Bridget Jones: A Brand New Start
By S. Faith, © 2014-2015
Words: 50,000 in 6 chaptersRating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 3
Weds, 11 Feb
8st 13 (attribute to time in pool, rather, hot tub), cigarettes 7 (Valentine's related anxiety, for good reason), alcohol units 2 (practically Mother Theresa given circumstances), number of times have said 'fuck' 72 (per hour, approx.).
8.47 am. Valentine's Day is this weekend, Saturday, and is ridiculous to be in panic given that have been living in Los Angeles with love of life for past month. Surely a good Valentine's is a certainty.
8.50 am. Suppose should check to see if there is something from work. Have never loved work more than have in the last month.
9.02 am. Fuck. Hate sodding work.
9.04 am. Am receiving award for Sit Up Britain and must attend. They are paying to fly self back to London for award show and publicity. Two weeks total. Leave to-bloody-morrow. Apparently ticket will be waiting for pickup at British Airways counter.
9.05 am. Have surely cursed self by mentioning perfect circumstances for perfect Valentine's Day.
9.45 am. Per email instruction, have rung up bearer of bad news, my friend Talitha, to confirm flight details. Feel as if have brought this on myself for having recommended someone so capable take over presenter duties for the show. Have known her from work since self was mere researcher/reporter, and she, a news reader.
"Rotten timing, I know," she said, not without sympathy. "I'm sorry, but Grant is simply insisting you attend. In the spirit of equality, he wants to highlight the fact that women are behind the show's improvements." Pause—distinct inhalation of cigarette. "Plus, I'll be going too. We'll have fun together."
"Right. Of course we will." Up until this point, have never been close to Talitha in same way as Sharon, Jude and Tom, but cannot hurt to expand one's circle of friends. Having a bit of a mentor to boot could not hurt. She is well-respected, professional, drop-dead-gorgeous older woman to which should aspire. Decided this would be the silver lining.
9.51 am. And picking up more Silk Cut. This American brand is not terrible, but is not quite same.
12.05 pm. Mark just rang to see how everything was and had to break the bad news to him. Could tell he was v. disappointed, though put on brave face and made point to praise the fact that was being recognised for hard work.
"I'm sorry about having to miss Valentine's again," I said sadly, thinking of last year how it was Mark who had to be away, but how he'd more than made it up with the lovely ski-weekend surprise.
"I'm sorry too," he said. Could tell he really meant it. "And you leave Friday, you said?"
Heart sank again. "No. Tomorrow."
"Oh." Long pause. "I wish I could go with you. Would only be right after all of your supporting me… but I just can't, darling. Things are ramping up and I just… can't."
He sounded so pained, so in need of a hug. Had he always sounded so vulnerable and somehow had managed never to notice? "I understand completely," I said. "It's short notice, and besides… I know I have your support."
Heard him clear his throat. "Well," he said, speaking a bit louder. "I'll try to make an early night of it so we can go for dinner."
"I'd like that," I said. Never had felt so motivated to pack for a flight.
12.22 pm. Weird to be packing to go home. All of my best dresses already there, so no need to worry about those. Well, except for the black one. Must bring that one back. And the black suede kitten heels, obviously.
1.09 pm. Now cannot remember if white silk blouse is here and at cleaners, or left in London. Think that will look nice on publicity crawl, whatever that will consist of.
3.17 pm. It looks so bare in here with only Mark's things. Irrationally feeling as if am being chucked and sent home, or am leaving him, neither of which are the case.
3.19 pm. Tee hee. Have hidden Mark's Valentine's present, an homage-to-vintage shaving kit set (brush, old-shaving cream, aftershave and cologne) with a scent that is bloody sexy. Note inside offers to help with a shave. Will leave a card for him to open on Saturday and include hints to find it.
3.32 pm. Miracle or similar that am already packed. Mark likely to not be home for at least an hour, probably 2. Will get one last good dip in hot tub, a touch of colour on cheeks. Will NOT fall asleep or similar and get sunburnt.
4.08 pm. Triumphant. Nice relaxing soak and stayed awake entire time. Did not need to have bright red face for career-highlight-like award. Quick shower then wash & dry hair and makeup for dinner out. (Shit. Must pack hair dryer.)
4.22 pm. Have chosen pretty but not-too-formal dress for tonight as am sure will not be takeaway Chinese or pizza delivery. Though come to think of it, may want to bring this dress too.
4.35 pm. No. Must draw the line. Wardrobe already packed is fine. Just fine.
4.37 pm. Though still can't remember about white silk blouse. Would be nice with the dark green skirt.
Oh! Just heard car in drive.
5.07 pm. Oh my God.
Mark turned up with giant wrapped box under arm and brave look on face, if a little sheepish. Bent to kiss me hello, then handed box to me. "This is for you."
Took it as did not want to seem ungrateful, though was v. confused. "What's this?"
"Did leave early, asked Juliza to help me with a little something," he said in v. mysterious tone. "Go ahead and open it."
Did as directed (setting box down on table in foyer), slipped lid from box, and gasped. Was gorgeous sapphire blue dress in silk or similar. V. dazzling, and, judging from name on box, v. expensive.
"That's for your big day," he said, then amended, "for getting your award."
"It's not my award, it's for…" The show. I trailed off. Knew he meant that anyway, but couldn't stop staring at dress. Was just too perfect. "I love it. Thank you." Set dress back in box, then went over to give him massively tight hug. "Going to miss you terribly when I'm gone," I said.
"I'll miss you too," he said. Felt his broad, reassuring hands against my back, and thought that I might just burst out with tears. "Since I won't be seeing you on the day…" He nuzzled against my hairline. "You look gorgeous," he murmured, kissing just near my ear, then sighed a little in what is best described in a regretful way. "Booked us a table at seven, but with traffic… we ought to go."
Have come upstairs to hang up amazing, glamorous-in-manner-of-screen-goddess dress, and trying to think where in luggage it can fit. Will powder nose once again. Looking forward to post-prandial snogging.
11.07 pm. Bloody good night, dinner v. g., champagne, but have to go, as Mark is nibbling my—at me.
Thurs, 12 Feb
9st ½ (consider it storage for long haul flight), cigarettes 1 (but have patch on for flight), alcohol units 4 (long haul flight), number of hours of sleep prior to long haul flight 4 (approx.).
3.27 am. Oh fuck, forgot would have to get up this early for flight.
4.25 am. Mark is darling, is miracle worker, as he has managed to get gorgeous dress carefully packed into suitcase. As I dressed (comfy clothes) he made some coffee and got an éclair for me (while somehow getting himself dressed, too). Had forgotten to arrange taxi in excitement of it all, but Mark offered to drive me to airport, despite having to work today.
5.55 am. On plane, waiting to take off. Benefit of Mark driving self to airport is that he really took charge. Ensured passport was in handy place (and was in fact packed, and not jumped out of carry-on bag sometime during night). Helped me get checked in. Walked with me to help find gate (possibly to ensure did not derail myself or get lost in airport terminal, but gesture appreciated all the same) and waited with me until boarding.
"Have a splendid time, darling," he said as boarding began and we rose from where we sat hand in hand in the waiting area. I turned to hug him and he surprised me by giving me full snog there in front of other bleary-eyed passengers. "Safe travels," he said. "I love you."
Told him that I loved him too—funny how reluctant had been at beginning of relationship to tell him so, and now it flowed as natural as breathing—then turned to get in line to board.
"Bridget," he said. Turned back. "Your handbag."
6.15 am (LA time). Now in air. Cinnamon Productions have plumped for first class, which is lovely. Hope never have to fly in steerage again.
Should try to go back to sleep, but not sleepy as yet. Too early for alcohol?
7.05 am. Ooh, bloody brilliant. Vodka orange juice. Healthy orange juice! And air hostesses so generous and attentive. Have had two so far.
8.43 am. Hostessesses skimps on vodka.
3.12 pm. Ooof. Have just woke from nap. Both famished and parched, and head pounding. Will see if can manage to get some food.
3.23 pm. Bliss. Air hostess has found lush green salad with chicken breast, loads of veg on top and amazing oriental-style vinaigrette. Have had Bloody Mary with it. Has alleviated headache.
Oof! Landing within half-hour.
1.20 am, London time. Have lost entire day to travel, landed in shockingly cold London just before midnight local time. Meanwhile was in mood for dinner. Shaz, looking a bit bleary, welcomed me with great tight hug.
"You look fucking great," she said. "LA agrees with you." She smirked. "Or maybe it's cohabitation with Mark?"
Felt self blush madly. "Shurrup," I said, slightly buzzed still on the Bloody Mary.
As she drove me home she said with conspiratorial air, "Have you spoken to Tom lately?"
"What?" I chirped. "Why? What is it?"
"Trouble in paradise," Shaz said morosely. "Apparently it's all off with Carl, and Tom isn't going back to San Francisco."
Oh no. They had seemed so happy. "What happened?" Told her about our stay with them in the Castro.
"Apparently he accidentally stepped on Mr Darcy," said Shaz, a giggle escaping before the dog's name, then went serious. "It was nothing serious but Carl evidently flipped out in overreaction. It led to a big row and then… Carl was saying that Tom might as well not come back from London."
Blimey.
"Funnily," said Shaz, "Tom seems to miss the dog more than he does Carl."
Asked Shazzer to make slight detour to call on my old friend, the late night curry stand, but once back to my flat she didn't come up and we said good night (she has to work in the morning). So now am in flat, all alone, slightly musty smelling from stagnant air over last month or so, eating my curry, sorting through mail (aha, the visa came!), and feeling a bit bereft.
Oh. Telephone!
1.33 am. Was Mark. Felt as if had not heard voice in eons. Tears welled in eyes as love swelled in heart.
"Just checking to see you made it back all right," he said softly.
"Sorry, I just came in, stopped for a curry," I said.
"How'd the flight go?"
"Slept most of it," I said, which was not an untruth.
"After how many cocktails?" he asked in teasing voice. Honestly.
"Just the one," I fibbed, then blurted, "and it had orange juice in, so it was practically breakfast."
He laughed heartily, and was about to object but then Mark said, "I needed that after today." Then he sighed. "I'll let you finish your curry. Need to find some dinner, myself."
"OK."
We said protracted goodnights and I-love-yous and then put down the phone. Felt his absence most acutely.
Fri, 13 Feb
8st 12 (through magic of long haul flight), cigarettes 10 (v. bad, but have Silk Cut again), alcohol units 3 (only proper for Urban Family reunion), cigarettes purchased 800 (disgusting to think of them in this quantity).
10.30 am. Going to pop in at work to say hi, then have made plans to meet girls (including Tom) for late lunch. But also must stop by the shops, get largest amount of Silk Cut can acquire at once to bring back to LA.
12.20 pm. Quick stop into office to see the Sit Up Britain gang. Feel like prodigal son or similar. Everyone seemed v. happy to see me, asked me how was LA, complimenting me on glowing complexion.
Awards show is next Friday night, but there are some interviews / press junkets in at least three cities, not to mention the industry parties. A mini-tour of the UK. Feel like rock star or similar. We leave for Edinburgh in the morning, Talitha and me.
12.37 pm. Have acquired four cartons of Silk Cut. Feel like tobacco smuggler or similar. No way they will fit in suitcase, unless they are out of box layered between clothes. But no, then all clothes will smell like tobacco.
I know! Will post them to LA house. Have perfect box in bedroom.
2.05 pm. Have got box off in post addressed to Mark. Had to fib a bit and say was sending video tapes, though they seemed a bit sceptical. Oh well. Sure it will be fine. Will tell him to expect it. Now off to Café Rouge for lunch.
6.11 pm. Ooh, too much wine but bloody good afternoon. Did not realise how much had missed our summits. (Not that am in need of relationship counselling.)
Much time was spent dissecting Tom's situation, and deciding ultimately that Carl was just-for-now boy. "But," said Shaz, pointing cigarette-laden fingers in his direction, "this does not mean you should start up with Jerome again."
"No," Tom said dramatically. "That is a closed chapter in my life. I am ready for someone new. Someone who's not an utterly narcissistic fuckwit."
Next we moved to Jude, who is frustrated, as ever, by Vile Richard. Before they got married, he'd promised to purge his personal library of the vile tome How to Date Young Women: A Guide For Men Over Thirty-Five. Unsurprisingly, he had not kept this promise.
"I found it in the drawer of his bedside table, pushed all the way to the back," she railed. "Obviously he didn't want me to know he'd kept it. Is it just nostalgia, or is he still trying it out?"
"What were you doing looking though his drawer?" asked Tom, not helpfully.
"He's not trustworthy, is he?" she bristled in return.
"In this case," ruled Shaz, "the ends justified the means."
"What am I going to do about this?" Jude wailed. "Why can't he commit to his own wife?"
"Because he's a fuckwit!" I said, which was also not helpful, but had had wine.
"I think," said Shaz in her best channelling-Satan voice, "that you should just pitch it. What is he going to do, confront you about it? He promised to pitch it before your wedding."
Jude grinned, then we discussed performing pagan ritual involving burning the pages.
Attention went to Shaz, who was uncharacteristically silent about how things were with Simon. With more wine, though, she admitted that Simon wanted to take a break and she realised she'd felt the same. "We hadn't actually had a shag since New Years," she admitted. "Can't be angry though. Just grumpy and sexually frustrated." She pouted.
"But you told me that—"
"I lied, okay?" she said sombrely, deflating as she exhaled. "Hard to admit that everything's gone to shite to you, what with Mr Perfect Pants and all."
Stunned. Gave her big hug and told her I was sorry. Weird to be in position with only functional relationship in group of friends (well, at least friends that are present; will see Magda after returning from Edinburgh).
Then found (to my surprise and horror) the following words falling out of mouth, utter fabrication that they were: "It's not all sunshine and rainbows in LA, you know. We're constantly bickering about my smoking."
"I thought he said you could smoke in the house!" said Shaz shrilly.
"I know! I thought so too!"
Felt terrible for besmirching poor Mark's good name, but at least the mention of imperfection had helped cheer her a bit. (Mark is not perfect by any means, but the imperfections are well worth overlooking.)
8.30 pm. Popped out for more takeaway. Hardly seems worth it to go shopping when will be so in and out of London for next two weeks. Though probably should at least get some coffee and mini-pizzas.
8.31 pm. And wine.
And Milk Tray.
And chocolate croissants.
8.57 pm. Knackered. Think will go to bed.
9.26 pm. Just about to climb in when telephone rang. Was Mark, taking a break for lunch. Told him about day, about trip up to Edinburgh, lunch with the friends, etc.
"Had to tell a little white lie today," I confessed, because did not want white lie to come back and bite me in the arse in manner of French farce.
"Oh? What about?" he said.
When I told him he went silent. Thought maybe he was actually cross with me, so said in my own defence, "It was just to make Shazzer feel better. She didn't want to admit she was having problems with Simon because we… don't. You and me, I mean."
But then he began to chuckle. "We rather did get past the problems, didn't we?" he said tenderly. "There was a time you never would have told me that."
"Yeah," I said, chuckling a little in return.
So I told him to have a good day and he told me to sleep tight, and before we signed off with the usual I-love-yous again, we wished each other Happy Valentine's Day. Have dreamt all of life of having functional relationship with adult male without laundry list of flaws, yet the lack of dysfunction feels… strange. Oddly empty. Not that want dysfunction, but definitely notice there's no second-guessing, no wondering what ulterior motive is, etc. No low-level stress about relationship status. Just have to get used to truly not sweating the small stuff.
Sat, 14 Feb
8st 13 (How? Why? Have barely eaten), cigarettes 5 (rationing again), cigarettes purchased for immediate use 0 (poor), alcohol units 5 (when in Rome), negative thoughts re: Valentine's Day 0 (miraculous).
8.05 am, Valentine's Day. Car is here to go to train station. Have packed and in doing so realised have only the American cigarettes with me.
8.45 am. Talitha in car. Not going to train station. Going to airport! Feels so decadent.
Sat, 21 Feb
8st 9 (rock and roll lifestyle), cigarettes countless (v. bad, but covers entire week), alcohol units also countless (proper way to network), loving thoughts about Mark Darcy infinite (love him).
1.05 pm. Ugh. Have just woken up with the vilest of acidic hangovers. Week has been so non-stop, feel as if have not had time to blink.
Flight to Edinburgh was amazing. Barely an hour and they served cocktails, so we were half-pissed before we even landed. Got to hotel and shocked to find that waiting in hotel room for night was single red rose in vase and envelope with my name on. Card read: Wish we were together today. Thinking of you. M.
Touched beyond belief, though baffled. How did Mark know where would be? Did not even know myself where would be.
However, once checked in were whisked off to television station where we were run through makeup and hair (glad had worn something nice) to tape segment for broadcast, then lunch with journalist for interview which was v. g. (more cocktails) which ran into dinner / party thing, with yet more cocktails.
Woke up in a haze on Sunday in time to go to airport (or so thought at the time). Misunderstanding about trip resulted in ending up in Glasgow (by car) with distinct lack of extra clothing. "No worries," said Talitha with wave of hand. "We've got time to shop."
Got to the new hotel and to my astonishment found anther single red rose with card, again from Mark: Hope things are going well. Have a lovely time in Glasgow, and will see you soon enough. xx
Since was just before lunch and did not have any appointment until dinner (time for shopping before, as per Talitha), immediately rang Mark.
When he picked up, could only blurt out to him in sombre tone, "How did you know?"
"What?" he said blearily. Only realised in that moment that it was four in morning; was too tired even to say "Pardon" a la Mum.
"Sorry," I said. "The roses. Thank you! They're lovely! But how on earth did you know where I was going to be?"
I heard him laugh softly. "After you told me about the trip, I had to do a little shuffling of my Valentine's plans. I rang up Patchouli and got your itinerary."
Seemed so obvious now he'd said it. "Oh," I said. "Well, thank you again. It's such a lovely surprise." After a moment I said, "Sorry to have woken you. Go on back to sleep. Love you."
"Love you too, darling," he said, and with that he put down the phone.
A few minutes later, as Talitha and I were about to leave, phone started to ring. Saw that it was Mark, so answered it right away.
"Everything okay?" I said.
"Of course, I just felt bad."
"Why? For what?"
"I forgot to thank you for your lovely card and gift. How rude of me." he said groggily. Hardly unexpected given it was still quite early, practically middle of night. "The shaving set is marvellous. I look forward to… having you back here."
Pretty sure was referring to my note in card about helping in shaving. "Me too," I said. Suddenly missed him v. much.
"Who's that?" Talitha.
Waved my hand. Would explain in a moment.
"Oh, sorry, are you with someone?" Mark asked.
"My cohort Talitha from work," I said. "Go on back to sleep. Talk to you soon."
When I put away my mobile, Talitha was looking at me with knit brows. "Was that the boyfriend?"
Involuntarily a smile spread across my face. "Yes. Mark."
"Is he still in LA?" she asked. "Jesus, it's early there."
"I know, but without thinking of the time difference I called to thank him for the roses in Edinburgh and here."
"There was another here?"
"Yes!"
Went off then for our lunch and shopping, chatting amicably throughout and generally having a boozy blast. Before we knew it had picked up something for the evening and for the next day (plane to Dublin). Only hoped it would fit it all in my bag (it did).
So after Dublin we went to Belfast, before flying back to London on the 19th. Truly whirlwind—and roses at those hotels too. Darling man.
For the whole of our travels, Talitha was practically joined to hip. Became quite chummy out of necessity, though is not to say did not enjoy it. Quite the opposite. Found out a bit more about her personal life, and was startled to learn she has two children, one of whom already out of uni. Also is in middle of divorce process from husband #2. Didn't realise she was even married, let alone twice with adult children.
"Third time will be the charm, if I decide to go for it again," she said, playing it off as unaffected, but could tell it really sort of bothered her from look on her face in passing. But the experience has left her with some hilarious horror stories, though clearly something is lost in the retelling, as Mark did not find them nearly as funny.
The touring was great fun, though started to feel like parrot repeating same information again and again, and by the end of the run, our pat answers were quite polished.
Friday the 20th was the award ceremony itself. While somewhere in Ireland, had rung up Tom and asked him did he want to come with, to which of course he joyously agreed. Dress was as marvellous as expected. Think that Jude actually gasped when saw it, but not sure if she gasped at how lovely it was, or that she recognised the designer. She and Shaz came by flat to help with hair and makeup and it was like old times again, with pre-award anti-jitters wine and all. Tom came by about an hour before the car was to pick us up, and he looked magnificent, with hair freshly cut, cheeks as smooth as baby's bottom (not that know how smooth baby's bottom actually is).
Tom was fantastic escort, though could tell he was also on the prowl for a post-Carl fling. Do not believe have ever faced the paparazzi before. Terrifying experience, with all flashes going off in face.
Shock of night, though, was Talitha's date: Daniel Cleaver. Did not realise they knew each other. Surprise must have shown on face, as Talitha said, "Oh, do you know each other?"
Diplomatically, I said, "He was my boss at my previous job."
Daniel smiled, then started to chuckle. Then he said in confidential tone, "I distinctly remember sleeping together somewhere along the line."
"Oh, well, one more thing we have in common," she said, giggling a bit.
Could only wonder who Daniel has not slept with in this city.
Proud of self for not being too pissed up at the podium in accepting award, and finding some words to express gratitude for recognition as well as not forgetting to thank Mark for his support (who knows, with miracle of internet, he might see it).
So tomorrow finds us popping up to Manchester for the afternoon, then over to Liverpool in the evening. Down from there to Birmingham on Monday, then over to Cardiff on Tuesday, before going back to London on Wednesday, and then back to LA on Thursday, the 26th. Blimey. Hope can sleep entire way back across Atlantic / North America.
Ooh. Going for tea at Magda and Jeremy's. Can hardly believe am saying this, but can't wait to see the children.
9.07 pm. Shattered and pounding head, though v. g. day with Magda and the kids (Jeremy went to his office to work between meals). Ended up staying for dinner, too, playing with the children in between, subjecting self to poking and prodding as a doctor's patient and introduction into the world of something called the Sylvanian Families by Constance.
Ever so nice to see Magda and talk. Confided that things have been v. g. lately with Jeremy, which was happy to hear. Image of them dancing at Jude's wedding still sticks with me.
"And how are things with you and Mark, out there in LA?"
Think her question was sincere, and not fishing for vicarious thrills. At least, do so dearly hope. Told her things were good, we're not making each other mad. "He even took me driving," I said. "I mean, let me drive the car. And didn't even flinch or anything when I did the corner too fast."
"That's a really good sign, Bridget," she said, sipping her tea. "Really good. It's like a trial marriage without the paperwork."
Blinked and stared down to my own cup. Hadn't really thought of it that way. Surely Mark had not either. Cannot help but dismiss the thought, though. We are living in the moment, glad for the reconciliation, happy to be together. Not thinking long term. Was about to say to when—
"Mummeeee!" This from Harry, who stood there holding a drawing he'd done with the crayons. We fawned over it, and then Jeremy returned from his office and the subject changed back, oddly enough, to the case Mark's working on. Seems he is acting as UK contact, which didn't know. Had weird expression on face, almost smug. Guess case is going well, which am happy to hear.
Gave the children big hugs, especially Constance (is goddaughter, after all), then one for Magda and Jeremy each, telling them how good it had been to spend the day with them all. Was no exaggeration.
11.05 pm. Have just had call from Mark. Expecting that he wanted to ask all about night at award show last night, was v. surprised to instead be greeted with cranky, "If you're going to post contraband to me, you probably should let me know in advance."
Bugger. Realised had never let him know about cigarettes, which arrived today in the post at the house in LA. "Sorry, I really meant to," I said in most grovelling voice.
Went on to explain that if they'd been discovered it could have got us in trouble for not paying state tax, blah blah blah.
"But they weren't," I pointed out.
"Still," he said, which meant he knew there was no point to being angry, but couldn't help being so anyway. "Four cartons. That's an awful lot of cigarettes, Bridget."
"It's got to last me four more months."
"Hm," he said. Then he added, "Eight-hundred cigarettes, though. I thought you had 'practically given up'."
Said nothing.
"I did the maths," he said in stern, lecture-y tone. "Works out to about six a day."
"That's not so bad," I said brightly.
"It's pretty bad for someone who claims to have practically given up," he said in same lecture-y tone. Thought for a horrible moment he might tell me not to bother coming back to LA, but then I heard him start to chuckle. "Try not to smoke quite so many a day, all right? Anyway. How did it go last night?"
Told him all about it—Tom, cocktails, Talitha, networking (horrible, vile party concept 'mingling' taking new form), even Daniel's presence, which went totally unremarked upon, v. g.—until was overtaken by yawn.
"Sorry, darling," he said. "It must be late there."
Knew he knew precisely what time it was here—is like he has multiple clocks in head—and was just winding down the call. Didn't want to hang up, though knew I must get to sleep, as am taking train up to visit Mum and Dad on day off, even though would much prefer to keep head under duvet and/or sleep all day.
"I know," I said pitifully.
"Looking forward to you being back," he said encouragingly. "Go on, now, and have a nice sleep. We'll talk soon."
Now am left to the silence of my flat. Miss Mark terribly. And on a related note, feeling v. much in need of a shag.
Sun, 22 Feb
8st 11 (blame the raspberry pavlova), cigarettes 4 (cutting back), alcohol units 2 (not v .g. to get too pissed at parents'), minutes spent missing Mark 1,440.
12.10 pm. Grafton Underwood. Am here and already being pressed to eat my weight in Sunday lunch. Roast beef this week, and new potatoes. Some things, like Sunday lunch at my parents', can always be counted on.
Dad greeted me at door with kiss to cheek, telling me how happy I seemed. "If a little tired," he said gently—the sort of thing that, if said by anyone else, would infuriate—so I explained that what I'd been doing over the last week. Mum was cheery and attentive, taking my coat to hang up. Guess not seeing only daughter for over a month makes heart grow fonder, though do think finally landing a man (ugh, as if fish or similar) she personally selected doesn't hurt. No more needling me to find a boyfriend.
"And Mark didn't come?" she asked.
"No, Mum, he couldn't," I said. "Big case, very busy. He very much wanted to, though."
"You can trust him out there, on his own?"
Split-second rogue traitor thought of Mark surrounded by all those beautiful Rebecca-clone-like Hollywood women before tamping down said thought and replying, "Of course I can, Mum. Utterly and completely."
She gave me look could not quite determine, then carried on serving up a portion of raspberry pavlova before she went off to make tea.
"Very glad for you, poppet," said my dad quietly. "He's a good man."
"Thanks, Dad," I said. "I think so, too."
When she brought the tea back, was suddenly reminded that she still had things to needle me about. "So, when will you be naming the day?"
More like blindsided than reminded, actually. Nearly coughed on the pavlova. "We haven't really discussed that, Mum. We've only been back together since—" Rolled back through mental calendar in head, back to that night in Mark's house, the glorious reunion in the kitchen… "—September."
Mum made a clucking sound with tongue. "Honestly don't know what you're waiting for," she said, then amended, "what he's waiting for."
"Mum, he's been married before," I said, as if she didn't know, which she obviously does. "He's not likely to rush into it again, even if it is me."
"So where are you off to next?" Dad asked, and I gabbled the whole itinerary off to him, secretly—or maybe, not so secretly—grateful for the change of subject. First Magda, now my mum. Neither should surprise me, though. Not really.
8.09 pm. Back home from parents. Train delays, stuck with a dinner of British Rail sandwich passed over by all other passengers. Picked up dinner from a chippy on the way home, which have eaten way too quickly and now feel am going to be sick.
Talitha will be here in about 12 hours for our drive north then whirlwind tour, so should pack my bag for the trip, then go to bed at ridiculously early time.
Thurs, 26 Feb
8st 11 (missed meals negated by cocktails), cigarettes 0 (back to patch), alcohol units 3 (flying again), shags 3 (at least).
9.07 am (London time). Have been in the air about an hour now after whirlwind tour of UK for Sit Up Britain with Talitha. Were like Patsy and Edina, only perhaps with slightly less drinking (maybe). Four cities in two days before back to London. Returning to LA will feel am going on holiday. Which, in a sense, will be. Much less stressful.
Ooh. Feels as if is okay to have vodka orange now, to help relax self for remainder of flight. Have brought The Famished Road paperback that was Christmas present from Jamie (destined to be haunted by it until finished), so might as well give it another shot during flight (foolishly as book, I swear, weighs more than laptop).
12.13 pm. Have just woke hearing food trolleys making noise. Book had put self to sleep. Resolve to 'forget' book in seat back as is hopeless.
2.06 pm. Lunch better than have had in Angus Steak House. Feeling v. happily full such that do not even care about calorie count. Makes up for the water biscuits eaten between appearances over past few days. Was steak, potatoes, brown sauce, green beans—serious déjà vu, perhaps are preparing travellers for US culture shock?—and with it had another cocktail, this time, Bloody Mary. Should not arrive completely shit-faced, though, for seeing Mark for first time in two weeks.
Four more hours left to flight. Regret not picking up magazines at Heathrow. Could try book again but would just fall asleep. Then again, maybe should have nap, as when plane lands in LA, it will be ten in morning. Will always leave me in awe, to regain entire day, or lose entire day, depending on whether flying east or west. Is closest thing to time-travel in existence.
5.45 pm. Nap was success. Woke just in time to have light snack. Eschewed cocktail and instead had water, so as to combat both jet lag and hangover. Should be landing soon. Cannot wait.
10.21 am (LA time). Grr. Helpful air stewardess chased after me on jet-way to return the book left in seat back.
10.22 am. Fuck. Realised have left visa on table by lamp… in flat in London.
2.10 pm. Mmm.
Deplaned to find Mark standing there, despite busy schedule and busy day, waiting for me at gate with flowers and chocolates. Enveloped self in arms and—despite having just left London—felt like I had come home. Tears sprung to eyes as I clung tightly to him.
Then he kissed me and world around me disappeared.
"Welcome back, darling," he said close to my ear, snapping me back to the present.
"So glad to be back with you," I said. Could have been in outer Mongolia and would have said exact same thing.
Thought we might go have lunch (which for me was dinner) but instead, he took me back to the house to find he had made us a lovely lunch of sandwiches, which we ate in bed after reconciliatory shag (hurrah!). Unfortunately, he had to go to office for rest of afternoon, as they had v. important case status meeting, but would try to get home early.
"Take it easy, relax," he said, smoothing down my hair, caressing my face. "Have a go in the hot tub to work the knots out from flying. And don't worry about dinner. We'll go out."
Have returned to utter paradise.
10.05 pm. After doing what Mark suggested—relaxing, soaking in hot tub, not worrying about things like forgotten visa—was refreshed at his return. Had lovely evening out to dinner at nice (but thankfully not too posh) Chinese restaurant. Oddly, Mark seemed a bit on edge. When asked him about it, he dismissed it, said work was just a bit stressful. Glad to be back to give him neck rubs when needed.
Looks like he could use neck rubs right now, actually. Maybe cuddles. Maybe more.
Mon, 2 Mar
9st 1 (still recuperating by impersonating sloth), cigarettes 5 (under quota), alcohol units 4 (reasonable given circumstances), baffling days in a row with Mark 2, baffling days explained 2.
8.02 am. Just saw Mark off to the office after a nice weekend, though a somewhat odd one. Mark had to work on Friday so I did too, or at least tried. Apparently, travelling east is supposed to be worse for jetlag, but felt much worse coming back to LA. Fortunately had nothing pressing to attend to, just reminder to send ideas in time for morning meeting.
Odd mood of Mark's really started Friday night. Smoked the last of what bought in London, so asked for the Silk Cut had mailed self. Mark advised he was going to hold on to them, that he would help me to quit by giving me only 6 per day.
"How many have you had today?" he asked.
"Three," I said without thinking. He then handed over three more. Wish had thought to say one.
Saturday was nice, starting with a long lie-in. Indulged in using shaving kit on Mark as had previously promised. Thank goodness was safety razor as was better able to not fear taking off his nose, ear, etc. Would not have been v. sexy. Afterwards, spent time by and in pool—him and me, respectively—which should have been wholly relaxing, but Mark seemed very twitchy.
Mark then suddenly hopped up and disappeared into the house. Thought about following, but then a few minutes later he reappeared and announced he had to run out for something. V. adamant he go alone. About ten minutes after he'd gone out, the telephone rang, which picked up in case was Mark.
"Hello," came deep, smooth, Latin voice. Antonio—er, Eduardo—from Mark's work. "Is Mark at home? I've been calling the mobile number but he doesn't pick it up."
"He might still be driving," I said, though where did he go that he'd still be driving ten minutes later? Poss. bad traffic? "Is there a message I can give him?"
"No, I already left a message with the mobile," he said. "Oh, and you were in London, I hear? How did it go?"
"Quite well," I said, then gave v. brief explanation of why was there, since was not sure how much Mark would have told him.
Eduardo chuckled. "Oh, I am glad," he said. "Gave Mark a hard time about his beautiful girlfriend being in London all on her own, glamorous parties, celebrities everywhere…"
Despite lovely compliment, felt heart sink. Could this be why Mark was so unsettled? Hope he did not take any of the teasing to heart. Offered a light laugh and said, "He has nothing to worry about."
"I'm convinced this is true," he said. "Oh well, take care and see you soon, I'm sure."
When Mark returned three hours later bearing small bag of groceries, let him know that Eduardo had rung up. "Said he'd try your mobile again, but in case he didn't reach you…."
He didn't say anything, just stood there not blinking, then said what seemed to be an affected composed manner, "Oh, I wonder what he wants. Best ring him back."
After he returned the call (in private) we fixed then ate dinner. Things were mostly quiet. Started to feel paranoid that somehow had said or done something wrong—or worse yet, that had he had decided after all that he liked it better with a quiet house and me in London—but then after we tidied up, got the same soft smile and lovely kiss as usual.
"Sorry," he murmured to me. "My mind has been elsewhere today, and that's not fair to you." Then made it up to me upstairs.
However, yesterday was nearly identical, down to the nervous-as-cat demeanour, the phone call from Eduardo (as would later learn), and the reassuring change of mood at the end of the day.
V. confusing.
8.30 am. Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Forgot to send ideas for morning meeting. Which was 8 hours ago.
8.40 am. Lucky break. Checked email to find that because of flu or similar, meeting put off 'til tomorrow. Is big chance to not fuck it up.
9.10 am. Tra la! Have sent list of ten suggestions for segments. Never thought I was the type to work well under pressure—not that there is pressure anymore, since meeting was rescheduled—but items flowed incredibly quickly from brain once they started. Maybe ideas were having fight-or-flight adrenalin response. No matter. Can now set that aside and tackle other things. Like having a swim. V. nice day, even for here.
12.05 pm. Oof. Have just woken from nap on deck chair by pool. Fortunately was mostly in shade of terrace, but feet were sticking out into the sun and now tops of feet are bright red.
12.07 pm. And tender.
12.15 pm. Wonder if there is anything for sunburn in house? Surely is necessity to have on hand in LA.
1.07 pm. Have looked through en suite loo and downstairs loo as well, and no aloe. Have put cool flannel on but is not helping. Do not dare to drive as even jelly mules would be torture. Ooh, I know.
1.28 pm. Weird. Rang up Mark to ask if he could pick something to treat sunburn. Conversation went like this:
Me: Looked all over the house for something like aloe. You know, with the—
Mark (sharply): You looked all over?
Me: Yes.
Mark (authoritatively): What, exactly, constitutes 'all over'?
Me: Er… the loos?
(Honestly, where else would I look?)
Mark (after a pause): Oh. Oh. All right. Yes. Sorry. That seems reasonable. (pause, shuffling of paper) I'll pick something up for you.
Maybe should think about planning outing on the weekend to Santa Monica. Work is getting to him in v. bad way, and is only Monday.
1.37 pm. Another quick check on the email and found that was asked to look through script for another of Grant's shows and do a little polishing. "Hate to dump this on you," Grant wrote, "but with this flu thing… I need another pair of eyes. Do you mind? Ta."
Of course do not mind. Bangor degree shall not go to waist. Er. Waste.
5.45 pm. In process of emailing Grant's script back, have just had life startled from self due to crashing sound from front of house. Startled doubly by the thought that four hours had passed without noticing.
Should probably see what the fuss is.
5.52 pm. Have to sit down. Cannot breathe.
6.45 pm. Was Mark, thank goodness, and not stranger burgling the place, coming in with carrier bag and giant bouquet of flowers. Stood and stared, though, at cross look on Mark's face, as realised that handbag had left on table (one that he had asked me to put away) was on the floor, contents strewn.
"Bridget," he said sternly.
"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," I gabbled on, bending to scoop contents back into handbag. "And here you are bringing home things for supper, and flowers for no reason and everything—"
"Not for no reason," he said in very serious tone. Looked up towards him, then scrambled to feet. "Had hoped to come in, set up everything on the table without you knowing…"
Without me knowing what? Was starting to panic a bit. Fears that had formed over the weekend (of Mark wishing I'd not come back from London) overtook me in irrational moment. Had I become too much of a distraction and he was now prepared to soften me up to send me back? "What's this all about?" I asked, then words just started coming out of mouth: "Are you sending me back? I'm sorry if I did something to fuck things up. I promise not to do it again! I love it here with you and I don't want to be sent away like a scolded—"
"Will you please—" he interrupted sharply, then stopped, then started again. "I don't know what would ever make you think I'd want to send you away, Bridget, especially not when I'm about to—" Exhaled roughly, then said in terse and frustrated voice, "Will you marry me?"
Took me a moment to realise exactly what he had said, which was so at odds with how he had said it. Was eerily similar to the brusque manner in which, at his parents' Ruby Wedding, he had asked me to dinner for first time. Could only stupidly say, "What?"
He thrust the flowers at me, then dug into the carrier bag, pulling out some books. "To support my petition. Oh," he said, then set down the books and dashed up the stairs.
With flowers still in hand, moved forward to closer examine the books he'd drawn out. Why Marriages Succeed or Fail. Keeping the Love You Find. Passionate Marriage. Bloody self-help books.
Mark appeared presently with something in his hand. Began to tremble at the sight of him, as everything came together in head. "This isn't quite as I intended," he said, "but I meant what I asked." He opened the box. Inside was a ring. "I know you're not crazy about marriage."
"What?" I asked again in the same stupid tone.
"However," he went on as if had not spoken, "being without you for those two weeks made me throw caution to the wind. Take a chance on asking. I'm prepared to argue my case at length, if needed—"
"Not crazy about marriage?" I interrupted. "Me?"
"Well, yes," he said, sounding a bit perplexed. "Between your Smug Married comments, Jude and Richard's troubles, your friend Talitha's second divorce horror stories…"
Oh God. Brought hand to mouth, felt tears spring to eyes. Had I really been sabotaging myself in this way?
"What do you say, Bridget?" he asked, his brown eyes wide and guileless.
Impossible to resist, and did not want to. Without conscious thought had arms around his neck, kissing him, murmuring "Yes" again and again.
His arms came up and around me, holding me tightly.
"I thought you were the one who wasn't crazy about marriage," I said.
"Reasonable, but not true," he said definitively. "Having done it so terribly wrong once before, I knew this was right."
Then all became clear what the weirdness over the weekend and today had really been about. He had been nervous and fidgety, wanting to ask. Asked him if this was so, and he drew back to look at me.
"Yes," he said. "I was trying to find the right moment, and it wasn't coming, and then I'd make up my mind to just try again tomorrow." He let go of me then, with trembling hands, pulled the ring from its box in order to put it on my ring finger. It's a bit too large a fit, but it's gorgeous. There's a central diamond, round and sparkly, with eight round sapphires encircling it, almost like a flower. Thought it was white gold, but Mark advised it is platinum.
"We can have it sized," he said. "I thought about something a little more traditional, but I saw the sapphire and thought of your eyes…"
Felt tears welling again. Such a romantic in his way.
"I also thought," he said, the edge of a tease in his voice, "that if it were a bit larger than a solitaire, you would be less apt to lose it. Oh fuck."
"What?" I said in a panicked tone at his non sequitur, as if he might tear ring off of finger and take it back in moment of hideous regret.
"Your feet," he said, having noticed their bright-lobster-redness for first time. "I forgot your aloe."
9.31 pm. Mark popped out for the sunburn gel (with lidocaine, balm of gods) and picked up pizza for dinner, because neither of us wanted to cook after the excitement of it all or to go out to restaurant. Had pizza and champagne (because of course there must be champagne) out on back terrace overlooking twinkly city at night. Was heavenly.
As we ate, though, Mark had additional confessions to make. "Jeremy kept prodding me to make an honest woman of you," he said. "Told him I intended to as soon as I could when you were back." Explained Jeremy's smugness at dinner in London—he'd already known! "And I also told Eduardo of my intentions… and he kept checking in on the weekend so they would know when to start to plan a little party for us."
"So lovely of them," I said. How foolishly, stupidly wrong I had been about the whole situation.
And now Mark is come to bed after taking care of some quick phone calls. Need to properly celebrate engagement, after all. Cannot wait to ring friends to tell them good news. And Mum and Dad too, of course.
10.37 pm. After exhaustion of the stress of asking and then vigorous engagement-celebratory shag, Mark has fallen off to sleep. Totally understandable. Cannot quieten own brain, though. Keep looking at lovely ring. Even in the dull dimness in here, it seems to pick up all the light it can find and make it shimmer and come alive.
Keep looking at Mark too, and reflect on how he made own heart shimmer and come alive with the light of love.
Pfft. Am clearly shag drunk. Time to go to sleep, or try to, anyway.