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.
(I know, I am running the risk of saturating my little market... oh well! But, only one part to go, snif. And an epilogue if there's interest :) )
Part 11: Merry Christmas, Baby
Tuesday 4 Dec
Through the end of November, amidst list-making for shopping and Christmas cards, decorating and avoiding discussions with her mother about the holidays, Bridget had not felt so stressed in eons. In Bridget's opinion it was early yet to be worrying about the first two, but of course (and this shouldn't have surprised her) Mark was not a holiday procrastinator. Jude, lifesaver that she was, gave her the rest of a bottle of an herbal stress-reducing remedy. Whether the effects were actual or placebo, she didn't care; she'd been taking them for a little over a week now and felt a thousandfold better. Even Mark commented on how much more easy-going she looked. Inner Poise was back, with a little help from St John and his wort.
On this particular early December day, Mark had evidently finished his day early and, with a little knock, came to stand behind her in her office, one hand resting on her shoulder and the other presenting her with a postcard. It bore a photograph of the undeniably phallic Coit Tower. On the back was written, dated 23 November:
To my favourite hetero couple - in cutesy manner of celeb duos, would you prefer Brark? Or Midget?
Having a lovely time in S.F. It is A-MAZ-ING here! Have met scads of new friends but of course no one could take the place of my lovely London family. Show went well tonight, standing ovation, haven't lost it a bit! As if any doubt. See you in time for Christmas.
Love, affection & gropes,
Tom
His signature took up fully one-third of the lower left side of the postcard. "Honestly," said Bridget, "as if this could have come from anyone else."
Tuesday 11 Dec
"Bridget! I have good news and bad news."
With Shaz, it was always a toss-up as to which to ask for first, so Bridget simply allowed Shaz to continue speaking.
She burst out with: "Jamie's taking me to Paris for New Year's!"
"Oh, Shazzie! That's incredible! Except…" Their parents' renewal of vows was on the thirty-first of December.
"That's the bad news," said Shaz with a sigh. "Do you think they'll be angry?"
"It won't faze my dad at all. My mum will probably throw a tantrum until she remembers the fuss and bother it took in the first place to fit Jamie in." Initially it was to be Bridget and Una Alconbury as bridesmaids, and Geoffrey Alconbury and Brian Enderby as groomsmen (which was awkward, as Mavis Enderby felt a bit snubbed), but when Jamie returned from Rome back in June, after some discussion about possibly adding a third groomsman and bridesmaid, Brian courteously stepped out of the ceremony, restoring balance.
Until now, anyway.
Thursday 13 Dec
The holiday cards were posted, the was tree to be delivered in two days, and shopping lists were drawn up. However, there was still the matter of how to spend the holidays. Her mother was pestering them to stay at the Gables on Christmas Eve (where Pam proposed to put them was another story, as the only double bed in the house was the one her parents slept in), while the Darcys were strongly hinting that they would like the two of them to stay Christmas through New Year's with them.
As they prepared for bed, Bridget lamented this fact until Mark asked, "What would you prefer to do on Christmas Day?"
"Stay home," Bridget said moodily.
"So we shall," he said resolutely.
Bridget laughed. "You're joking! My mother—"
"Your mother is not the one you have to make happy," he interrupted tersely.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised a bit by his sharpness, but mostly by the fact that he was absolutely right. In a more sympathetic tone, he reminded, taking her into his embrace, "Besides, I think she would understand if we wanted to spend our first Christmas together alone."
Bridget raised her chin, challenging him with her eyes, a devilish grin spreading across her face. Not only was it their first Christmas together as a married couple, but their first Christmas together full stop. It was so strange to think a year ago they were not even speaking to each other after the birthday knock-down-drag-out between Daniel and Mark. How amazingly things had progressed.
"Imagine. You can spend it in any manner you see fit," he continued, brushing his lips across her temple. She could feel his embrace tighten ever so slightly, warm breath upon her face, and she felt her eyes involuntarily close, her knees weaken, her lips part.
She knew exactly the manner in which she'd like to spend the whole of Christmas Day.
……………
"Did you mean you?"
She wondered at first if he had fallen off to sleep, the way his breath had gone quite steady, and the fact that he was partially sprawled across her, still as a stone. But he raised his head from where it had come to rest on the pillow beside hers. "What?" he asked, obviously confused, the physical exertion having apparently erased his memory of their previous conversation.
"The one I'm supposed to make happy."
His chest rocked with silent laughter. "No, though you do that quite well. I meant you."
"Ah." Smiling, she raised her fingers to comb through his newly-shorn, tousled hair. "I almost forgot. My mother is suddenly short one son in her wedding party. Jamie's taking Shazzer to Paris for New Year's."
"Ah," he echoed.
"And seeing as you wear a suit exceedingly well, I was hoping you might step in and save the day, technically being a son and all now."
"Have you asked your mother about this?"
"I wanted to make sure it was okay with you before I mentioned it to her. She'll love it though. My mother thinks you walk on water."
Another laugh, followed with a turn on the bed so that she rested on him. "Walk on water, hm? What do you think?"
"I think you perform similar miracles," she began with a shiver of delight as his hands began a renewed exploration. "St Teresa-like ecstasies on a fairly regularly basis."
Saturday 15 Dec
"My God. It's enormous," gaped Bridget.
"It is," concurred Mark. "But it will fit in the front room, I promise you."
Sure enough, the two young men bringing the Christmas tree in took it into the sitting room and set it up in the waiting tree stand. It looked like it had been grown specifically for that room; it was verdantly lush and full-boughed, utterly beautiful, straight off of a tacky Christmas card.
"Bridget, are you… are those tears in your eyes?" Mark jibed, placing an arm about her shoulders.
"Shut up," she said sullenly, feeling strangely emotional over a silly evergreen. It was hard not to be emotional; last year she spent Christmas at her parents' alone with her depressed dad. One year later, so very different. A stable relationship for once in her life with a man who'd rather be with her than with anyone else…. Tears spilled over her lower lids and she could not help but sob.
"Oh, Bridget, come here." He enveloped her into his arms. "I was only teasing."
"I know," came her reply from the folds of his jumper. "Everything's just so… perfect."
He kissed the top of her head. "Do you want to trim the tree tonight?"
She nodded, not relinquishing the embrace.
He held her in silence for many moments before speaking. "I don't know about you, but I'm a 'less is more' sort of person when it comes to decoration. Some simple white lights, ornaments, a tree topper. Maybe a beaded garland," he said in the same voice one might comfort an hysterical child with; on any other night this might have offended her. "And of course, your ornaments, darling."
She raised her head, and he wiped under her eyes. "I'm not sure where they are."
"We can look tomorrow. After all, I can't imagine we'd be able to do it all tonight."
"It is a big tree," she agreed, looking at it until the tears blurred it out of focus one more time. She blinked, tears rolling down her cheeks again.
"Oh, darling," Mark cooed, again wiping the tears away then taking her into his arms, patting her back gently. "Tell you what. Why don't we take care of tree-trimming tomorrow? I don't think we're going to get very far tonight."
Bridget nodded as best she could from within the embrace. She was not ordinarily a weepy person; she leaned towards blaming residual hormones as she had just taken the spacer pills the previous week with no period presenting, and not for the first time. "I know you mentioned going out for dinner, but might we have takeaway instead? I don't feel I'm up for social contact with crowds of strangers."
As he had done many times before to offer her comfort, he placed a long and lingering kiss in the middle of her forehead. Gently, he said, "Of course."
"Maybe even a movie," she said with a sniff. "If I can find something that won't make me bawl."
"You cue up a movie, I'll bring dinner upstairs to you. Curry?"
She nodded. He really was the best man she'd ever known, which set loose a new flood onto Mark's jumper. He tightened his embrace, then slowly turned to direct her out of the sitting room lest his jumper become saturated.
Sunday 16 Dec
Bridget felt a soft hand brush tendrils of hair off of her cheek, and she sleepily opened her eyes. Unsurprisingly it was Mark, fresh from sleep himself with a kind look on his face. "Feeling better?"
She smiled. Yes. She felt decidedly better. In fact, she felt overwhelmingly horny.
Unwitting of her lascivious thoughts, Mark asked, "Traditional Sunday breakfast in bed, then?"
The thought of eggs, bacon and greasy buttered toast made her a little nauseous, so she reached for him, her hand sliding under the sheet, meeting his eyes, watching his lids flicker as he tried to resist. Which was futile.
Afterwards, he was heard to languidly comment, "Indeed… you are feeling better."
Monday 17 Dec
"Bridget, we have something a little bit different we want you to do for us."
Raising her brow, she cradled her phone between her chin and her shoulder, swallowing the bite of leftover curry takeaway she'd fished out for lunch, and reached for a pen and a notepad. "Oh?"
"We still very much want your slice-of-life London pub and club crawls, but we need a short piece for the New Year's insert on fitness and exercise—you know, the sorts of things people make New Year's resolutions about."
She could not suppress a laugh. "I am the last person you want writing about keeping resolutions."
Vic Collins, her contact at the newspaper, laughed as well. "No, we're looking for the dirt on which of the herbal concoctions actually work for, say, losing weight. I know you used to work on 'Sit Up Britain', I saw that piece you did on the piercing convention, so I know you can do research. We think you'd do a great job on this."
Bridget felt a plumping pride. "Well, yes. I'd love to do it. Thank you for thinking of me."
"Sorry for the short notice, but we'll need it by the twenty-seventh to go to press."
She looked at her calendar. "No problem." She took down the article specifics and hung up, wiggling in her chair a bit with glee. If she started now, she could probably get it finished before Christmas Eve, leaving smooth sailing through the holidays.
Suddenly, urgently, Bridget regretted that Sehana had been off for the day. If she had been there, surely she would have prepared Bridget a nice fresh lunch. Instead she'd chosen the leftover curry, which apparently had sat unrefrigerated a touch too long. She bolted for the loo.
Friday 21 Dec
'Right on schedule,' thought Bridget with a proud smile. She was doing the final revision on her article for the paper a few days ahead of the timetable she'd set for herself, and very early per Vic's deadline. It was quite the comprehensive little article for five days' work, made all the more impressive by the fact that she'd been overtaken by some kind of winter stomach bug and was spending more time in the bathroom than not.
The phone rang, jarring her from her mental workings. She picked it up with a professional, "Hello?"
"Happy Christmas."
She couldn't immediately place the voice. "Who is this?"
"Come now, Jones. You don't recognise my voice? Though I shouldn't call you 'Jones' now… but I can't bloody well call you 'Darcy' now, can I?"
"Daniel?"
"'Bingo', as they're fond of saying here in America."
"Why are you calling?" She cradled the phone between her chin and her shoulder, typing BUGGER! BUGGER! BUGGER! in 48-point type in the middle of her document.
"Christ, Jones, I'm only calling to wish you a Happy Christmas. Not everything I do has an ulterior motive."
She could not reign in a snort of laughter. "No, really. Why are you calling?"
He didn't answer right away. "That was pretty crafty of you," he said slyly. "Worthy of me, actually."
"What was?"
"The lovely, overly domineering Natasha Glenville."
She smiled wickedly. "I see. So how is that working out?"
He continued, "Very crafty indeed. It didn't occur to me until she told me about your marriage that she was the same woman there with Darcy that weekend in the country." He laughed lightly. "But, ah, your good work backfired. As it turns out, I need an overly domineering woman. We're engaged."
Bridget laughed again. Remembering Lara, it seemed the man got engaged at the drop of a hat.
"Bridget, I'm serious. Please say you're at least a little bit happy for me." There was a pain in his voice he couldn't disguise, and even after all he'd done to her and to Mark, she could not help but feel sad for him in some small part. Maybe this truly was the beginning of a new maturity for him.
Not that she'd bet on it.
"All right," she admitted. "I'm glad you've found happiness."
"Thank you." He paused again, then said in a low tone, "I don't think I've ever truly gotten over you, but I accept that it's completely over between us."
"And you're going to marry Natasha? That's crass."
"She proposed, and I do love her."
Bridget's mental voice screamed 'Why!' But then she thought of advice Magda had once given her, how people's relationships were oftentimes mysterious and how no one outside of the bubble of the relationship truly understood what made it work. The same could well have been said by others about Mark's choice in a wife…
Maybe Natasha was the yin to Daniel's yang, after all.
Daniel continued in this philosophical vein. "After all, one is able to feel different kinds of love for different people. I will always be fond of you… and you will always be one of the best shags I've ever had."
She smiled despite herself. "I thought you said I was the best."
As he replied, she imagined the roguish grin. "That's when I was trying to get you to shag me again. But for whatever reason, you seem to really love that sodding nerd."
It wasn't really an insult, she realised, but a defence mechanism. She wondered if he felt the least bit guilty for what he'd done to Mark. "Well, I certainly didn't marry him to spite you."
"I suppose coming to the wedding in July is out of the question."
Bridget was quiet for a moment, then asked, "Daniel, are you ever going to apologise to Mark? Or are you going to spend the rest of your life antagonising him just so you can keep me in your life? Because I won't have it."
There was a long silence. "Look, Bridge," he said with false joviality, "I have to get to work. Take care of yourself and have a happy new year." He disconnected.
More than just a little guilty, she reasoned.
Returning to her work, she reread the final paragraph (primarily cautioning the reader of potential side effects) and screwed up her eyes. It made little sense as she'd written it, and she realised she needed to clarify, so she went back to her browser to find the online journal article she'd already documented as her source. She clicked a link she had not seen previously on a general herbal remedy page, and found an excellent suggestion to add to her closing paragraph, advising one to consult a doctor before starting any herbal regimen as there might be contraindications with prescription and non-prescription drugs, such as antidepressants, anticoagulants and….
Bridget felt a cold chill run down the length of her fingertips, arms and spine.
Slowly, she typed in a new search, hitting enter.
The results came up for Hypericum perforatum.
She stood up, took in a breath. She knew what she had to do, thankful for once for Mark's being at the office, at the very least giving her time to get her hands to stop trembling. Strangely, she did not feel the need to call in the troops (i.e. Shaz and Jude); in fact, she felt the inkling of the formation of a calm, rational plan, for she was a cool, collected woman of substance, the epitome of Inner Poise. Yes.
"Oh holy Jesus," she said to herself.
Tuesday 25 Dec
"Happy Christmas, Bridget."
Blearily Bridget opened her eyes, smiling. "Happy Christmas."
Smartest decision they ever made, spending Christmas alone at home. They'd taken care of all of the familial obligations on Christmas Eve Day, with her parents for lunch, then with his for dinner, blessedly (and miraculously) not asking the one question Mark had predicted they would ask. They'd also given gifts to Jeffrey and Sehana in appreciation for taking such good care of them: one massage appointment each on New Year's Day (Bridget's idea), which, after protestations of excess generosity, were accepted graciously.
Mark and Bridget had arrived home in time to curl up in bed together, snow falling just beyond the windowpane, especially so they might wake up at their leisure on Christmas morning proper with no obligations until the Boxing Day dinner they'd decided to host for the Urban Family and friends. Leisure indeed: it was now eleven A.M., unheard of on Christmas morning! And the thought of no near-fist-fights about gravy was making her dizzy with glee.
"Hope your stomach is feeling better," he said, concern touching his features.
"It is," she said, sitting up and kissing Mark full on the lips.
He stroked her hair. "I have something for you."
She smirked. They had agreed on no gifts for Christmas; Mark had said it best when he said he already had everything he needed (but reserved the right to use any occasion for presents if the right gift came along). "I confess. I have something for you too," she said.
Mark pulled out a smallish garment box, wrapped tidily in silver striped paper. Bridget raised an eyebrow. "What have we here? A nightie?"
"Not quite."
Unable to contain her curiosity any longer, she tore open the paper, opened the box, only to find a gold DL-sized envelope sealed shut by a red foil sticker.
She raised her eyes to him. "Um, Mark, this is a bit Russian nesting doll of you," she said.
He leaned forward to kiss her. "Just open it," he said gently.
She slipped her finger under the foil seal, pulling it up, then removed the twice-folded paper, opening it out. Carefully she read it once, then again, still not comprehending. She looked to him with an expression of befuddlement.
"San Francisco? Next month? What is this?"
He looked almost nervous. "I've been asked to co-chair a Pan-Asian human rights consortium in June and they would like me to spend some time leading up to it in town. In San Francisco."
She read the invitation letter one more time.
"There's no way I'm leaving you behind. What do you say?"
Unexpectedly and uncontrollably, she began to laugh. He looked at her as if she had gone completely mental. He also looked rather hurt.
"I'm sorry. In a moment you'll see what I'm off about," she said, stroking his face, then reached over to the bedside table for a small, long, slender box, which she then handed to him.
"Oh, a new pen?" he queried as he tore the red and green paper from it. She didn't answer, simply watched with amusement as he opened the plain white box, furrowing his brows. He held up the long plastic object and began to ask, "What in the name of—?" He stopped when it occurred to him what it was, and what it was telling him: it was a pristine pregnancy test.
He was speechless but for a breathless, "Bridget—"
Quite seriously, she informed him, "As it turns out, St John's wort reduces the effectiveness of birth control pills."
"And you suspect—" He stopped abruptly as the full impact of her words hit him. As clever as he had in the past proved himself to be, he was undoubtedly doing the mental math, putting together the hints that led to this possible conclusion. He went white as a sheet, running his fingers through his hair. "When— Who—" Mark seemed unable to complete a sentence.
She knew what he was asking. "I first suspected on Friday. I told no one."
"No one?" he echoed stupidly.
Still grinning, she continued, "I know, hard to believe that I of all people kept a secret for four whole days, but I wanted to find out with you first."
"That isn't what I meant." A smile finally found his face and his colour returned. "Well. Best to do these things in the morning, right?"
Bridget unearthed herself from the covers, sped past the frosty windows, and into the bathroom.
The waiting was excited anticipation rather than growing dread, very different than the previous journey down this same road. It meant of course that Mark would probably have to decline the co-chair. It pained her to think of the sacrifice, but she knew he wouldn't dream of going alone nor would he want to take her away from her familial support system. They sat in nervous silence on the sofa, his arm about her shoulders, until three minutes passed.
They turned over the test to find a single blue line.
Not two. No baby.
Bridget's posture slumped ever so slightly, and she was pretty sure his had as well. She hadn't realised how much she'd accepted being pregnant as a given. Mark kissed her temple.
"I'm sorry," she said morosely. "I should have just done the test and spared you the suspense."
"No," he said firmly. "I'm glad we did this together."
He held her for a moment before she turned and said, "Well, it would have put a crimp in the San Francisco thing for sure."
He smiled. "Is that your way of telling me you do want to go?"
"Well, durr, of course I want to go."
He smiled. "Excellent."
"Who knew being married to you would take me to such exotic locales?"
He laughed. "San Francisco is hardly 'exotic'."
"I don't know… I've seen pictures." She recalled Tom's photos from his visit to the Castro.
"I do have one other thing to ask of you," he began. She cocked her head, waiting for the question. "When you thought you might be… well…" He indicated the test. "…and since I presume we're not actually actively trying at present… do I have to somehow conjure up alternate protection?" He had a vaguely worried look playing upon his features.
She had actually had nightmarish visions, should things go opposite of expectations, of spending Christmas Day post-negative-pregnancy test trying desperately to locate a source of condoms, though surely Jamie hadn't gone through that entire box of Durex…? She held up a finger. "I'm glad you asked," she replied, sounding like a national health advisor at a press conference. "I did a little research and as it turns out, no damage done to continue to take them for a few days after suspecting, so I didn't stop."
"Ah."
"So we can spend our day just as I had planned," she said with a little curl of her lips.
He raised one eyebrow in the manner of Mr Spock. "Indeed."
……………
Truly it was not all shagging.
There was also showering (which, admittedly, led to shagging), and of course, eating.
In the course of shopping for Boxing Day dinner, the housekeeper had stocked up on regular grocery items as well. Clad still in pyjamas and feeling rather like mischievous children, they went down to the kitchen and whipped up a batch of cream of tomato soup and toasty cheese sandwiches for lunch. Thankful for her attentiveness, Bridget noticed that Sehana had prepared a dinner for them in advance, a hearty Moroccan-spiced beef stew which was not exactly traditional for Christmas Day, but it was exceedingly delicious, with a depth of flavour only achieved in stews the second day after they're made. There was also the added bonus that it was easy to warm up.
"I didn't ask her, and she didn't have to do this," noted Mark as they ate dinner later that evening, "but I'm glad she did." Bridget mmmmphed in agreement, mouth full of tagine.
……………
The closing credits for Enchanted April were rolling on the telly screen when Bridget startled awake to find Mark no longer beside her. She pushed the blanket aside, rubbing the corners of her eyes, feebly calling for her husband. He had a talent for sneaking away whilst she was dozing, it seemed.
She found him, in all places, in his office, so concentrated on searching for something in the back of one of his file cabinets that he never heard her come in. From the way he stopped digging and beheld something in his own hand, he had found whatever he had been looking for.
"Mark? What are you doing?"
Startled beyond all reason, he stood up straight and turned to her, face beet red, as if he had just been caught nicking the Crown Jewels. "I was… looking for something."
"And it was vital that you find it this instant?" she asked playfully.
"Absolutely." He held out his hand. "Here."
She regarded him with confusion, taking the box.
"Sorry I didn't get to wrap it."
A present? "Mark, I thought we agreed…"
"You're right. We did. Except this isn't a Christmas present. I bought this two months ago for your birthday, dutifully hid it in the one place I thought you'd never chance upon it, and promptly forgot about it with the whole, you know, wedding thing. Something in the movie reminded me of it." He smirked. "Go on, open it."
It was a small, square hinged box covered in blue satin, the type brooches or earrings from posh boutiques might have come in. Had he bought her yet some other expensive gift? She looked back up to him expectantly; he said nothing, only graced her with another smile. Would she ever get over the feeling that she did not deserve such generosity?
She slowly lifted the lid of the box to find a gorgeous hair comb crafted of what appeared to be tortoiseshell, long and thin and rounded at the top with intricate carving along that curve, two sinuous teeth arcing gracefully downward. She picked it up, turned it over in her fingers. A small slip of paper had been placed beneath the comb, with Mark's precise, measured printing on it.
Bridget,
I didn't have to sell my watch, but… well,
you know the rest.
All my love,
Mark
She fought the urge to laugh. Or cry.
"It's beautiful," she said, her eyes becoming moist nonetheless.
"It isn't real tortoiseshell," he explained.
"I don't care. It's beautiful." She went to him and kissed him.
"I meant, it's not so delicate or antique that you can't wear it."
She thought of her fine, barely-shoulder-length tresses. "I'm not sure it will stay in."
"It will. Turn 'round."
She felt him sweep her hair up, raising goose pimples along the nape of her neck, and he did a bit of clumsy twisting before he held out his hand, a declaration that he was ready for the comb. She handed it to him and he planted it in place without so much as digging a tooth into her scalp. Definitely a man of many talents.
"There you are. Gorgeous." He kissed the back of her neck, causing a second wave of goose pimples.
She turned back to him, giving him a sidelong glance, reaching a hand back to feel his handiwork. "Well done. Thank you." She leaned in and kissed him again, filled once again with deep and abiding love. Well, that, and lust, which he also inspired in her quite readily.
"There now, don't want to be mussing your hair," he whispered roughly as he pulled back, his fingers finding purchase along the side of her neck, stroking her jaw with his thumb.
"You have my permission to muss my hair all you like."
……………
"Did I ever tell you," murmured Mark as they lay in bed, all spooned up amidst the bluish silver glow of the winter evening filtering through the windowpanes, "that my lost watch did eventually turn up?"
She'd been drifting on the edge of sleep, but came to wakefulness upon this disclosure. "You didn't."
"Mmm. Yes. Just before my birthday. Jeffrey found it wedged in the seat of the Bentley. The clasp had broken and I asked Sehana to take it for repair."
She realised she hadn't paid much attention to his watch or his wrist in some time, as she'd been far too besotted with the sight of the wedding band on his finger. She didn't truly believe he'd just been humouring her and wearing the new watch only because she'd gifted him with it, but she wondered it all the same. "Where is it now?" she asked casually.
He tightened his embrace. "I didn't very well need two watches, did I? I gave it to your brother."
She hadn't realised she'd been that unobservant.
Notes / Reference / Links:
"Merry Christmas, Baby" by Christina Aguilera, Elvis Presley, Bruce Springsteen, Otis Redding, Hanson… take your pick, they've all done this same song, words & music by Lou Baxter / Johnny Moore. :)
For those of you who have never seen, the one, the only, Coit Tower, search Google Images. You'll see why it's the perfect postcard for Tom to be sending.
Yes, St John's Wort will reduce the effectiveness of your birth control pills. And I found a site online that says: "If you become pregnant while on The Pill, there is probably no risk of birth defects."
For those of not familiar with such things, I found a site that was very helpful informing that the DL envelope is a common letter-sized envelope in the UK, 4.33" x 8.66" (110 x 220 mm), whereas the standard US business-sized envelope is 4.125" x 9.5" (150 x 241 mm).
I found a site with some lovely combs, but this site doesn't allow linking, so if you're really curious, search the web.
