Fast-Forward

2005

"Shazzer?"

"Yeah?"

"Weird question for you."

"Bring it on."

Sitting having a coffee with one of her very best friends, Bridget couldn't help thinking of what her mum had said on her wedding day, about how she had almost met Mark Darcy nearly ten years before they'd actually met for the first time. "Do you think twenty-four-year-old me would have been into—" She stopped to do some mental math. "—thirty-year-old Mark?"

Shazzer scoffed. "No way," she said. "If he had half as much of a poker up his arse then—Ow!"

Bridget had reached across the table to lightly smack her arm.

Shazzer went on: "No offense; you know I've grown fond of him, and he's a really good guy," she said. "But let's be realistic. His personality would not have been much different at thirty, and you would have had even less patience for it, because you were at the height of your power over men in your mid-twenties."

"I'm going to try not to be too offended at that, either."

"You know what I mean," she said, then launched into her PhD-style theory about the power dynamic shift of men and woman in their thirties, one which Bridget had heard countless times before: "You had men falling over you at twenty-four, men who went to great efforts to get you into bed. You had your pick. Men on the cusp of thirty are mostly still building their careers, moving up in the world… and generally less self-confident with women, especially with those women wielding their power." Shazzer giggled, brandishing an invisible sword. "Mark would have just, I don't know, brooded intensely at you."

Bridget couldn't help but laugh. "Ooh," she said, thinking suddenly of other significant relationships in her life. "You know, I bet I would have really got on with Daniel when I was twenty-four. Me, at the height of my power (as you say), with no care for getting back into a serious relationship or having babies yet, and him, wanting to shag anything that moves…"

Shazzer thought about it for a moment, then nodded. "I bet he was the exception that proves the rule. I bet he's always had insane confidence with women and his career, even while working in the mail room. And with both of you as confident as fuck… you would have been shag-a-thoning for years."

Bridget almost choked on her coffee from laughing. "Oh my God. You can never tell Mark about this conversation."

Shazzer made a zip motion across her mouth. "He would not understand," she said. "Particularly that last bit about Daniel."

Rewind

1986

"Shazzer?"

"Mm-hm?"

"Dilemma. Major, major dilemma."

Pause. "I'll be over as soon as I can."

She was true to her word; her friend did not live but a block away, and would always come bearing wine, possibly chocolate. This time she brought both.

"What's up?" Shazzer said, dropping down onto Bridget's sofa. "I knew something must have been up if you're not getting ready to go out on a Saturday night."

Bridget laughed weakly. "I got it all out of my system earlier this week, I guess."

"Ooooo. Do tell."

As she poured the wine and cracked open the chocolate, Bridget outlined the week: her birthday, meeting the two men who were the best of friends. Having dinner then a great night of sex with both of them—"Separate nights! Separately!" she added with a giggle—in a single week. Still thinking of both of them fondly. Very inconvenient.

Shazzer pursed her lips. "What a terrible dilemma to have, indeed," she said, then whipped out a cigarette. "Whatever the fuck to do?"

"I wish I knew," she said.

"Let's start with this. Which one was the better shag?" Shazzer asked.

Bridget laughed lightly. "Believe it or not, the quiet one, Mark." At that, she pulled down the collar of her shirt to show the evidence of that passion last night: the purplish-red love bite on her neck near her shoulder.

Shazzer's brows lifted. "Impressive," Shazzer said. "And I totally believe it. They go out of their way to make an impression because they don't know when they'll get some again."

"I really don't think it was just him desperately gagging for it," Bridget said, swiping the cigarette and taking a long drag. "He was so kind and courteous. And he made it a mission to make sure I was… well, you know. Taken care of."

"And Daniel's something of a playboy, to put it mildly."

"Yup," she said. "But he was pretty considerate, too. I mean, he arranged for me to meet Mark last night because he felt bad for thinking Mark wasn't interested and made a move first. I mean, that's some sacrifice there. He seemed very keen on me." After a beat she added, "And he wasn't a bad shag, either."

"Just not as good as—wait, wait, did you say that the first guy you shagged set you up to meet with the second guy?" Shazzer took her cigarette back. "That's weird and a bit creepy—'hey, she's a good shag, why don't you have a crack at 'er, old boy?'"

"No, it wasn't like that. Daniel did it all without telling Mark, who told me he didn't know what was happening until I showed up. He seemed honestly surprised to see me. I don't think he was faking that."

"And what do each of them do for a living?"

"Daniel works in publishing."

"Ah. Like you."

"Mm-hm. He's an editor. We have a lot in common that way. Mark, on the other hand, is a barrister. He works in human rights law."

Shazzer whistled. "That's a proper job there," she said. "What have you got in common with Mark? Politics?"

Bridget paused. "You know, I don't know," she admitted. "It didn't really come up. But you can't work in human rights without having some compassion for all people. Right? Plus, we're both from Grafton Underwood. Our parents are friends, apparently. He's the one my mum tried to fix me up with."

"Are both of them easy to talk to?"

"Daniel was sooo easy to talk to right away. Mark had a rough start, exterior of ice, but turns out that he was nervous because he fancied me. But he's pretty easy to talk to now, too. He's a good listener."

Shaz smirked a bit, then took another drag and looked thoughtful. "OK. So. Here's my final judgment," she said with a portentous tone, jabbing the cigarette at Bridget emphatically as if she were banging a judge's gavel. "All other things being equal, if you're going to carry on with only one of them right now, go with the better shag."

Bridget laughed out loud.

Just then, her phone began to ring.

…

He wanted to call her.

He didn't want to seem too eager. Desperate.

He stared at his phone, willing it to make a decision for him.

Much to his surprise, it rang.

He cleared his throat, picked up the receiver. "Mark Darcy."

There was silence, then the muffled sound of a chuckle. "I think I'd pay real money to hear you answer with a regular old 'hello'."

Daniel.

"Didn't hear from you about last night," he went on. "How'd things go?"

He thought about how to respond, and decided on, "Very well."

"You hesitated," Daniel said, clearly amused. "That either means it was a disaster, or you shagged her."

"It wasn't a disaster," Mark admitted.

Silence, then, "Oh my God. You're not kidding."

Mark smiled. "No, I'm not." Daniel was quiet, so Mark became a little concerned. "You're not upset, I hope."

"No, no, not upset," Daniel said. "Surprised. And maybe a little sorry, after all, that I didn't get another night."

"She might not even want to see me again," said Mark.

"That's the spirit, mate," said Daniel drolly. "Did you get her number?"

"No."

Daniel laughed. "I suppose I could be persuaded to divulge it. Did you leave yours?"

"Again… no."

"Easily fixable," he said airily. "Call her. Did you stay the night?"

Mark thought back to the night before, to taking his leave in the wee hours with sleepy good-byes and a parting kiss. "Not the whole night."

"Why not? Would breakfast have been that awkward?"

"No. I just didn't want to impose."

Daniel began to chuckle. "Aw, mate."

"Should I have?" Mark said.

"I doubt it would've been a burden," Daniel said. "It was Friday night; it's not like you had to be at work in the morning. Stay the night, get another go in the morning. Simple as."

"I'll take that under advisement," Mark said.

"Bloody lawyer," Daniel said, laughing again. "Here's the number." Mark jotted down the number that Daniel read out. "Give her a call. See if she's free tonight."

"It's a bit late for dinner."

"Then meet for a drink."

"She's probably already got plans."

"You won't know if you don't call."

Daniel had a point.

"Thanks, mate," Mark said. He put the phone down, then picked it up again and dialled.

His heart pounded as it rang once… twice… three times. Then:

"Hello?"

"Hello," he said. "Have I reached Bridget Jones?"

"Yes," she said. "Who's this?"

"It's Mark," he said, then elaborated, "Mark Darcy."

"Oh," she said. "Hi." After a pause—during which he could swear that she covered the mouthpiece, had a muffled conversation—she said, "How are you?"

"I'm well, thank you," he said. "Yourself?"

"I'm—" More muffled sound. "I'm fine."

"Have I… called at a bad time?"

"No, not at all," she said. "One of my girlfriends dropped by, that's all."

"Ah," he said. "I just wanted to know if you were free to go out for a late dinner, or a drink or something."

"Oh." He suspected she covered the mouthpiece again to consult with the friend, but not even her hand was enough to mask the friend's exuberant advice in the affirmative. "Yes, I'm free. Just need about twenty minutes to get ready, if you want to come over…?"

He was smiling like a fool. "All right."

"Do you remember where my flat is?"

"Of course," he said. "I'll see you then."

…

"Shazzer. You have to go."

"Not a chance in hell," she said. "I have got to stick around to see what this guy looks like."

Bridget pushed air out through her teeth. There would be no convincing her to go, and time was of the essence. "Fine. One condition. Tidy up my sitting room."

"It's a deal."

Bridget ran into her loo—a disaster since he'd gone, which she cleared by throwing it all in the laundry bin—and threw on a quick layer of makeup and powder, mascara and a bit of shadow. She brushed her hair, which was behaving itself; thank God I took a shower this afternoon. She then went to her bedroom, gathered up all of the scattered clothes and pitched them, too, into the laundry bin. Amazing how much she'd made a mess of it, considering she had just tidied in anticipation of Daniel the night before. She plumped up her pillows, pulled her sheets and duvet taut, turned on the bedside lamp. She then looked for her black miniskirt and bright pink top.

Clean stockings. Clean stockings.

She searched in vain and found only a pair of clean black tights. She pulled them up and stepped into a pair of low heels.

Just as her entryphone went off.

"I'll get it!" sing-songed Shazzer.

"No!"

But she was too late. Shazzer had picked it up.

"Yes?" she asked, then paused. "Yes, who may I say is calling?... and she's expecting y—?"

At that point she grabbed the receiver. "Hello, hi."

"Bridget?" This time she recognised his voice.

"Yes, it is," she said, pressing the buzzer. "Come on up."

She turned and glared at Shazzer. "Behave yourself. You were just going, so put on your damn jacket and—"

Then came the knock at the front door. Bridget went down the small set of stairs to open it.

"Hi," he said with a warm smile, then his gaze connected with something over her shoulder. "Oh. Hello."

"Hey there," came Shazzer's voice.

"Come on in," Bridget said, leading him up into her flat proper. "Shazzer here was just leaving."

"'Shazzer'?"

"Nickname for 'Sharon,'" explained Shazzer, sticking out a hand. "Pleased to meet you, Mark."

He blinked in surprise, shaking her hand. "Pleased to meet you, too."

"Hmm," Shazzer said approvingly. Bridget was sure she'd hear what this was about later.

"Leaving," stressed Bridget.

"Bye, Bridge," Shazzer said, before grabbing her handbag, heading down the stairs, then leaving.

Bridget turned around to face him.

"Sorry about that," she said.

"Don't apologise," he said. "You look nice."

She wondered what her hair was doing after her mad dash across the flat, and self-consciously, she smoothed it down. "Thanks," she said brightly. "You look pretty nice yourself."

And he did, if not as casual as she was expecting: he wore a pale blue button-down shirt with no tie, but with a dark navy suit jacket and matching trousers.

"So," she asked, "what did you have in mind?"

…

He was not proud of the thought that raced through his head: wanting to take her in his arms and kiss her passionately—

And then she clarified, "For drinks? Where did you want to go?"

"I'm… ah, I'm sorry. I had thought the May Fair Bar, but…"

"Bit posh."

"Bit of a drive away," he finished.

She flushed red. "Oh."

"I mean, if you'd really like to go there…"

"There's a pub downstairs," she said; he had seen it but not really noticed it. "And The George down the street." A slow smile found her lips. "Does one of those work for you?"

"Yes, indeed. Whichever you prefer."

The pub downstairs was nothing terribly special; they had the lighting just right, about as smoky inside as he might have expected, and they had a decent top shelf scotch. The noise level was surprisingly sedate for a Saturday night. All of the tables appeared to be occupied. "They make a mean cosmo," Bridget confided, as she reached and took her drink from the bar. She raised her glass. "Cheers."

He touched his tumbler to her cosmopolitan. "Cheers."

They moved away from the bar to allow other patrons to order their drinks. As he took a sip, his gaze remained on her; she noticed him looking at her, and she smiled. "I'm glad you called," she said.

"I'm glad you were available," he said. He struggled with what to say, settled on, "Your friend seems nice."

Bridget burst out with a little laugh. "I love Shazzer, but 'nice' is not the first word I'd think of to describe her," she explained. "I'm sure she'd love to hear you say that, though."

"Have you known her long?"

"Hmmm," she said, looking thoughtful. "I met her shortly after I got to London, about… four years ago? We were both interviewing for the same job. Neither of us got the job, but we hit it off straight away." She seemed to be ready to say something more, but instead pulled her lower lip between her teeth, shifting her weight from one foot to the other.

"What is it?"

Her cheeks went pink again. "I was going to ask you about how long you've known Daniel, to be honest. But I thought maybe it wasn't a good idea to mention him, you know. Bit weird to bring up."

"It's all right," he said gently. "I've known him as long as I can remember. Sort of like a brother to me."

"Oh," she said. "I thought maybe you'd met in lower sixth."

He shook his head. "Primary school on up. As for Cambridge, we both applied, both got accepted," he said, then added sheepishly, "You know, he gave me your number. He suggested I call."

"Oh, I never did give it to you, did I?" She laughed lightly, swirling her drink around. "Well, I guess he really isn't bothered by this. You taking me out again, I mean."

"He's not."

She tilted her head back to empty her glass, as he drank from his own.

"Would you care for another?"

"Mm, I would, thank you."

He went back to the bar, asked for a second of each, then brought it back to the general area where he'd left her standing. She wasn't there.

"Over here."

He turned to find she'd secured a booth. She was grinning. He smiled a little sheepishly as he placed her drink down before her, then took a seat across the table.

"Did you think I'd gone?" she asked with a giggle.

"I did wonder," he admitted.

"You looked stricken," she said, reaching across the table to place a hand on his. "This table just opened up and I made a run for it."

He laughed lightly again, then sipped the scotch, felt it further working its way into his system. He felt more relaxed, a little less inhibited. "I was glad to see you sitting there," he said, turning his hand over to better hold her hand properly. "I really enjoy spending time with you."

"I've enjoyed it too," she said, grinning crookedly. Then she shifted a little in her seat. "Is that good? I mean, for scotch?"

"Very good," he said. "Single malt, twenty-five year cask-aged—"

He stopped suddenly when he felt her unshod foot—specifically, her toes—touching his shin, then rising up.

"Cask-aged?"

"Yes," he said. "Imbues it with a certain flavour. The wooden cask is often oak."

"Ah." Now her toes were against his knee, the knee closest to the window, and with her legs clad in dark black stockings and his own dark trousers, her actions would be unlikely to have been seen by other pub-goers. Then her foot was against his inner thigh. "Do you like that?"

He sensed, given the low timbre of her voice, that she did not mean the scotch any longer. "Yes."

The booth was small enough that she was able to reach a bit higher than that. He nearly dropped his tumbler. She giggled, moving her toes against him, causing an unfortunately timed reaction.

He knocked back most of his drink in one long swallow.

"Perhaps you should work on your drink, too," he said quietly.

"I thought you liked that," she said.

"Yes," he said. "But I need to be able to walk out of here with something resembling dignity."

She laughed lightly again, then withdrew her foot and sat up straight. "I'm sorry."

He couldn't help but grin at her. "I don't think you're at all sorry."

Her own impish grin confirmed this suspicion.

By the time they finished their respective drinks he was in fact able to escort her out without issue. They left the pub and went directly around to the private building entrance. Barely inside her flat, barely having divested themselves of their outerwear, she was snaking her arms around his neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

Their physical compatibility was undeniable, and there was no doubt he was smitten.

As silly as it was after two nights together, he might even have been falling a little bit in love.

…

Mark had stayed the night, this time.

After several rounds of energetic shagging—note to self, she thought, pick up more condoms—they'd eventually drifted off to exhausted sleep. When she woke to see the glow of the sun highlightig the edges of her blinds, he was still fast asleep, so she dressed in her robe, went to wash her face, clean her teeth, and then make some coffee for them. As she waited for it to brew, she felt his arm come up around her and plant a kiss into her hair.

"Morning," he said.

"Hey," she said, turning to face him. He had a blanket draped around his waist; he looked bloody sexy, she didn't mind admitting. "How do you like your coffee?"

"Black, thank you."

"No milk, no sugar?"

"That is generally understood what is meant by 'black coffee,'" he said with a smirk.

She reached to pull down two mugs; with some amusement, she wondered to herself what kind of psychopath doesn't take milk or sugar in coffee. "I have chocolate croissants and some little pots of yoghurt, if you're hungry," she said, pouring both mugs. "I'm not much of a cook, to be honest."

"It's all right," he said. "A croissant and some yoghurt will do nicely."

"Great," she said. "I can bring that to you, if you want to have a seat on the sofa or something."

"You're sure I can't help in some way?"

She shook her head. "Really, no trouble."

He looked like he might insist, but then he took the coffee and walked towards the sofa. She took out a couple of croissants from the freezer and set them to defrosting in the microwave, before reaching for a pair of blueberry yoghurt cups and spoons.

When she carried over the loaded plates, she saw that he was not in fact on the sofa, but standing beside the window, peering out over her Borough Market neighbourhood. She let her gaze settle on the lines of his body, his brown hair lit up chestnut in the oblique sunlight. He really was a lovely specimen of a man.

"Here you are," she said softly, interrupting his thoughts; he turned to face her, then smiled.

"Thank you," he said, reaching for the plate.

She took a seat on her sofa, and she indicated he could sit beside her, which he did. After setting his coffee onto the low table in front of him, he tucked into his breakfast. They both did.

He seemed quite pleased with the breakfast, alternating bites of croissant and spoonfuls of yoghurt between sips of coffee.

"Did you sleep all right?" she asked suddenly.

"Mm, yes," he said. "Very comfortably." Then he smiled a little. "I mean, when we slept."

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. "I'd apologise," she said, "but once again, I'm not sorry."

"Nor am I," he said. Finished, he set the plate, spoon, and cup down. "I'm… sure you have plenty of things planned for today, so perhaps I should find my clothes—"

"No."

"No?"

"I don't have plenty of things planned for today," she said, smiling, as she tugged on her robe's belt to loosen it, then pulled the halves aside to bare a wide stripe of skin to her waist. She then leaned back against the arm of the sofa. "Just the one."

"Ah," he said, his gaze fixed appreciatively upon her.

…

It was the sort of thing Mark could get used to, staying up too late finding absolute rapture in the arms of a beautiful young woman, then waking up to do it all over again.

Daniel's prediction for staying the night had been accurate. Mark had had no expectations, but had been very pleased for their time together after breakfast. Reluctantly, he had bid her goodbye just after midday. He'd figured that if he accepted lunch at her flat, the cycle might never end. Not that that would be such a bad thing, but he did have some things that he needed to do to prepare for work the following day.

Unfortunately, he was very much distracted from that work preparation by thoughts of the night before and of the morning. He hoped that Daniel would call to ask about it. Calling Daniel to talk about it would feel too much like bragging.

Daniel did call, just before suppertime.

"I would have called sooner," he said laconically, "but my Sunday was spent in the company of a sexy and very talented girl. How about yours?"

"I followed your advice," he said. "Stayed over."

"And? How was breakfast?"

"Exceptional."

"That is more like it," said Daniel.

"I think I might be falling for her," Mark said suddenly. Not even he knew from where the desire to say that had come.

Daniel was quiet for the longest time. "Mark," he said. "I know it's been a while since you've been with a girl, but take my advice: do not confuse having a good time—and a few rounds of amazing shagging—over one weekend with anything like love."

"It hasn't 'been a while,'" Mark said defensively.

"It has," he retorted. "In fact, I believe I can remember the exact date. New Year's Eve, ringing in 1982."

"I'm not dignifying that with a confirmation," Mark said, though suspected Daniel was right.

"She happened to mention to me," Daniel said, "that she'd just come off of a seven-year relationship with her uni boyfriend. Right now, she's looking for fun."

"She told you that?"

"No, but it's obvious to me," Daniel said. "Just be careful, mate."

"I'll be careful," he said. "Don't worry."

Mark, of course, did not really know what it meant to be careful in this regard.

…

"Sooooo? What time did he go?"

Bridget took a long drag off of her cigarette, a smirk playing on her lips.

"About noon," she said, exhaling a stream of smoke.

Shazzer whistled. "Did he continue to live up to expectations?"

"Exceeded," Bridget said, showing off a twin to the love bite she'd shown off the day before. "Gonna be hard to top, to be honest."

Shazzer began giggling. "You said 'top.'"

She leant over and playfully smacked her forearm. "So what was that about last night?" Bridget asked. "When you shook his hand?"

"Oh, right!" Shazzer said. "He's got nice hands, very smooth, very well-groomed… and very long fingers." She waggled her brows, as she waggled her fingers. "We know what that means."

She laughed low in her throat. "You're not wrong."

"Ooh." Shazzer had a gleam in her eye. "Maybe if you get bored with him, send 'im my way?"

Bridget didn't commit to an answer, just grinned impishly and took another long drag. She was not going to get bored any time soon.

Fast-Forward

2005

"Darling."

Bridget came out of her fugue to see her husband looking at her from across the bedroom with some concern.

"Yes, sorry, what were you saying?"

He chuckled, coming to sit beside her on the bed; he was freshly shaved and smelled delightful, that crisp, clean scent that seemed so uniquely his. "I was asking you what was on your mind," he said. "You were a million miles away."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, trying to figure out just how to explain it. "Remember when I told you," she began, "that you were supposed to have come to my twenty-fourth birthday party, but didn't?"

He nodded. "I had just accepted a job in New York," he said. "Didn't come back to the UK for a while."

"My mum said something that I can't stop thinking of," she said. "That if we'd met then, maybe we would have got together sooner, and married even sooner than we did. We wouldn't have had to deal with all of the bullshit relationship stuff that we dealt with instead."

"It's possible," he said thoughtfully. "But it's also possible that all of that 'relationship bullshit,' as you put it, helped to bring us together in a more meaningful way."

She wasn't entirely sure she believed it. "Surely suffering through the experience with your ex-wife and Daniel—and me suffering through Daniel, come to think of it—didn't actually somehow pave the way to us getting together."

"I'm not saying it did," he said. "But I was certainly not the same person I was at thirty than I am now." He seemed as contemplative as she had been moments before. "Perhaps we would have got together then, but would it have been something that lasted? Be honest to yourself about the person you were at twenty-four."

"What are you saying, Mark?" she asked. "That I was too young to have a real relationship, too—?"

"I'm not saying anything of the sort," he said placatingly. "I just don't want you to get into catastrophic thinking about what might have been, instead of what is. Have you ever heard the saying, 'Everything happens for a reason'?"

She grinned. "I thought you thought that concept was bollocks."

"It usually is," he said with a small smile, taking her hand. "But for you and me, I think we came together exactly when we needed to."

Rewind

April, 1986

Way to ruin everything.

He had taken her out several more times—even for lunch, even without the faintest glimmer of hope for sex—and had enjoyed every moment of every date with her. It was on a Friday night, three weeks after they'd first gone out, that he'd apparently said exactly the wrong thing.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" she asked sharply, bringing her brows together in a scowl.

He strove to think what he could have said to elicit such a response. "I just asked if you liked your salmon dish."

"No, no, not that part," she said. "The other part. 'Darling.'"

He hadn't even been aware he'd said it, and in any case—"What's wrong with 'darling'?"

The furrow in her brow deepened. "That's something you… I don't know, call your girlfriend."

Now it was his turn to be confused. "We've been going out regularly for almost a month," he said. "I sort of took it as read that you were my girlfriend."

She looked distinctly uncomfortable. "I… oh, shit." She took in a deep breath. "Mark, I'm sorry, but this, you and me, this is meant to be fun."

"It has been fun," he said. "But it's also been more than that."

She shook her head. "I never wanted any strings attached. I am sorry I didn't make that more clear, or if I ever gave you the wrong impression," she said. She set down her fork. "Shit. I should probably go."

"Please don't," he said. "I mean, finish your dinner at least. I'll take you straight home after."

She pushed back her chair. "I've lost my appetite. Sorry."

With that, she rose and strode towards the exit of the restaurant.

Bloody Daniel, right again.

He stood, too, throwing his napkin down next to his plate to catch her up in the restaurant foyer. "Bridget," he said. She paused, then turned around.

"What?"

"Look, I'm sorry if I came on stronger that you were expecting," he said. He took in a deep breath. "If 'no strings' is what you want, then I can do that, if it means I get to keep seeing you."

"No, Mark. No. That isn't what you want. I couldn't carry on knowing you'd always be hoping for more. You wouldn't be happy." After a pause, she said, "Would you want to keep seeing me, knowing you weren't the only one?"

Not the only man?

"What?" he asked, his voice a whisper.

"I think you heard me," she said. "I've had a nice time with you—better than a nice time, if I'm honest—but I can't do 'exclusive' or 'relationship' right now. I can't." She pulled her lower lip between her teeth, considering her next words carefully. "Please don't call me, okay? Let's not make it messier than it is."

With that, she offered a little smile, then turned and exited. He watched her leave, feeling utterly devastated. He returned to his table, signalling the waiter towards him.

"I'd like to settle the bill," he said.

"Was dinner not to your satisfaction? Your lady friend's?"

"The meal was fine," he said. "Just don't have much of an appetite to finish it, that's all."

Should have taken that bloody job in New York, he thought.

…

"Hello?" There was no response over the phone line to this greeting, so he added, "Daniel Cleaver speaking. Who's there?"

"Daniel? It's Bridget."

Daniel sat up a little bit straighter. "Bridget? Bridget Jones? To what do I owe this honour?"

"I thought you better hear it from me first," she said. "I won't be seeing Mark anymore."

Oh no. "You don't have to explain," he said. "I did try to warn him."

"Warn him? What?"

"That you had just broken up with some idiotic bloke after years, and you probably didn't want anything more than to, shall we say, play the field. I mean, that's my raison d'être. So I understand."

He heard her chuckle. "So you're not going to hate me."

"Of course not," he said sympathetically.

There was a very long pause before she said, "I'm free tonight if you are. I mean, since my previous date was cut short."

His brows went up. "Now that is an offer I cannot refuse."

"Though… don't mention this to Mark," she said. "I don't think he'd take it at all well."

"My lips are sealed," he said, "at least until I get to your flat."

…

Bridget, have you lost your mind?

She looked in the mirror, asking this question of herself.

It seemed like a great idea in the moment, and oh God, did she feel like a shag… and she knew without a doubt that Daniel wasn't going to pull the same kind of relationship surprise on her. But had it been wise?

She had really liked Mark, too; funny, kind, considerate, courteous, and smoking hot in bed. Why had he needed to complicate everything?

"Ughhhh," she said. "Men."

To make herself feel better, she flipped her radio on; as if a sign, Samantha Fox's infectious dance hit "Touch Me" revived her wavering resolve and with a smile, she began to dance around a bit. She touched up her makeup with some powder, brushed her hair, spritzed another mist of perfume over herself. She looked at herself in the full length mirror, then slipped out of the stockings she'd been wearing. With a wicked grin, she also slipped out of her pants.

She switched the bedside lamp on, and had just poured a couple of glasses of wine when her entryphone went off.

"Who's there?" she asked cautiously.

"Are you expecting someone else?"

Daniel. She buzzed him in. "Come on up."

She went down to meet him at the door. Upon answering the door, his gaze immediately went to her legs. "Bare. Hmm."

"'Hmm,' indeed," she said, stepping back. "Come on in."

"You look… smell… delicious."

She grinned. "Thank you."

He kicked the door closed behind him.

"Come here. Let's have a taste."

…

He should have known better. After all, he had been warned.

He felt like an absolute fool.

One thing for which Mark was grateful was that he had not told his parents that he'd been seeing Bridget; given what he knew now, he was certain she wouldn't have told her parents. It would have been too embarrassing to face everyone, otherwise.

He thought about what she'd said, about seeing other men simultaneously to him, and also thought about Daniel, who'd casually mentioned that he'd spent one Sunday afternoon with a talented, sexy young lady.

Daniel wouldn't have done that to him.

Would he have?

Mark picked up his handset, dialled Daniel's number. It rang and rang until the answerphone picked up.

"Daniel, Mark here. Have an important question for you. Please give me a call as soon as you hear this. Thanks."

When it became clear that Daniel was out for the evening, Mark took the ill-advised step heading for his study and reaching for the bottle of scotch there, bypassing the tumbler altogether.

It was some time after sunrise when the ringing of Mark's phone stirred him from an alcohol-induced slumber and back into a reality in which his head was pounding and his mouth was as dry as cotton. He pushed himself upright, and reached for the telephone receiver.

"Darcy," he said, his voice like gravel.

"Mate. You sound rough."

"Daniel, morning," he said, running a hand over his face. "Sorry. I'm feeling rough."

"Afternoon," he corrected. "Sorry to hear it. Was just returning your call."

He sighed, the events of the night before coming back to him. "First of all—do not say 'I told you so'."

"Wouldn't dream of it," he said.

"And be totally honest."

"Of course. What's going on?"

"Bridget ended things with me yesterday… and hinted that she's been seeing other men at the same time she was seeing me," he said, his heart heavy to realise it all over again. "Was one of those men you?"

"No," he said without hesitation. "I'd never do that to you."

Mark felt instant relief. In the light of day, it made sense; why would Daniel have pushed him towards Bridget if he was still seeing her? "Thank you," he said. "I hope you're not offended that I asked."

"No. Of course not," he said. "Say, how about some lunch?"

"I feel like death," Mark said. "I don't want to go anywhere."

"Let me come there. I'll bring some takeaway. You, meantime, go have a shower and a shave."

…

Daniel could not deny that felt a little guilty for spending the night with the girl who had just broken his best friend's heart, but Daniel was a weak-willed man, she was beautiful, and she had asked him over. He hadn't lied; he had not in fact slept with her during the three weeks that Mark had been. He had just omitted the tiny, tiny fact that he had jumped at the chance to be with her the moment Mark was out of the picture. What Mark didn't know couldn't hurt him.

He decided to pick up a pair of curries—mild for Mark, screaming hot for himself—then made his way over to Mark's place. When he rapped at the door, Mark called out from within, "Come in."

He found his friend in the study. The position of the bottle of scotch close to where he was seated was a bit troubling. "Hope you're not starting in on that already," Daniel said darkly.

"No," he said, though he was not convincing. "All right, maybe a little. To take the edge off of the headache. The shower wasn't enough."

Daniel swept up the bottle and stocked it back where Mark usually kept it. "That's enough," he said. "You can't completely lose your mind over this." He set down the carrier bag. "Eat. You'll feel better."

"I'm sure it's easy for you to say," Mark said, reaching for the bag, fishing out the takeaway container marked MILD. "You go through women like some people go through facial tissue."

"You wound me," Daniel said, placing a hand over his heart. "Believe it or not, it's not easy for me. It still hurts when one of them says that they don't want to see me anymore. Rejection always hurts. The key is to get back onto the horse and keep riding."

"You are a fount of clichés," Mark said, then sighed. "You did warn me to be careful."

"I told you I'd never say 'I told you so.'"

"But."

Daniel shrugged. "You can't put yourself out there without getting hurt once in a while," he said. "It's not realistic. The alternative is to not feel anything. To never experience lust or love. You're not a robot."

Daniel was all too familiar with what the sight of Mark's tensing jaw meant. Considering what to say. Considering his options.

"Sometimes I think things would be much easier if I were," Mark said at last.

"You might as well have been for the last few years," Daniel said. He sat, began opening his own takeaway container. "Look. I know what she said wasn't what you wanted to hear, but it was honestly good for you to let loose for a bit. I promise this isn't the end of the world."

"How do you know what she said to me?" Mark said, furrowing his brow.

Daniel's mind raced. Who had told him what? "You told me," he said smoothly, far more confidently than he felt. Then he added, "About the other men?"

His burgeoning anger deflated. "Right."

"Come on. Eat. You'll feel less morose with your blood sugar not in the toilet."

…

Daniel was right. Eating did help him feel better. He realised he had eaten nothing since leaving the restaurant last night; dinner that he had not even finished. Indeed, it was not the end of the world, and knew that time would heal the wound.

He also knew that he had no desire to experience it again. Had the highs—the sex, the intimacy, the fun—been worth the lows? The pain of rejection for what felt like no reason at all did not feel worth it at all. Logically, he knew her feelings on the matter were very valid. Emotionally, though, he felt he had done everything right, and it had been all for naught.

This was the day his heart began to harden.