells me all I need to know."
"Oh." She cleared her throat. Speaking of being together… "I wish you were here."
He didn't respond right away. "I know. Just do the best job you can at the convention, and you'll be home soon enough."
"Okay."
"By the way… you never said what kind of convention it was."
Visions of piercings, subdural implants, brandings and tattoos flashed before her eyes. "I'll tell you all about it when I get home. I should go before my phone bill is higher than my hotel bill and Richard Finch kills me."
"Give me your room number and I'll call you tomorrow night."
She did. "I don't know what my schedule's going to be with this thing, and I haven't even connected with Clive yet."
"Clive?"
"My cameraman."
"Ah."
They were silent for a moment or two. "Sleep well and know that I'll be thinking of you," she said quietly, then added, as he'd said he'd called the flat, "and be sure to ring up my brother, so he doesn't worry."
"I will. You go on, call Rebecca, and get some dinner. There's a fantastic bistro there in the hotel."
She smiled, realizing she was quite famished. "I'll do that."
He cleared his throat, and when he spoke again his voice was quite thick with emotion. "I never had anyone cross an ocean for me before."
"Well, now we're even," she said with a smile.
……………
"Rebecca Gillies," said the crisp voice on the other end of the line.
"Yes, hello Rebecca." Bridget cleared her throat. "It's Bridget."
She didn't reply right away. "Bridget? Are you looking for Mark? He's not here. Isn't he back in—?" She stopped herself, not wanting to ruin a potential surprise.
"Yes, I know. Thanks to an unfortunate chain of well-intentioned events, we are still a continent apart."
"How do you mean?"
"I'm going to a convention at the Javits Convention Center, tried to surprise him and, well…"
"Oh my goodness. You're here in New York!"
"I am, and I'm even at the same hotel. He gave me your room number. And if you are free, I'd like to, um, see a friendly face over dinner."
Rebecca didn't reply right away. "That would be lovely," she said, her voice almost too soft.
Bridget was quick to add, "I don't mean to lead you on - this is just dinner."
"No, no, I understand."
"All right. Good. Give me a half hour to freshen up and I'll meet you downstairs."
……………
"Oh my God. Bridget."
Bridget looked up from her dinner to find the imperious eyes of Natasha Glenville upon her, a shrewish expression of intense scrutiny on her face. "Hello," Bridget said firmly.
She chuckled in a very false manner. "Once again, your timing is impeccable. You're here, and Mark's gone back to London for you." She sniffed snobbishly.
"You know, I'm the one with the ring, so I really have nothing to say to you," Bridget sniffed back, briefly holding her left hand up before turning back to her dinner.
Natasha leaned in close to Bridget, as if Rebecca was not even present, and hissed in a low tone, "How long do you think this will last? What was your max last time, maybe a couple of months? He'll eventually tire of you, and he'll come back to a woman with class and standards. He'll come back to me."
Bridget blinked and opened her mouth to speak.
"Oh, I really don't see that happening," came the quiet response.
Surprised, Bridget looked to Rebecca, who'd been the one to make that declaration.
Natasha stood to her full height, crossing her arms. "Ah, you're Mark's little junior partner, aren't you?" she asked, issuing the phrase as if it tasted vile. "I suppose you think you have a chance?"
Rebecca looked to her, wide-eyed and deceptively innocent. "I never said I wanted a chance." Glancing briefly to Bridget with a smile, Rebecca stood, towering over Natasha by several inches. This caught the attention of patrons at nearby tables. "And even if I did, I wouldn't have one. What they have is really special. Given the choice of Bridget or you? Mark would never choose you. Oh, wait. He already made his choice." She stepped forward, their impromptu audience enthralled. "Now please stop harassing Bridget and me, or I shall have no choice but to call for hotel security."
She had never in her life seen Natasha without words. She watched as Natasha lifted her chin haughtily, turned on her heel and walked away. There was no actual applause from the fellow patrons, but certainly amused and approving murmurs.
Bridget watched with glee as Natasha retreated into the hotel lobby. Awed, she said, "Rebecca, that was spectacular. Thank you."
She grinned. "You're welcome. I won't have that awful woman speak ill of Mark… or of you."
Bridget smiled. "Thank you."
The rest of the dinner was pleasant enough, but damn that Natasha. She'd planted the seed of doubt in her head. Was it really too good to last? Aside from the phenomenal shagging, what did they really have in common? Sure, they'd been together longer this time around, but did they have true staying power, or was the whole enterprise doomed to fail?
Bridget realised a hand had covered her own, and she looked up to Rebecca. Instinctively Bridget knew that it was not a come-on. "Hey, Bridget. You all right?"
Bridget shrugged, looking down to her ring, which currently felt like a millstone around her finger. "Just tired. That's all."
"Is it because of what she said to you?" Rebecca cocked her head to indicate the now-absent Natasha. Bridget shrugged again. "Don't let her get to you. She's just dreadfully jealous, is all. She never had Mark's heart they way you do." Bridget raised her eyes, found Rebecca smiling at her. Weird that it didn't make her uneasy.
Rebecca then laced her fingers together, resting her chin on her knuckles. "Now, tell me all about this convention you're here for."
"Body modification."
She drew her brows together quizzically. "What exactly does that entail?"
"Tattoos, body piercings, bones through noses, ear discs…"
She swore Rebecca went as pale as a ghost. Bridget could not help but laugh.
"It's for 'Sit Up Britain'. I'm not there as a participant."
Rebecca looked distinctly relieved.
Saturday 11 Aug
"Jones, you devil," said a smooth, posh voice just above Bridget's left shoulder. "Are you stalking me?"
No.
No. Way. In. Bloody. Hell.
Amongst the booths touting body jewelry, tattoo portfolios, and branding irons, it was in fact actually Daniel Cleaver standing behind her. She said in amazement, "What the fuck are you doing here?"
"Nice to see you too." He looked disreputably handsome, aiming the full force of his smile on her. "I might ask you the same question, as I live here now and you, presumably, do not."
She momentarily forgot she was still angry with him. "What?"
"Have you not noticed my shining face no longer around the studio?" Come to think of it, she had neither seen it nor noticed its absence. "After the Thailand debacle, the 'Smooth Guide' got yanked. So I took a position with the Pemberley Press New York office. Got here early July."
"Not that I particularly care," she sniffed, walking off.
He followed her. "So why are you here?"
She stopped again when she realised he was not going to leave her alone. "Covering the convention for 'Sit Up Britain'. You?"
He held his arms aloft in an uncannily vicar-like way (she thought briefly about her dream), and it became suddenly and astoundingly obvious that they were surrounded by many scantily clad women wearing provocative leather clothing with strategically-cut openings for best revealing bodysuit tattoos, piercings and what not. "Come now. Pass up a chance for this?"
She growled. "I should have guessed."
His good humour vacated and face went hangdog. "Look, Bridge, can we have a drink?"
She couldn't believe she'd ever fallen for his lines; they now seemed so transparent. She held up her ring as a reminder. "I don't know how I can express to you how not interested I am, Daniel."
He looked earnest. "I mean to talk to you over. I never did properly apologise for the fuck-up in Thailand."
She eyed him warily. "You can apologise right here."
In a moment of self-realisation he said, "You don't trust me to behave myself."
Her expression was that of one dealing with a particularly stupid child. "Durr."
"I realise I've been horrible to you."
"Chuh. 'Horrible'. That's an understatement." She furrowed her brows. "You've never even apologised for lying to me about sleeping with Mark's wife! So there is nothing you could say that could convince me to allow myself to be hoodwinked by you again."
He conceded defeat and engaged her eyes. "Bridget. I am sorry. I should have done something. Honestly, I thought it was a minor thing. Didn't know it was the disaster it was until you were already on your way home. It's not like it was the top story on the news or anything." He sighed. "And I'm sorry about… the other thing too."
She considered, crossing her arms in front of her chest. It was as much as he was actually going to say about lying about Mark, or at least, as much as she could expect him to say, and that would have to suffice. "All right. I accept your apology. Now… I have work to do."
"Jones," he called. "Bridge. Please."
She stopped. He looked so pathetic that for a moment she came very close to feeling sorry for him; after all, she was not an inhumane monster.
Quietly, he said, "It's been so lonely here."
"How on earth can you be lonely in a city of eight million people? Really, you don't strike me as the wallflower type."
And it was then, suddenly, that she was struck with a brainwave. It was devious, perfect, pure, delightful revenge.
Her euphoria closely guarded, she continued with a performance worthy of a little golden statuette. "Look, I've got an acquaintance here. Also British. I think she'd be just your style. She's here and has been looking to meet people, someone to have fun with. I don't have her number on me, but let me tell you how to get hold of her."
His very expressive eyebrows shot up. "Well, yes, Jones, very good of you." He jaunted to a nearby tattoo artist's exhibition table, smiled winningly to the blonde behind the counter, and nicked a sample pad of paper and a pen. "Fire away," he said, grinning.
As he finished jotting down the contact info, Bridget said, "Now, you mustn't tell her you know me. She'd be mortified. I gather you can be subtle when you want to be…?"
"Absolutely." He winked, folding the paper. "Well! Jones… skirt…" he said, addressing each individually, "always a pleasure." But he didn't leave immediately, to the point of discomfort on Bridget's part.
"What?"
"Clearly, Darce is the better man here. I know I've fucked up and I accept it. Hope you'll be happy together," he said. "And if you're not, well, look me up…?" He smirked caddishly.
"Bugger off," she retorted, rolling her eyes and stalking away.
Monday 13 Aug
Having gone through the gamut that was customs, Bridget had never been so happy to see Jeffrey. There he stood in International Arrivals with his grey driver's cap and suit bearing a placard that read, in the same block print she'd come to recognise as Mark's, 'Bridget'. She smiled and approached him. "Hello, Jeffrey."
Folding the placard under his arm with a welcoming smile, he said, "Miss Jones, let me take your bag. Do you have luggage to claim?"
"Ooh, yes, I do."
Expertly he led her to the correct baggage carousel. After a not unreasonable wait, during which she was making wagers with herself as to whether or not she could remain upright, her suitcase appeared. She stepped forward to pull it off but was expertly (and politely) intercepted by Jeffrey, who grabbed it and set it to the floor.
"The car's just outside."
She nodded. They passed through security, then headed for the car park. Bridget yawned; she had been in the air since eight o'clock P.M. Sunday night and suddenly she was thrust very rudely into eight A.M. Monday. The downside of the magic time travel: flying east again. She never slept well on airplanes, adding to the misery of the time difference.
He wasn't kidding when he said the car was just outside: it was the closest possible car park that wasn't filled with taxis. The veritable VIP lot. She yawned again then apologised; Jeffrey opened the back driver's side door of the Bentley, and with a smile she took a seat. He raised the boot and loaded her luggage in.
As he took position behind the wheel, he spoke over his shoulder. "It'll be about forty-five minutes to Holland Park, Miss."
"Thank you very much, Jeffrey."
"And Miss, you'll find something there to eat per Mr Darcy's instruction."
"Thank you." Indeed, a small white paper bag sat on the opposite seat, and it held a chocolate croissant. Beneath the bag was a short cappuccino in a travel tray. The sight of them made her smile.
She ate and drank ravenously, then sat back to watch the scenery whiz by. In a blink they were back at Holland Park (she must have dozed off), and Jeffrey was unloading her bags. He saw that she'd stirred and came to open the door for her. "I'm sorry I fell asleep."
"It's quite all right, Miss. It's a long flight and I'm sure you're very tired; after all, Mr Darcy always drops off in the car after an international flight." He blinked, as if he couldn't believe he'd said what he'd said. He stammered, "Pardon me for speaking out of turn."
"My lips are sealed."
After all, the man had been driving while they'd nearly had it off in the back seat.
He smiled, nodded in appreciation, and stood back to allow her passage out of the car. He carried her luggage in for her, depositing the bags just inside the door, before tipping his hat to her and leaving.
She didn't realise how much she had been looking forward to being met at the house by Mark until it became clear that he wasn't there. Crestfallen, she sighed, grabbed her bags and trudged upstairs, intent on showering then perhaps getting some sleep.
However, she soon found that she could not have been more wrong. Mark was, in fact, waiting for her. In bed. Naked. And fast asleep.
She threw down her bags and leapt upon the bed, startling him awake in a flash. She snuggled up to him, shoes and all, and wrapped her arms about him, snogging him like mad. He was unkempt, bristly and sleep-muddled, and she thoroughly didn't care.
"Welcome home," he managed between kisses, smiling drowsily, returning the embrace.
She buried her face into his neck, reveling in his scent. "I didn't think you were here."
"That would've been the height of cruelty."
"It would've been, yes."
He briefly tightened his embrace, then began to stroke her hair and kiss the top of her head lovingly. "So glad you're back. Being here alone was all too reminiscent of… well. When we'd split."
"So glad to be back."
After a quiet, content moment, he spoke again. "Bridget, it amazes me how much I have come to… need having you near." He paused to clear his throat. "I mean, for more than just sex." He paused again. "Although I quite enjoy that, too."
She smiled, her cheek still pressed up against the strong pulse in his throat, and closed her eyes. She was truly home.
Notes:
A chapter utterly without shagging! Don't worry; that will not last.
Dialogue-wise, there's a tip of the hat to my old peeps in P/C fandom. If you were in it, you know which line I mean.
I don't think people who do piercings and tattoos are 'freaks', but I think Bridget might. )
I checked British Airways' flight schedule re: JFK to Heathrow and vice-versa, and the flights really did overlap like that, leaving and landing simultaneously in London and JFK. I thought it was too perfect. (And, by the way, I found the seats on my British Airways flight from San Francisco to London to be totally comfortable and roomy. Bridget is just a complainer.)
Reference / Links:
Section title: "Englishman in New York" by Sting.
I based Bridget's hotel on the Park Central Hotel.
If you have not read The Gift of the Magi by O. Henry, you should.
