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 6: It Hurt So Bad
Thursday 16 Aug (cont.)
Waking as she felt the bed sink beside her, Bridget did not move; she remained on her left side, facing away from Mark. The blinds were drawn shut so the room was quite dark.
His hand rested on her arm. "Bridget, are you feeling well?"
She was reluctant to answer. "Not really."
"How long have you been up here?"
"Don't know."
"Are you sick? Is that why you left work early?"
"I'm not sick."
"Darling, what's wrong?"
She felt hot tears flood her eyes again and she pushed her face deeper into her pillow. In an instant she realised she needed to unload her burden regarding being fired, but would for the time being keep the discovery of the poem to herself. Admitting to seeing the poem in his wallet would mean admitting to snooping, regardless of her intention, and she was not up for the potential censure. Her voice muffled by the down, she said, "I got sacked."
He said nothing at first. His voice was very soft when he did speak. "I'm sorry."
She curled more tightly into a foetal position.
His hand pressed insistently into her arm. "Bridget. Bridget. Look at me."
Reluctantly she turned her head to him, raising her swollen eyes to meet his gaze.
"Come here."
She sighed, turning over and sitting up just enough to rest her cheek against his chest. One arm encircled her shoulders; the other hand swept her hair away from her temple, then cradled her face. Instant feeling of loving comfort. She slipped her arms around his waist. Mark asked, perplexed, "I thought they loved your coverage. I don't understand how—"
"They loved it until the public didn't."
"Oh." His thumb smudged away tears from her cheek.
"He said he'd be happy to write me a reference."
"That's pretty nice considering what an arse he's been to you." He continued holding her. "In a way, it's a blessing in disguise. You hated working for him."
"It still hurts to be sacked."
"I know," he said soothingly.
She doubted Mark had ever been sacked in his life, but didn't feel particularly adversarial at that moment after all of her snotty bawling; a snap back at him would have been arguing for argument's sake, lashing out over a poem that may have had no significance at all, and he wasn't doing anything but trying to help. Yes. A second opinion was definitely warranted before any possible discussion of the matter with Mark. She realised with a certain level of amusement (and pride) that her internal editor had finally come on-line.
He asked at last, "Don't suppose you're up for dinner out?"
"Not really," she murmured pitifully.
"Not even to celebrate being free from 'I'm thinking… vicars in tutus! I'm thinking… hang-gliding squirrels!'?"
She sat up straight, laughing despite herself and sniffing. "When you put it that way…"
He placed his hands on either side of her face, drawing it close to his own. "You'll find a better job. And there's no hurry."
"What do you mean?"
"I'm here for you - you know that."
She suddenly realised she on the verge of being a charity case and cast her gaze downward. "I don't want to be dependent on you." Truthfully speaking, she was terrified of turning into Magda, a former high-powered commodities broker who now spent her days screeching "Mommy will smack! She will smack!", reliant on husband Jeremy, longing in some small part for her wilder, carefree Singleton days.
"But I'm certainly dependent on you." He smoothed the wisps of her hair down. "Maybe not financially, but in other ways. That's the way partnerships work. So if you don't mind, let me do what I can do."
Still red-eyed and puffy-faced, she wiped her face dry. He really was the kindest of men and clearly adored her; she felt foolish for even the smallest seed of doubt. She managed a smile. "All right."
"All right," he repeated, planting a quick kiss on her lips. "So, if you'd like to splash some cold water on your face to take out the redness… it's time to mark the end of working for a madman."
Friday 17 Aug
In the light of a new day, the poem was (for all intents and purposes) rendered a trifle, all downsides to being unemployed evaporated, and the upsides underscored. At dinner he'd repeatedly made her laugh so hard she cried; upon returning home, they had retired early to the bedroom, where more than once over the course of the night he'd driven home the point that he truly did love her.
She now awoke when Mark, dressed for work, kissed her forehead and stroked her hair. She blinked drowsily at him and smiled.
"I didn't mean to wake you," he said softly. "Go back to sleep."
Very wise of him. "Okay."
He pulled the sheet up to her shoulders, smoothed the linen flat, and delivered one more kiss before departing, pausing once at the door to look back and smile at her. She was now almost certain that the poem was nothing more than a remnant of a past era, but she still wanted to run the scenario past the War Council. Mind somewhat at ease, and with fresh shag flashbacks to contemplate, she easily fell back to sleep.
She woke next at almost ten when her mobile rang.
"Hey Bridget," came Shaz's crackly voice over a particularly bad mobile connection. "What happened to part two?"
"Meet me for a cappuccino at Coins in an hour." Shaz would do as well as the entire War Council for advice on the poem issue.
As they settled around their table in the café, Bridget explained about the public outrage, about being turned into the studio's whipping boy. Shaz was not unexpectedly indignant: her face went bright red, vein in neck visibly throbbing, teeth madly gritting. "Fuckwits! Bloody fuckwits! If you weren't a woman I bet they'd've fucking promoted you!"
Bridget remained the epitome of calm acceptance. "Shaz, it's all right. It's a blessing in disguise."
The lines in Shaz's face smoothed out and slowly her colour and breathing returned to normal. "You're really okay with being sacked?"
"Well, hearing the actual words 'you're sacked' was kind of a sock in the eye, but it'll be fine."
Shaz slowly smiled. "Is this while 'Om-Inner-Peace' thing Mark's doing?"
Bridget smiled. "He helped."
"Oh, I bet he helped." Shaz winked, then made rude motions with her hands, taking a drag on her cig and flicking off the ash. "Well, if you say so, I believe you."
"Thank you." Bridget leaned closer over the table to Shaz. "So the real reason I asked you here… I have to ask your opinion, and you have to promise me not to freak out."
Shaz leaned in close as well, clearly pleased to be drawn into such a confidence. "What?"
"Remember the whole 'what's Mark's birthday' conversation?"
"Barely, but yeah."
She cast her gaze down. "I went into Mark's wallet for his driving licence and found a folded-up… Japanese love poem. It had definitely been in there a while."
Shaz's mouth dropped. "What! Bastard!"
"Sharon," Bridget said, leveling a serious gaze at her friend. "I said no freaking out."
"What else am I supposed to do?"
"Benefit of the doubt. Help me to figure out why it might be in there."
Shaz looked skeptical. "This is not our usual methodology, but if you insist, all right. Let me think." She sat thoughtfully with her chin in her palm, cig burning down. "How about… huge bloody coincidence? Maybe… he's a fan of Japanese poetry?"
Bridget made a face. "Um… possible, but why keep one little poem in your wallet and not, say, buy books about same?"
"Very true." Shaz paused, clearly struck with a brainwave. "Bridget. Even if it was about her once upon a time, maybe it's just that he's really terrible about cleaning out his wallet. Surely you have snippets of paper in your bag with, say, Daniel's mobile number on it. Doesn't mean it means anything any more."
"Gah! Not even." It was true that Daniel's number had long been purged from her mobile, but she couldn't vouch for the papers in her wallet or handbag. "That must be it then."
"It must!"
Much as she suspected: remnant of the past, independently validated by Shaz, one of the biggest cynics she knew when it came to men. She raised her cappuccino cup in a cheer. "Hurrah!"
Shaz raised her own cup and tapped Bridget's. "Hurrah!" Then, in a much more conspiratorial tone, she added, "It could have been much worse! It could have been a picture of her in lingerie!"
Bridget smacked her, but playfully so; the weight had been lifted from her shoulders. She had been right to wait instead of jumping to conclusions. Hurrah for Inner Poise!
Tuesday 21 Aug
"It hardly looks like the same place now that your stuff's gone."
Jude, Shaz, Tom, Jamie and Bridget stood in the center of the flat gazing at the practically bare walls. The last of Bridget's things had finally been brought to Mark's or packed into a box and put away, and Jamie had not yet taken to decorating the place to his own liking nor had he pulled the remainder of his own possessions out of storage (not that he had much to pull). It was a bittersweet moment for her; while she had something wonderful with Mark that she wouldn't trade for anything in the world, it was also the end of the majority of her adult life in London as a single girl in a small flat with no one to worry about or take care of but herself. Jamie looked to his sister with a smile just as she deftly wiped a tear away. Their eyes connected and without words she tried to communicate not to say anything. He nodded in understanding.
"I know it's been nearly a month, but I still can't thank you enough, Bridget." He hugged her. "One more night on Mike's sleeper sofa and I was gonna go mental."
"You'll take care of it, I hope?" asked Bridget brightly.
"As well as I took care of my room at the Gables." He winked.
"Har," said Bridget, suddenly looking a mite terrified.
"This is so fucking weird," said Shazzer thoughtfully. "This place looks naked." Jude nodded.
"This calls for a toast," said Jamie. He went to the kitchen and drew a bottle of wine out of the fridge, and pulled some glasses out of the cupboard.
Bridget followed him to the kitchen counter. "Thanks for that, back there."
He tipped his head. "Di niente."
"So I'm guessing that Sharon won't be a stranger to this flat in future?"
Jamie only smiled guardedly.
"I can't get her to say word one about what's going on with you two!"
"It's going well," he said rather staidly.
She thought she could rely on her own brother for dirt. Clearly, she was wrong.
Jamie called for bottoms up, and the five of them lifted their glasses to new chapters. Drinking slowly, Bridget looked to her brother meaningfully; his eyes were trained on Shaz. It was quite touching but still bizarre. Jude, on the other hand, knocked her drink back then announced, "I have to go. Richard and I are meeting for counseling."
"Oh, is he back?" asked Tom cattily.
Jude shot him an angry look. "I'm going to pretend you didn't say that. He came back after crashing on his friend's sofa for three days, devastated and extremely penitent."
Tom posed dramatically, giving her a sidelong look. "Really?"
Jude nodded.
"So I don't have to kick his arse?" asked Shazzer.
Jude cracked a smile at last. "You don't. He really wants to change."
Vile Richard? Wanting to change? Bridget was still feeling a bit like she'd been hit on the head with a wooden plank. "That's… lovely to hear! I'm happy for you." Bridget hugged Jude, who was finally smiling broadly. "Hope it goes well."
"I hope so too. It was actually his idea."
After a round of good-byes, Jude departed. Bridget noticed that Shaz's eyes had gone intense, pointedly looking from Bridget and Tom to the door, commanding without words for the remaining two to beat a hasty retreat. "Well," said Tom. "We should go, Bridge."
Bridget agreed. "I have things to do. Yes."
As they exited the building, Tom said, causing Bridget to smack him for providing the mental picture: "Do you think they're shagging yet?"
Monday 27 Aug
Bridget stared at the laptop screen - specifically, at her CV - as if willing it, daring it, to improve itself on its own. It had been almost two weeks since she'd been sacked, and at first, the freedom of unemployment was exhilarating. She'd made plans to visit the gym, take walks, read cookbooks… but ah, the best laid plans. So now there was a not-so-energetic push for a new job. The classifieds had some good prospects but she was not sure if she wanted to return to publishing, stay with television, or move on to something new. She also quickly realised she was not good at selling herself on paper. Not being a naturally good liar, she didn't have the faintest idea how she was supposed to make her tenure at the publishing house sound like she was practically editor-in-chief. (Shagging the editor-in-chief didn't exactly count, she thought wryly.) Bridget had a feeling that she would never be able to work it over. She wondered if perhaps she should call Shaz for advice. She was, after all, a journalist. Communication was her strong suit.
Her mobile rang, and she stared at it. It was Shaz. Thought vibes at work!
"Hello?"
"Bridge!"
The way Shaz shouted her name in her ear was closer to a pistol shot than a greeting. "Gah! What's wrong?"
"Nothing's wrong!"
"What is it then?"
"Bridget! I was talking to a colleague over lunch, and his paper's looking for a freelancer to do periodic filler pieces - fictional, semi-fictional, autobiographical even - from the point of view of a modern woman living in London. I thought immediately of you. Can I give them your info?"
Bridget stared at the screen, wondering if somehow thought vibes had mutated into sympathetic CV magic. This would be a dream come true! Work from home in pyjamas sipping coffee! "Yes, yes, yes! Durr!"
Shaz laughed. "Hurrah!"
"Hurrah!" Bridget repeated. She sank back in the chair with a smile, then she frowned, as the chair was a straight-backed wooden chair at the kitchen table and was bloody uncomfortable. "Let's just establish here and now that you have my ongoing permission to give my contact info to potential employers, especially freelance-type ones. You've completely made my day!" She shifted, and the chair squeaked. "Though God, I'm going to have to get a real desk and chair."
"I'm pretty sure Mark can find a corner for you to set up in that fucking palace."
Shaz had a point.
"I'll ask him when he's back from Scotland. Where I can set my laptop up, and so forth."
"I'm surprised you haven't yet."
"The only place in the house with the high speed connection is in Mark's office and there's no room for me in there." Plus, she added mentally, there was no way she'd get anything done; she wasn't normally claustrophobic but she always felt like the bookshelves might gang up on her and attack. "With the phone and the internet, setting up an office for me is not going to be a tiny undertaking."
"Let's go shopping!" suggested Shaz.
"Jumping the gun a bit, aren't you?"
"Like he's going to deny you a spot for a desk. Anyway, I meant window shopping. IKEA, perhaps?"
Mmm. But… "Am short on spending money, being unemployed and all."
Bridget could almost feel The Look through the telephone. "If Mark is willing to buy you a fucking ring from Asprey, I think he might be amenable to springing for a desk and chair for you."
"Sharon…"
"What? Am I not right?"
"I suppose. But I already feel like a massive sponge… in manner and appearance."
"Chuh," dismissed Shaz. "You just need to get used to having a well-off boyfriend who likes buying you things. And besides, you just got a job, remember? Or a semi-regular freelance gig at least!"
Bridget perked up significantly.
IKEA it was.
Wednesday 29 Aug
A lavender satin pillow. Bridget believed with her entire being that she looked like a lavender satin pillow wearing a faux fur vest, two lavender fur puffs on the ends of the tie closures. It was perhaps the ugliest ensemble she'd ever seen, certainly the ugliest she had ever worn, for it was not terribly flattering to her figure. And she'd have to wear it in front of her mother, father, family friends, and worst of all, Mark. In all likelihood lavender was going to be the prevalent colour of all nightmares from this day forward through New Year's Eve. And possibly beyond.
Post-fitting alterations, the dress was as comfortable as it was ever going to be.
As she shimmied out of the lurid sheath and began dressing in her own clothing, she called out to her mother on the other side of the change room curtain, "Remind me again… why lavender, exactly?"
"Oh, Bridget, stop fussing. You look absolutely lovely in it, and it fits so well," her mother scolded as Bridget exited the stall, bridesmaid dress over her arm. "And don't roll your eyes at me."
Too late.
Pamela continued, "You're so melodramatic today! It's only a dress, and it will make your poor, silly old mummy ever so happy."
The frown quickly dissipated and a smile took its place as she thanked the heavens above for her mother returning to her scattered senses and reuniting with her husband. They were an odd pair, but it worked so well because they were so different: her mother so outspoken and vivacious, her father so taciturn and frighteningly adult…
A stunning realisation came to her: she could very well have been talking about herself and Mark. Though it was a slightly disturbing comparison, in a flash she suddenly extrapolated forward, imagining herself and Mark in twenty or thirty years' time. She would bet Mark would go distinguishingly grey at the temples, while she would fight tooth and nail hanging on to blonde. Extreme measures would also have to be taken so that she would not become her own mother. Or five times her size. Even if she was residing in a giant cocoon of love and happiness with a man who loved her just as she was, she still wanted to be able to see her own toes.
Overall, though, pondering the future made her extremely happy.
"Now that's more like it," said her mother cheerily. Smiling with secret mother-knowledge, she asked, "And how is Mark…?"
Mark as a subject of conversation with her mother was always a double-edged sword. Undoubtedly Pamela was bursting with happiness for her daughter, but was oftentimes a little too 'I told you so' about it. "He's fine, mum, just fine. He's in Scotland, will be back tonight."
"Working, I presume?"
"Of course," said Bridget, wondering why she would even need to ask. "Legal conference since Monday." She'd wished she could have gone with him, but the conference was morning until night and would have been impractical for her to rattle around, bored senseless in Edinburgh. They would have only had time to sleep together, in the literal sense of the term.
"Darling, I didn't mean anything by it, durr. I mean… he's obviously devoted to you." Bridget could not help but radiate with a smile. "Even if you do dress in sludge grey and dirt brown - Bridget, darling, why don't we get your colours done, surprise Mark when he gets in?" Blindsided by this ambush, she agreed before she knew what she was doing. "Fabulous! Now let's get lunch, my treat!"
Over coffee and sandwiches, her mother sprung a second wave of attack. "So when's the big day? Have you found your dress? Where have you booked?"
"Mother!" she exclaimed. "Enough with the rapid-fire interrogation." At her mother's resulting look, Bridget admitted, "We haven't set a date."
"Bridget," Pamela said sternly. "How can your wedding planner do anything without a date? Honestly, you mustn't keep that planner waiting forever…"
She bit her lower lip. Nothing - not wild horses, not thumbscrews, not water torture - could make her reveal that a wedding planner had not actually been retained. "I know. But we've been so busy and it's been so nice just getting to know each other again…" For a moment she'd forgotten she was with her mother and she allowed herself to trail off, suffused in happy remembrances of the past three months. She caught herself and regained her equilibrium, but her mother's face had changed, softening with a smile, and she reached over to pat her daughter's hand.
"I don't think I've told you how happy it makes me to see the two of you back together. I knew from the start it was meant to be," she said softly, placing one hand on top of Bridget's, getting dangerously close to self-satisfied. "You were miserable without him. And he—" She broke off abruptly, and raised the other hand to cover her mouth.
"'He' what?" Bridget pressed.
Rarely had she seen her mother look so chastened. "Well, I'm not sure I should say."
"Mother."
Pamela took her hand away from her daughter's and looked to the ring there. Her voice was serious and very low. "Elaine confided… well, she told me that poor Mark was so depressed without you. That when your friends called him for help in getting you out of prison… only then did he snap out of it back to himself again."
"Oh." A supreme sadness welled up inside of her. "And you knew this when you came to pick me from the airport after Thailand?"
Pamela nodded.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Pamela pursed her lips. "After being told for years not to interfere?" It figured. The one time she should have and didn't. "Besides, I knew deep down you'd both come to your senses," she said smugly, sipping her coffee.
Bridget felt slightly better. She would never say so, but she was glad that her mother had been right once again.
……………
Bridget felt a hand stroking her hair and she stirred, blinking the sleep out of her eyes. "Hey," said Mark softly as he came into focus.
She righted herself on the sofa, where she'd fallen asleep watching the telly as she waited for him to return. The telly screen was dark; he must have switched it off. "What time is it?"
He looked to his wrist instinctively then cursed under his breath.
"That late?"
"I keep forgetting I've lost my watch. In Scotland, no less," he said with a sigh. "So. You didn't wait for me for dinner, I hope?"
She shook her head sleepily. "Are you hungry?"
"No, I had something to eat before the flight."
"Still, that was probably a while ago. Do you want something? I could make you a sandwich…" She stood, brushing imaginary lint from his suit jacket.
He smiled. "Just a hot shower and a good night's sleep." Mark kissed her, then walked towards the bathroom, slipping out of the jacket. However, he paused at the bathroom door, turning back to her with a quizzical look on his face.
"Something the matter?" she asked him.
"Come here."
She joined him in the brightly-lit bathroom.
He continued, "You look different. You changed… something."
She'd almost forgotten about the Colour Me Beautiful consultation, and she rolled her eyes. "Oh. My mother finally corralled me into having my colours done."
He approached her, placing a finger beneath her chin to lift it up for closer inspection. He studied her face attentively until finally he stepped back. In a tone worthy of the court barrister that he was, he said with a curt nod, "Very nice."
"That's all? 'Very nice'?" she teased.
"If I'd said 'ravishingly beautiful,' you'd've thrown a pillow at me for suggesting I don't ordinarily think so." He loosened his tie and removed it, then began to unbutton his dress shirt. "I can't possibly win." Only then did he smirk.
The man had a point.
She moved to undo the button just below the one he was working on. "So. Shower? Good night's sleep? Nothing between?"
He looked down to her through his fringe of brown lashes in a mock-haughty manner. "I might be persuaded."
The water was plenty hot and the shower plenty large enough to accommodate the two of them; afterwards, they climbed into bed, slipped between the sheets, and tenderly made love before curling up into a contented deep sleep.
Thursday 30 Aug
Mark was already up and out of bed by the time she opened her eyes and raised her head from the pillow. She hated getting up early, but even more she hated waking alone. She wished she'd thought to ask him what his schedule was for the day, wanted to tell him about the job and the need for office space.
At that moment he came in, a smile on his face. "Still in bed, hm?"
"Did you go down for coffee?" Odd that he would get all dressed in a suit for coffee.
"My darling little flower, I've been gone all morning and just came home early from work."
She smiled, surprised yet touched by the unusual term of endearment. "'Little flower'?"
He came to sit beside her, reaching his hand up. "Your hair is glowing golden in the sunlight, standing up and framing your face like sunflower petals." He then patted down wild strands. She reddened in shame at her untamed locks, the inescapable result of shagging with wet hair. "And yet…" he added thoughtfully, "still more beautiful than any lacquered-over woman I've ever known."
"Nice save, Darcy." She leaned forward to wrap her arms around him. "So I didn't get to tell you last night that Shaz has a freelance writing job lined up for me."
"That's marvelous." He continued smoothing her tresses down.
"I was wondering if you could find a spot for me to set up a little office so I can write."
He pulled back to meet her eyes. "You can have whichever room you like. Well. Except for my office. And definitely no working in here."
She pondered. "I don't know which room is which. I don't think I've even seen every room in this house."
"You're joking."
She shook her head. "Mark, pretty much all I've seen so far is the kitchen and this bedroom. And your office. Well. And when I burst in thinking you were—well. The meeting room with all of the lawyers." She looked rather embarrassed.
"As curious as you are? I can hardly believe it." He chuckled. "Darling, you live here. You're allowed to poke in any box or shelf you want." He stroked her cheek. "I have nothing to hide from you."
Nothing? She immediately thought of that poem, but was satisfied enough with the conclusion she'd drawn to not blow her cover on the wallet peek. There was, however, the cherrywood box. "Mark. I do have something I want to ask you."
"Anything."
"When I found the rings. Was that… your wedding band?"
Mark considered. "Yes. And no."
"What does that mean?"
"I did wear it… when I was married. But it was my grandfather's before that."
Bridget nodded, looking humbled. "Oh." She should have known. Sheepishly, she said, "I keep forgetting your family has heirlooms."
He burst forth with a short, amused laugh and a smile lingered afterwards. "Bridget, you always know how to make me smile." He drew her forward and briefly kissed her. "Now. Shall we scope out your new office space?" he asked, standing.
She smiled. "How about the room with the skylight? My flat had a skylight and I was rather fond of it."
He raised an eyebrow, smile still in place. "And how exactly do you know about that?"
Um.
Friday 31 Aug
"All right, Shaz. You've avoided this long enough."
Stare-down over breakfast as Bridget cradled her coffee cup with two hands.
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," she snipped, turning her head and sipping her own latte.
"My brother. You. You haven't spoken word one about it to me. What gives?"
Shaz closed her eyes and lowered her head. "Bridge, it's pretty serious."
"Really?" Bridget loved her brother. She also loved her friend. She would not have thought in a million years that the two of them would have ever connected on any level, but there it was, and she wanted most for the two of them to be happy. "That's great!" Seeing the despondent look on Shaz's face, she added, "…isn't it?"
Shaz turned, her eyes moist. "It's fucking terrifying. I'm afraid if I talk about it, it will disappear, leaving me wondering if I imagined the whole thing. Or someone will point out that I'm so desperate that anyone will do at this point - no offense, but neither of us are unbiased."
"None taken. Shaz." Bridget leaned forward, her expression one of dead seriousness. "I know exactly how you're feeling, believe me. If there's one thing I've learned, it's this: don't question it. Don't second-guess it. Don't doubt yourself or him. Just let it flow."
Shaz snorted. "You sound like Jude and her fucking Zen."
Bridget held her forefinger up. "I think Jude is on to something."
Shaz was still reserved. "Bridget," she said quietly. "I think I fucking love him."
"I can tell." Bridget smiled, and reached to put her hand on Shaz's forearm. "And I don't want you to hold back. If you need to talk to me about something, I don't care that it's about my brother, good or bad. I am here for you the way you're always here for me."
Shaz nodded, finally turning to face Bridget. "All right."
"Promise?"
"Promise," Shaz reiterated, finally smiling.
Friday 7 Sept
"Bollocks." Bridget closed her phone to disconnect.
Mark looked up from the newspaper he was perusing over breakfast. "What's wrong?"
"Shaz can't come over 'til Tuesday at least," she said with a pout.
His brows knitted as he lowered the paper. "For what?"
"To help put my desk and chair together." It was an unusual weekday morning that she had joined him for breakfast, but her IKEA desk and chair had arrived the evening before, and she was excited to assemble it.
"You and I could do that this weekend."
"You?" The question popped out before she could stop it.
He shot her an indignant look. "Do you think me incapable of reading directions?"
Time for some major backpedaling. "Of course not. But, um. Do you have tools? See, Shaz has this really great toolkit…"
"What kind of tools are needed?"
"Well, I'm not sure. I haven't cracked open the boxes yet."
"Tell you what. You do that, make me a list of what's needed, and I'll find or get the tools. And we can put together your furniture this weekend."
Sunday 9 Sept
"There."
Looking dashing with rolled-up shirt sleeves and a wrench in his hand, Mark finished bolting together the last of the chair. He stood and wheeled it into place under the desk then looked to her proudly. "I hope you haven't been waiting on a proper desk and chair to write your piece. What's the deadline, Wednesday?"
"I never doubted you."
He only turned to her, smiled, and said, mimicking her dubious tone perfectly, "'You?'"
Feeling thoroughly scolded, she bent to pick up the telephone, the laptop and the Ethernet cable that had been residing on the floor since Friday, putting them into place on top of the desk.
"The BT guy assured me that all I'd need to do is plug this in to my computer and it would set itself up to be online." She snapped it into place and booted the computer.
"You didn't answer my question," Mark reminded.
"Of course I didn't wait," she said, which wasn't entirely a lie. She'd decided to draw on her own experiences as a Singleton in London, so had carefully chosen a pseudonym for herself and her friends so not to be identifiable, and started roughing out a tale from a night at 192 long ago.
She watched as the network configuration light blinked into being and, opening a web browser, she was immediately able to bring up her favourite search engine. Hurrah!
"May I read what you have so far?"
She turned to him, horrified at being found out. "Really, it's very rough. I don't ask to read what you're doing when it's half done."
"Bridget, my work would read like Chinese to you."
Damn him for being right. She narrowed her eyes at him, trying to think of ways to deflect him. "It's not finished."
"You mentioned."
"You'll laugh."
"I wouldn't."
"You won't judge me?"
"I won't. On my honour."
Reluctantly, she double-clicked on the document icon, and the word processor opened her first attempt at an article. He sat in the newly-constructed chair and read through what she had so far, his face betraying no expression. She'd only done a few paragraphs so it didn't take him very long to get through it. He turned to her and said thoughtfully, "I think it's very good."
"Really?"
"I do. But…"
Ugh. Always a 'but'.
"There is just one thing."
"Tell me. I can take it."
"You may want to consider a new nom de plume. The one you've chosen has already been taken, and I don't think The Independent would appreciate it."
Hmm. Good point.
Sunday 23 Sept
Bridget's column was well-received and there was much interest in having her write more in future. She had taken to adding personalised touches around her new office, and before long she had little framed pictures of Mark and her friends adorning the surface of the desk, beside the in/out tray and the pencil cup. She could also regularly expect to receive a lovely little 'thinking of you' email from Mark.
Appreciative as she was of all of these auspicious circumstances, she still had a pervasive feeling that something massively bad was lurking just around the corner. History had unfortunately taught her to look a gift horse in the mouth. It really was no wonder that Bridget got paranoid when too many things went right all at once, for the net result of her last bout of good fortune resulted in being sacked as well as discovering a questionable piece of poetry in her fiancé's wallet.
On the morning of Mark's birthday, everything was as usual, following the comfortable routine they had fallen into since she'd moved in. Regardless of the fact that it was Sunday as well as his birthday, after saying goodbye by way of loving head pat and kiss, he left early in the morning (even before breakfast) to work on a big case coming up that week. He had made no mention of his natal anniversary, not even the most obtuse of hints. She was adamant about surprising him when he least expected it, and shortly after he was gone she popped up to dress, then left for birthday-surprise shopping.
One major problem though: she had no idea what she was going to buy him. It wasn't as if he was wanting for anything. Heading for Coins Café for a cappuccino and a chocolate croissant, she sat with pen and paper trying to compose a list. After writing then scratching off more things than she could count, she consulted her wrist for a time-check and only then remembered that Mark had lost his watch. A-ha!
She managed to find a little boutique with lovely, stylish men's watches. She finally decided on one she liked that was not too outrageous for a man in Mark's line of work. Something classy and reserved, but not stodgy. The jeweler asked if she wanted it engraved - he had no backlog so he could do it for her while she waited - and with a smirk, she agreed. The jeweler was visibly amused at the text she decided upon. He definitely got the reference, and he winked as she departed the store.
That mission accomplished, she decided on a second present of sorts. With a wry smile she hoofed it towards Agent Provocateur to pick out a lovely bra and pant set for later.
As she exited the boutique, dark clouds came together before her in the form of Janey Osbourne. Her stomach sank at the sight of the jellyfisher. But it was too late: she'd been spotted. "Briiiiii-dget!" she called out with a masterful tone of false cheeriness.
"Janey," she replied neutrally.
Janey spotted the distinctive pink packaging poking out from the top of Bridget's bag, and she raised her eyebrow maliciously. "Oooooh! Have you found yourself a new boyfriend?"
"No… still Mark."
"Ohh, whoops, my big mouth." She covered her mouth in a overly dramatic manner.
"What on earth are you talking about?" she asked, regretting it the instant she did.
"Welllllll," she said with a transparently counterfeit concerned pause, "Sheila was in Edinburgh a few weeks ago and saw Mark at Edinburgh Castle with some drop-dead gorgeous Asian woman and I just thought…" She deliberately trailed off.
Bridget remained composed, though the Edinburgh detail was too close for comfort. "She was mistaken."
"Oh, I don't think so. She met Mark at one of Magda's dinner parties. Well. Must fly! Bye, gorgeous girl!"
Bridget stood there stunned by Janey's sting for a few minutes before reaching for her mobile, punching in Magda's number and waiting for her to pick up. She needed to know immediately if there really was a legal convention in Edinburgh.
"Hello— Harry! Put it down! Put it in the potty!"
Bridget let out a highly impatient breath. "Magda. Bridget here. Have a question for you, if you could please just walk away from the babies for three minutes and listen to me."
Magda's tone became instantly serious. "Bridget? Is everything all right?"
"Did Mark and Jeremy attend a conference in Edinburgh at the end of last month?"
"Yes, of course they did." Huge feeling of relief. But then Magda kept talking. "It was… a Monday and Tuesday, I believe, as Jeremy was back in time for Constance's school conferences on Wednesday morning."
She felt light-headed. She knew that Mark had come back late on the Wednesday she'd had the final fitting for her bridesmaid dress. "Two days? Not three days?"
Magda was silent. "Of… of course!" she said, obviously overcompensating. "Silly me. I must be thinking of another legal conference. Bridget? Bridget, is something wrong?"
She fought a quaver in her voice. "Fine. It's fine. I have to go."
Bridget took a taxi back to the house, arriving just after two. Dropping her gift bags by the door, she noticed his office door was opened a sliver. It was unusual for him to be in there on a Sunday but he must have been finishing up his work at home. She was about to burst through the door and ask him what was going on when she heard him speaking, presumably on the phone. She didn't mean to eavesdrop and really should have just walked away, but was stapled to the spot when she heard what he said.
"All right… Harumi. Yes, sure, if you don't mind. … No, she's not here right now, that's why I'm calling. She's gone out, shopping or some such … Yes. … 'High-spirited' - that's a very apt description." He chuckled, then went quiet. "No. I haven't told her yet." Long pause. "You're going to be in town? Great. Let's get together. Where will you be staying?" She could hear the scratching of his Mont Blanc on paper. "Excellent. No, I know where it is. … Let me know when as soon as you can, but call the mobile," soft chuckle, "can't have Bridget find out—"
Stumbling backwards in shock, Bridget did not hear any more of the conversation.
She didn't know what exactly was happening, but she didn't have a good feeling about it. In fact, all things were pointing to one inescapable conclusion.
A Japanese poem. An Asian woman in Edinburgh. An extra day in Edinburgh. And surely 'Harumi' was a Japanese name. Really, unless Mark had a contingent of Japanese co-workers or friends that she was not aware of… or perhaps he was working on some kind of Japanese human rights case and stayed an extra day to help as he'd helped her in Thailand…
No. It had to be Mark's ex-wife. Bridget had the sudden urge to be anywhere but there.
Unnoticed, she fled back out through the front door and down the street aimlessly, as she pulled out her mobile phone, calling Shaz, utterly out of breath.
"Bridget? What's wrong?"
Voice quavering, she managed, "There's been… a development."
"What? What?"
She explained the jellyfisher encounter, the Magda cross-examination, and the overheard phone call.
Shaz was at first silent. "Oh Jesus, Bridge." Clearly she had drawn the same conclusion. "Maybe it's someone else."
"That makes me feel loads better," she said, erupting in tears, stopping to sink against a tree.
"No no no. That's not what I mean. There might be another explanation. And someone must know her name, at the very least to eliminate that possibility. We could call his mother."
"Absolutely not." The last thing she needed was to get Grafton Underwood abuzz with the whiff of scandal.
"How about Daniel?"
"Hell no. Even if I had his current phone number in New York, I wouldn't think of calling him. All he'd do is a.) offer false sympathy, b.) gloat and c.) try to convince me to go back to him." It went unspoken that she could go to the source and just ask Mark, but his sharp lawyer's brain would immediately want to know why she wanted to know, and she didn't want to reveal the depths of her insecurity, considering the stellar record of his past fidelity.
"It sounds like an emergency summit meeting is needed. I'll ring up the troops."
"Where?"
"The site of all top-level summit meetings: 192."
Notes:
I really wish I could find the floor plan to Mark's house. I'm kind of winging it, and it's driving me crazy.
Reference / Links:
Section title: "It Hurt So Bad" by Susan Tedeschi.
I found an interesting site online of Japanese girls' names, including 'Harumi' (which, incidentally, means 'spring beauty'). (Since this site doesn't allow linking: there's an actual link on my LiveJournal entry, posting this same part of the story.)
Mark's gift watch is a Links of London Roman Classic Watch. (See previous note about linkage.)
