Chapter 3: Somewhere Ages and Ages Hence
Fast-Forward
January, 1995
Different year, same train ride.
Normally, the rhythm of the train threatened to lull her back to sleep, but today, it only made her feel like she might vomit after last night's drinking binge. She'd barely put together a matching outfit from her clean clothes, and had no patience for her hair except to clip it up. The thought of putting eyeshadow on was more than she could bear.
Why had she agreed to spend New Year's Day this way?
Because you love your parents, she thought. Even if your mum does drive you crazy.
She didn't look forward to the relentless barrage of the usual questions: Have you finally got a boyfriend? When are you getting married? When do we hear the pitter-patter of little feet? She didn't get these questions when she was younger; then again, she was now in her thirties. Her sell-by date was expired, or close to it, in their eyes.
Once at Kettering Station, she scanned the crowd for her dad, then remembered that he'd told her he wasn't going to be able to meet her. She sighed and wandered towards the station front in the hopes of snagging a taxi.
It's my lucky day, she thought wryly as she climbed into the only taxi waiting at the kerbside.
There was a moment when she absolutely blanked on the address of her parents' friends, the Alconburys, but fortunately, it came to her, and the taxi was off towards the village in which she'd grown up.
She was greeted at the door by a very enthusiastic Una Alconbury, who had clearly not gone out drinking the night before; she was as bubbly and as tinkly as ever in her brightly coloured polyester two-piece.
"Bridget!" she said. "We'd almost given you up for lost!"
Every year. Every year, Una greeted her with this, and she could only smile at the tired attempt at humour. "Hello, Auntie Una," she said, kissing her over the cheek.
"Come on, let's get a drink in you," she said confidentially. "You look like you could use one. Care for a bloody one?"
Great, Bridget thought. I look as terrible as I feel. "Yes, please," she said.
"Say no more," Una said with a wink. "Your dad's here somewhere, and your mum's in the kitchen."
"Ooh, you'd better go make sure she's not trying to Magimix the gravy."
Una gasped, brought her hand to her chest, then dashed away.
She looked around for her dad—and found someone else instead, someone she hadn't seen in more years than she cared to think of, pouring himself a glass of wine. At the same time she saw him, he saw her, and her automatic reaction was to offer a pleasant smile. He looked away, then looked back at her, as if he'd wanted to pretend he hadn't seen her, but seemed to realise a half-second later that the party was too small to pretend such a thing.
"Mark," she said as she approached. He looked much the same, though grey had started to pepper the hair at his temples, and the lines in his face had deepened as he'd approached forty. Still fit, she thought. Still trim. Still fond of suit jackets. "Hi."
His mouth pulled tightly into a line, which was unsurprising, given their last conversation, way back when in the restaurant. He could hardly be faulted for failing to smile. "Hello, Bridget," he said coolly, recorking the wine bottle.
"I thought that was you," she said. "How are you?"
He shot his gaze back to her; his eyes were dark and unreadable. "I'm well," he said at last. "You?"
She sensed that the tale of her wretched hangover would not spark amusement in him. "I'm all right, thanks."
His manners kicked in; he indicated the wine bottles, all reds. "May I pour you a glass?"
"No, thanks," she said, striving for lightness. "Una's fetching me a Bloody Mary." Her mind went blank as far as conversation went, until—"Still practising law?"
"Yes," he said.
She expected him to return the question, but he didn't. "I'm still in publishing," she offered. "I'm working—" She stopped short. She wasn't sure whether mentioning that she was working with Daniel Cleaver would prod a sore spot. "—as a sub-editor."
"Bridget," he said brusquely. "I'd rather not do this."
"Do what?" she asked.
"Offering to pour your drink is one thing. Small talk is another thing—" he began, then dropped his voice. "—because I'd really rather not talk to you."
With that, he walked away.
She blinked in her disbelief; she understood his not smiling, but the rudeness, the incivility with which he had just treated her was beyond anything she would have expected from the polite and courteous man she'd briefly known. Just then, Una appeared with the drink, which she accepted gratefully. "Saw you talking with Mark," she said. "Sorry."
"Sorry?"
"He's always such a grump at these things," Una said, waving her hand dismissively. "I'm not sure why he bothers to come. For his parents, I wager. All he does is work."
She didn't know why, but she suddenly asked, "Is he married?"
Una laughed gaily. "Mark? No. Hasn't time for a wife. Or a girlfriend. His poor mother despairs ever having a grandchild." She seemed far more gleeful than the situation called for. "Honestly, I'm not sure there's a woman alive who could stand being near him for more than ten minutes."
"Oh," she said, confused and dismayed at this assessment.
"He won't talk about it," she went on in a quiet tone, "but his mother thinks he had one bad relationship sour him for ever. Oooh. Now I think of it, didn't Pam try to set you up with him?" She then chuckled a little too loudly. "Looks like you really dodged a bullet there, eh? Eh?"
Una was still laughing as she fluttered away to further mingle. Bridget's thoughts were in a whirl. One bad relationship? Could this have possibly been referring to her?
Even if it was me, she thought defiantly, this is not my fault. People split up with their partners, lovers, and spouses all the time when they realise they don't want the same things. Rejection doesn't automatically transform the rejected into emotional pillars of granite or total arseholes.
Seeing him again, though, had served to pour salt into a long-forgotten wound. Bridget had not realised what she'd had with Mark—what she might have had with him—until it was much too late. She had not wanted nor had she been looking for another relationship on the heels of the one that had just ended, a goal that had seemed completely reasonable at the time. Ultimately, though, the fun she'd wanted to have had not brought her any long-term satisfaction. She'd spent the better part of five years having a lot of casual, no-strings sex with men, including Daniel Cleaver. Once she'd gotten that out of her system, once she'd been ready and serious about looking for a relationship again, she found that the landscape of prospective partners had dried up like a desert; again, including Daniel Cleaver. She'd expected that, though; Daniel had always been clear about what he wanted, and didn't hold it against her when she'd decided just sex was no longer enough. They'd remained friendly, at least.
But oh, how frivolously she had spent the currency of youth. Life lesson learned.
She'd thought about Mark every once in a while; the pain of the biggest regret of her twenties had lessened, though, as the years had passed. Seeing Mark today had refreshed that pain. And as much as he didn't want to talk to her, she suddenly felt like she needed to talk to him. Maybe an apology for how she'd treated him would help melt the ice.
She looked over to him again, swore she saw him glancing at her.
…
Mark couldn't say that she was the last person he'd expected to see at this gathering of family friends, but seeing her had surprised him.
Rather, his reaction to seeing her.
He had told himself he hadn't actually cared about her, that she hadn't actually been as pretty as he'd remembered her to be, that all of the things he'd thought were special about her had just been the product of the imagination of a man who was desperate for physical attention and, frankly, grateful for sex. When it slipped via a careless comment from Daniel that she had started sleeping with Daniel again, Mark was not entirely shocked. Although he had never confronted Daniel about it directly—Daniel and Bridget were, after all, consenting adults who did not want an actual relationship—it had caused Mark to distance himself from his friend.
Given all of this, it was surprising to feel something close to a spark of pleasure to see her again. She was casually dressed in a snug jumper and leggings, her hair twisted up and held into place by a barrette; she wore nothing like shadow or liner on her eyes, just a pale pink gloss on her lips.
She was actually as pretty as he'd remembered her to be.
He looked to her once more just to make sure he hadn't imagined seeing her.
Still here, he thought; at that moment, she was nursing her drink. Looking at me.
Mark considered just leaving, but he was hungry; more importantly, he didn't want to strand his parents here. People were starting to queue for lunch, so he decided to join it.
"Hello again."
She had joined the queue directly behind him. He said nothing, did nothing in response.
"I'd really rather not to talk to your back," she said.
He turned. "Perhaps I was not clear. I—"
"I'm not interested in polite small talk either," she said. "You don't have to talk at all. Just listen."
Intriguing. "Not here, not now," he said, facing forward again.
"Una noticed us talking earlier," she said. "Apparently you talking with anyone at this sort of thing is noteworthy."
"And yet you're talking to me right now. I suspect you would prefer not to be overheard," he said in a low tone, referring to the queue before and behind them.
A long pause, then, "Fine. I'll go out for a cigarette after I eat. Meet me outside."
At this he reached the buffet table. He grabbed a plate and loaded it with the curry, then found his parents to sit with. His mother seemed to be scrutinising him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"Nothing," she said. "I just noticed you talking with Bridget. Didn't know you had retained an acquaintance."
"I hadn't," he said. Bridget hadn't been exaggerating; his talking with her had been noticed. "Just… small talk."
"Oh."
Conversation moved onto trivial things that he was able to tune out as he ate; he had no interest in the details of Penny Husbands-Bosworth's upcoming surgery or Una's planned holiday down the Nile. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Bridget move out of the room; in the foyer, she slipped on her coat and went outside through the front door.
He didn't immediately jump up. It would have been far too suspicious. He ate a few more bites to clear the plate, then rose. "If you're done, I can take your plate away," he said.
"Thank you, Mark."
He delivered the plates to the kitchen, then slipped out of the front door.
She sat there on the low stone wall, out of sight of the picture window, taking a long draw on a cigarette. "All right," he said gruffly. "What is it that you want to say?"
"That I'm sorry," she said, exhaling. "That's all. I treated you terribly, and I've regretted it deeply for years. I could grovel, make excuses, try to explain, but there'd be no point." She took another drag. He was too stunned to respond or even move. She turned to look at him, as if surprised that he hadn't immediately gone back inside. "Well. You don't have to listen to anything more or look at my face ever again. Cheers."
"I—"
"No," she interrupted, stabbing her cigarette in his direction. "You don't have to say anything. Truly. You don't even have to accept the apology. I just needed to say it. You should go back in before anyone notices you're out here with me. Whatever would they say?"
Without another word, he turned to slip back into the house.
…
That was not as cathartic as she would have hoped.
She exhaled one last lungful of smoke, then stubbed out the butt end.
But then the front door of the house opened again. It was Mark.
"You know what? You don't get to have the last word again," he said, his voice cool. "No. I don't accept your apology. You are gravely mistaken if you think I am compelled in any way to accept it. I am not doing that just to assuage your guilt."
The silence when he stopped talking was resounding.
"Are you quite finished?" she asked, feeling suddenly defensive.
"Yes."
"Off you pop, then," she said, waving her hand, as if to brush him back into the direction of the house.
He didn't move.
"I told you, you don't need to accept it," she said, her voice quite level. "I just needed you to know I was sorry."
"And it's not nearly enough when you destroyed my heart," he said tersely.
With that, he went inside again.
She felt conflicted. She told herself that she didn't really care; that she had barely given him a thought in almost a decade. But she had never before really known the extent to which she had actually hurt him. Guilt washed over her. Destroyed my heart. How that might have directly contributed to the coldness, the rudeness, the anger that he carried around with him now.
Maybe it was her fault.
She had never intended to hurt him, but she had, and badly. She had never told him she was not looking for a serious relationship; perhaps she should have, up front, right from the start. Of course that was what Mark had been looking for. Now that she was in her thirties, that's what she was looking for, too.
And she actually hated that he hadn't accepted the apology, because it meant that they still had unfinished business.
Maybe she should have tried to grovel a bit.
"Well, fuck," she muttered, throwing down the snuffed butt.
Fast-Forward
2006
"Can I ask you a question?"
He shifted against her as they snuggled together in bed, then pressed a kiss against her temple. "Always."
"Is there anything I could do that would an absolute deal-breaker? Like, the one thing you could never, ever forgive me for?"
"Aside from ending a sentence with a preposition?" he teased. He pushed himself up onto his elbow. "I don't know. I have a hard time imagining you being capable of doing anything I couldn't forgive. Why?" He narrowed his eyes, but the corners of his mouth were turned up. "What are you planning?"
She giggled. "Not planning anything," she said. "Well. Except perhaps to…." She then waggled her eyebrows.
Rewind
March, 1995
Fuck. Was he going to turn up everywhere now like a bad penny?
It was her night to shine: a book launch for the first major book she had undertaken editing all on her own, from a very promising new author who had garnered a ton of buzz in advance of the book's release. And, if she did say so herself, she looked amazing in her new black dress, silky and flattering to her body, with off-the-shoulder sleeves and a plunging neckline.
However, there, standing next to a dark-haired woman amongst a gaggle of authors, was Mark Darcy, listening intently with a figurative grey storm cloud over his head.
Fortunately, he hadn't seen her yet. Bridget made excuses and went off to the editor-in-chief, her boss, who also happened to have a vested interest in this development.
"Mr Cleaver, may I have a word?"
"Of course, Ms Jones," he said smoothly, then extended his elbow as if to escort her into a ballroom. When they were in a little more of a private area, just off of the main room, he asked her, "What's wrong?"
"Why do you ask if something's wrong?"
"You look like you've seen a ghost."
"Ghost of shags past," she said, trying to make a joke. "Guess who's turned up?"
"Not a clue, Jones."
"Mark."
He brought his brows together. "Mark? Mark Darcy? That Mark?"
She nodded.
"Huh. Wonder what brings him here. I'm certain this book would not be up his street. Surely he can't be here to see me." She knew that Daniel had suspected long ago that Mark had somehow found out that she had started to sleep with Daniel again, even though it had never been anything Mark had asked directly about.
"Or me," she said.
"No offense, love," he said kindly, "but you even less."
"I just wanted to warn you," she said. "After New Year's." She had already told him what had happened on New Year's Day. Told him about the apology, and the lack of its acceptance.
"Thanks," he said, then sighed. "Maybe I'll just go and say hello."
It's your head, she thought.
…
"Well, it's been a bit of time, hasn't it?"
Mark turned to see Daniel Cleaver standing there, a smile on his face; oddly, it seemed genuine, which Mark wasn't expecting. He smiled guardedly in return. "Hello, Cleaver."
Daniel held out his hand, and he found himself accepting it for a handshake. "Hello, Mark," he said. "It's good to see you. I'm surprised to see you. Do you attend many book launches?"
"I came with a colleague from chambers, Natasha," he said. "And the book is very good. At least what I read. I borrowed Natasha's advanced reader copy."
"We're very proud of it, and of our editor for this particular book."
"Oh, I didn't realise…" Mark began, trailing off a little. "This is your publishing house."
"Well. Not mine," Daniel said with a grin. "I'm just the editor-in-chief."
"That's not 'just' anything," Mark said. "Congratulations."
"Thanks," he said. "Look, I've missed seeing you around. Let's grab a drink some time. Or a football match. You still go to those, right?"
"Haven't been to one in years," Mark admitted. "Just occasionally watch on the telly. But I'd like that."
"Great," Daniel said. "Same flat, same number." Daniel seemed as if he was about to move away to mingle with the crowd, but at the last minute, he paused and spoke again. His voice was quiet yet patient. "You know, a moment ago I mentioned the editor on this book that you like so much, and I thought you might ask who that was, but you didn't, so let me elaborate. It's Bridget. And she's here tonight."
"Oh." Mark did not quite know how to feel about this. Bridget and Daniel worked together. Were presumably still friendly. Did they still—
"I know what you're thinking," he said. "And no. Not for quite a few years. Mark, she does feel awful about everything. She was devastated when she realised exactly how hard this had been on you."
She hadn't looked or acted devastated. "I'd rather not talk about it."
"I understand," Daniel said, holding his hands up in surrender. "Between you and me, she is actually keen to mend fences despite what she may have said, if you'll consider hearing her out again. She doesn't like anyone thinking badly about her. Bit more insecure than she was at twenty-four—but a lot more mature."
How much had she told Daniel about New Year's Day? "I'll take it under advisement."
Unexpectedly, Daniel began to chuckle. "Always the bloody lawyer," he said. "I'll see you around." He clapped Mark on the shoulder, then wandered away.
This interaction and all of its implications called for another drink; he wandered towards the bar, lost in thought, and ordered another.
He found the woman with whom he had arrived pretty much where he'd left her; she seemed quite involved in a serious conversation with a man that he recognised as a very famous author. He thought maybe if he joined the conversation he could use her presence as a shield against Bridget's approach.
But there was a part of him that wanted to hear what she had to say.
His eyes scanned the crowd looking for her (or rather, her blonde hair), assuming she hadn't changed much from January. It didn't take long to spot her, even with the number of people in attendance. She stood out. She'd looked pretty enough on New Year's (despite enduring what he suspected had been an extreme hangover), but tonight she was incandescent. She glowed from the attention being paid her; the silky, clingy black dress that she wore complemented her creamy complexion. Her hair was pinned up and off of her shoulders; her smile was a beacon from which he could not look away.
This is inconvenient, he thought.
Her gaze swept the general direction of where he was, and he could tell the moment she saw him; for that moment, her expression faltered, but she carried on with her end of the conversation, then made excuses to part from the group.
Then she was headed in his direction.
"Hi," she said cautiously. "Nice of you to come tonight."
"It's a fascinating book," he said. "I understand you edited it. Well done."
He could see the confusion on her face. At last, she said, "Thank you." Then she added, "Is everything all right?"
"Why do you ask?"
"You're being nice to me."
"I suppose I deserved that," he said. "I was not very amenable at the New Year."
"No, you weren't," she said. "But it's not a huge mystery as to why."
"I fully realise the irony of this statement," he said, "but I'm sorry for that."
She actually smiled a little. "I have to go and make author introductions to the crowd," she said, "but I'd really like to talk more later, if you don't mind."
He nodded. "You look really nice, by the way."
Her features softened. "Thank you. See you later."
He watched her walk away, a knot loosening in his gut. How odd it felt to be kind to her after so long.
…
Bridget went and did her introduction—not without its issues, including a malfunctioning microphone, and Bridget blanking suddenly on the author's name—before the author came up to talk; after she left the stage, she made a bee-line for Daniel.
"Brilliant, Jones," he said.
"Thank you," she said. In a quieter voice, she added, "What did you say to him, by the way?"
"To him?" Daniel said, pointing to the now-speaking author.
"No," she said. "To Mark."
"Not much," Daniel said. "I just told him to find it in his heart to listen to you if you wanted to talk."
She suspected there was more to it than that, but she grinned. "Big of you."
"Always glad to help," he said.
"Better go and find him," she said. "To talk."
Daniel gave her one curt nod, then turned to talk with the (unsurprisingly) beautiful woman beside him.
She looked for Mark again, tamping down the nerves that had started to build. She really didn't want to fuck it up. She wanted to give what she hoped would be an improved apology, and maybe they could move on. Maybe even be friends.
After a fruitless, frustrating search, she went out of the room that was hosting the book launch to find the ladies' loo, and while there, she touched up her makeup with powder and lipstick. As she made her exit, she found Mark, standing against the wall opposite of the washroom doors, his hands in his trouser pockets.
"I wasn't able to find you," he explained. "I figured you might be in there."
"Here I am," she said, smiling, striving for levity.
"So. You wanted to talk?"
Oh no. He's going to yell at me.
"Yes, actually," she said, steeling herself. "Apology, take two, with a bit more explanation and yes, some grovelling. I was terribly flippant and incredibly callous on New Year's. I tried to make you think that I could not care a whit about you accepting my apology. I… Maybe I was shocked. Until I saw you that day, I had no idea how badly you were hurt by the way I ended things. I was being a total fuckwit—"
"I'm sorry, a what?"
"A fuckwit," she said. "Young and careless, and unfortunately, a bit selfish. I mean, I might have told you right away that all I wanted was some shagging, but I assumed you wanted the same, like me, even like Daniel. That was foolish of me." She drew in a long breath, then exhaled. He made no move to speak. "I just want you to know that I really, truly, never intended to hurt you so badly. And I'm genuinely, genuinely sorry."
He seemed to be deep in his own thoughts. His expression was, not unexpectedly, impossible to read. Tense jaw, muscles working just under the surface. "I see," he said at last.
She resisted the urge to shout at him. That was all he had to say? That was really it?
Thankfully not.
"You were young," he went on. "I do understand that. And I do believe you're sincere, so… apology accepted. But…" Her heart raced. What could the caveat be? "I've spent the better part of the decade insulating myself against that kind of pain again. I can't undo it with a snap of my fingers. I can't just…" He trailed off. "Well. I'm sure you understand."
Tears were suddenly in her eyes; the emotion of it all caught her up at once, as did his dismissal. Apparently he could forgive, but not forget. Seeing her socially even as friends would only remind him of the hurt. Dammit, Bridget, don't cry. Don't look weak. "I do understand," she said. "And I appreciate your willingness to listen and that you accepted my apology." She glanced down for a moment, to where she held her clutch. "I suppose we ought to get back to the party."
"Yes, we ought to."
She waited for him to make a move towards the party, but realised quickly that he was probably waiting for her to lead—'ladies first,' after all—so she smiled and stepped in the direction of the sound of the partygoers. He stepped forward as she did, falling in line behind her.
Well, she thought. That went better than expected.
…
From where had that come?
As he'd stepped forward, Mark caught himself before it had been too late; instinctively he had reached out a hand as if to guide her forward, but had pulled it away before he'd actually placed his hand against the small of her back.
It wasn't a habit he had in general with other people, other women. In fact, he couldn't think of another woman with whom it had been a habit. Nevertheless, he had just almost done it, automatically. Without thinking of it consciously.
Again, intriguing.
What had the difference between the two apologies been? The words hadn't been that different, but how she'd delivered them had made all the difference in the world. And he'd seen the tears in her eyes at the end of their conversation. She'd truly been affected. She was truly sorry.
He'd been about to say that he couldn't just, in an instant, pretend it had never happened to him, but now he was not to so sure. At seeing her expression, her relief, he'd felt that knot of tenseness and bitterness release even more. He now felt more at peace than he had felt in years.
Deep down inside, he had apparently been far more willing than he'd thought he would be to let the past be the past.
…
Daniel thought his eyes were deceiving him; that, as Bridget came back into the party, Mark had actually placed his hand against her back. But he dismissed it. He couldn't picture relations between the two had improved that much in so short a time. But given the calm re-entry, things clearly had improved at least a little.
Bridget came directly back to where Daniel had sat.
"Well, you look much improved."
"I'm not even going to be offended by that," she said with a smirk.
"Come now. You know you look great," Daniel said, "and you know what I mean."
"I do," she said. "And yes. That went very well. Apology was accepted."
"Kiss and make up?"
"What?! No," she said with a laugh, her cheeks flushing a light pink. "You're such a joker."
Perhaps he hadn't seen what he thought he saw, after all. "Not even a hug? A bottom pat?"
"Come on."
The gears in Daniel's head began to turn. So he hadn't actually touched her. Why would Mark almost touch her? Why would he stop himself from reaching to touch her?
Hm. He'd wanted to touch her.
Daniel knew his friend, or at least had known him as well as anyone could, even if they had not been in contact for years at a stretch. He knew Mark had been angry at her for breaking his heart, but before that had happened, Mark had admitted that he'd thought he was falling for her. Now that the anger was dissipating…
Daniel grinned impishly.
"Oh, I don't want to know what's on your mind," Bridget said with a little laugh.
"Always wise," he said drolly. "Say. When we're done here…"
"No."
He rolled his eyes comically. "Not that, Bridget. Want to wind down with a nightcap? I've got some stuff to deal with first, so meet me over at the American Bar after here. I'll be there at… eleven?"
She seemed to think about it for two seconds before agreeing.
…
Something about this situation felt like the most intense déjà vu that she had ever experienced. She had been to a lot of bars in her day; had she been here before? She must have been. She looked around in search of Daniel; she already knew she was going to beat him here, had already claimed a standing table, and had begun working on a cocktail in earnest. But it was already past eleven, so where was he? It was not like him to be late, and the bar was just a short walk from book launch venue.
She swirled her drink around, scowling. Why did this place look so familiar? It was driving her mental.
And at the sound of a voice, she knew why at once.
"Bridget?"
She turned and found herself face to face with Mark, his hand cradling a tumbler of scotch. He continued, his brows furrowed, "What brings you here?"
"Daniel told me to meet him for a nightcap."
His jaw tensed and released; funny how a small little behavioural thing like this could feel so instantly familiar. "He told me the same."
She smiled, then began to laugh a little. If Daniel meant to mediate further peace-making, he was already failing. "I'm so sorry to laugh," she said, "but I'm starting to feel like Daniel's stood us up."
"I don't think," he said, his tone serious, "that Daniel had any intention of coming."
"But why would he—" She stopped suddenly, remembering Daniel's impish smile. Mark was completely correct; this mirrored their first collision for drinks at this very bar, also orchestrated by Daniel. But why had Daniel done this?
Does he know something I don't?
"Trying to further friendly relations, I suppose," Mark said. He looked distinctly uneasy; she was sure that he was also thinking about how their first date had been here. Mark had always had an astonishing memory for detail.
"I don't mind if you don't," she said gently.
At this, he relaxed a little. "I don't mind," he said. He raised his tumbler. "To friendly relations, then."
She smiled unabashedly. "I'll drink to that," she said, touching her glass to his, then tipping it up for a sip.
…
Mark was not sure if he wanted to punch Daniel in the face or thank him, because having a late-night drink with Bridget was an unexpected development; not unwelcome, all things considered. He'd made excuses with Natasha, who seemed only moderately annoyed, probably because she'd made a connection with so many authors, before he'd headed to the bar. He'd expected to reconnect with his old friend. He hadn't seen this coming at all, but maybe he should have.
He had spent a long time actively pushing down anything resembling feelings towards a woman. After a while, it had just been habit. It was his normal. The conscious effort to release this control even just a little, to try to undo his normal, still felt strange. He still felt very unsure now what he should be feeling.
Was the attraction he felt was merely a remnant of their past, or embers sparking back to life? He honestly didn't know. She might not have been twenty-four anymore, but the things he'd liked most about her hadn't appreciably changed. She was still as pretty as she'd ever been. Her figure was as exactly as he'd remembered. She had seemingly retained the vivacity and joy that had drawn him to her like a roaring hearth on a cold winter night, though the years between then and now had apparently tempered her impetuousness.
"So, I…" she began hesitantly, then screwed up her features. "You know? I have no idea how to summarise almost an entire decade."
"You're a full-blown editor now," he encouraged. "You'd only just started at a publishing house when I… well, knew you before."
"Oh, that's true!" she said brightly. "It was entirely on merit, I swear, since when I applied for the job I didn't know it was where Daniel was. Oh. Is everything good between you two?"
Mark nodded slightly. "I think so, yes."
"Oh, good," she said. "Anyway. I hadn't seen or spoken to Daniel in a couple of years at that point, but it was a nice a surprise. I fit the requirements, the interview was a cinch… and voila." She sipped from her drink. He realised that once she'd gotten to talking, she'd eased up immediately; her friendly loquaciousness hadn't changed a bit. Would it were so easy for him, even with a cocktail or two in him. "What about you?"
"Still practising law, as you know," he said, feeling a smile trying to surface on his lips to soften the reminder of his curt response to her small-talk query in January. "Working in chambers on human rights cases and causes."
"Ah," she said. Sheepishly, she added, "Sorry, I don't know enough about the field to ask more about it. I mean, aside from human rights violations just being heart-breaking."
"I can't talk much about my cases, but I would certainly agree with that assessment." He sipped from his own tumbler. "It seems like you really love what you're doing."
"Oh, yes, I do," she said. "Sometimes it feels like a dream that I'm going to wake up from at any moment." She drank again. "And you have always loved what you do."
"Not sure that I 'love' it, but I am passionate about it," he said. "None of us are free until we are all free."
She blinked rapidly. "Wow, that's lovely," she said. "Really deep."
"I'd like to take credit, but can't," he said. "Just paraphrasing Emma Lazarus."
"Shush," she said with a grin, patting his arm playfully. "Let me think you're super profound."
That urge to smile came to him again. Why did he feel like he had to fight it? Why not just embrace the moment, accept the truce completely?
"You all right?" she asked, real concern in her expression.
"Oh, yes, I'm sorry," he said, allowing a smile at last. "Just trying to project an air of 'super profound.'"
At this she laughed aloud.
"It's nice to hear your laugh again," he said, surprising even himself with the admission.
"It's nice to hear you cracking a joke," she said, then, drawing a circle in the air with her free hand as if around his face, she added, "And, you know, the whole smiling thing. I hope you keep it up."
"I hope so, too," he said. "Another drink?"
"Yes, please," she said, holding up the empty glass. "Gin fizz."
He returned to the bar and ordered them a new round of drinks; as he waited amongst the murmur of the crowd, he couldn't help thinking about their interactions. It felt to him like they were falling back into a familiar conversational rhythm. He welcomed it completely. He wondered if it was just her friendly personality putting him at ease. He wondered if she was actually flirting with him.
Remarkably, he found himself hoping she was.
"Here you are," he said, holding out her new drink.
"Thank you," she said with a smile, accepting it then drinking from it.
"My pleasure."
She then seemed to regard him thoughtfully. "That's nice," she said. "You really mean it."
"Pardon?"
She blushed. "You were just minding your manners at New Year's. It's nice to see this, that's all." She took another sip of her drink. "I meant to ask," she said, "I thought I saw you with someone at the party. What's her name? Have you been seeing her long?"
He couldn't help but wonder why she was asking. Perhaps making conversation? Expressing interest in knowing whether he was single or attached? Certainly he was not seeing Natasha or involved in a romantic way with her, though thought he should probably not mention the occasional sex to fulfil the physical need. There was nothing terribly satisfying about the interactions, anyway.
"A work colleague," he said. "We're not seeing each other."
"Oh?" she asked. "Not even for a quick shag?"
He blinked at this in astonishment, given his thoughts.
"Oh my God. I was kidding," she said, laughing. "I'm not judging."
"Are you seeing anyone?" he asked suddenly.
"No," she said. "Not even for… well." She blushed, which finished her sentence for her.
…
Why did I say that? Why?
She took a long sip from her gin fizz.
"Ah," he said at last, regarding her with a maddeningly unreadable expression; she looked away and to her drink again.
She hadn't had a shag in longer than she wanted to think about, so she tried not to interpret his asking about whether she was attached as anything but curiosity… even if the reason she'd asked him was more than curiosity. Once he'd warmed up, once he'd started smiling, once he'd said, "My pleasure," she couldn't stop thinking of the incredibly steamy times she'd had with him. Inconvenient, really, when they'd only just made up.
She looked up at him after many moments, only to find his expression had changed. He was now radiating an intensity she hadn't seen in… well, since they had been shagging like mad rabbits.
Then he raised his hand, brushed a long lock of hair that had escaped from her upswept coiffure, and tucked it behind her ear. It was such an unconscious, intimate action to take, one that took her so by surprise—especially paired with that gaze of his—that she didn't know what to say.
She couldn't look away, not as his fingers traced over her cheek to the line of her jaw to tip her chin up, and not as he lowered to place a kiss on her lips, gentle at first, then insistent, his tongue brushing against her lips until she parted them.
Oh God.
The electrical jolt of desire that coursed through her body was immediate and undeniable, as if no time at all had passed since they'd last kissed. His arm had gone around her waist and now pulled her up against him. A soft sound came from her as he did this, which seemed to spur him on a bit more. She snaked an arm around his neck, feeling lightheaded, kissing him back as intensely as he was kissing her—
And then he broke away, pushing back from her with a sudden jerk, his brows furrowed.
"What? What's wrong?"
That's when she noticed the collar and the front of his shirt were wet; that's when she realised that the hand of the arm she had brought up around his neck had been holding her drink, and she had accidentally poured the rest of it all over him.
"Oh, no, I'm so sorry!" she said, setting her now-empty glass down. She reached for the bar, for a stack of paper napkins, then pressed them to the spill.
"It's all right," he said coolly; it did not sound all right. "I'm afraid I'll have to go."
"Okay."
He met her gaze once more, then came up close to her ear, then said in a low voice, slipping her hand into his, "Come with me."
As he drew away she met his gaze once more, and again said, "Okay."
She then offered a small, knowing smile.