If Only…

By S. Faith, © 2014

Words: 34,644 in six chapters and an epilogue
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art credit: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 3: A More Social Context

March 2013

"Where are you and Mummy goin'?"

Mark looked down to where Mabel's little face shone up from below, inquisitive as ever. "We're going out."

"Oh, date night?" This question from Billy.

"Of a sort," he said, turning back to the mirror in order to try to tie the bowtie at his throat; Billy had seen his parents embark on more than one date night, though said dates didn't usually require such formal attire. "It's kind of a party."

In actual fact, it was a charity event to raise money for The GREAT Initiative in honour of International Women's Day, sponsored by Cinnamon Productions, the company for which Bridget worked. Bridget was very excited about it, had even gone out of her way to go out shopping with her friend and colleague Talitha for a new dress, which she had teasingly forbidden Mark to see before the night. In fact, she had booted him from their en suite in order to prepare; he used a mirror in a guest loo to get the tie straight.

"Mummy looks really pretty," said Billy with a grin.

"I always think so," Mark said, placing his hand on Billy's head to ruffle his hair.

"She looks really, really pretty, though, Daddy," said Mabel. "Thinderella printhess pretty."

He chuckled, turning to her. "'Cinderella princess pretty', eh?" he said. "That is some serious pret—"

He stopped; he had to, because his eyes landed on Bridget, and the sight of her really did take his breath away. The dress was long, sleeveless, and apparently of dark peacock blue silk with a black lace layer over it. The fabric was gathered at the shoulders, creating elegant curved folds between the modest neckline and her chest; it was formfitting through her hips, but flared flatteringly out from there.

He thought he couldn't be more bowled over, but then she turned away from him to look coquettishly over her shoulder; that was when he realised the modest neckline was the trade-off for the low backline, which formed a V ending nearly at the waist.

"Nice to see I can still leave you speechless," she said with a light laugh.

"If this is a surprise to you," he said, snapping out of it at last, "then I'm doing something wrong." He moved closer to her, conscious that she'd put her hair up in an elegant bun, done the dark, smoky shadow and mascara with pale lips; he had to get very close to smell the perfume, his favourite, rising from her skin. "Very nice."

She giggled. "Mark," she whispered. "The children."

He realised, quite without conscious thought, that he had bent to lingeringly kiss her neck. He chuckled, too, as he drew back. "A natural response, though if anyone else dares try it—"

"See? I told you," said Mabel indignantly. "Like Thinderella!"

"You, as always, are completely right," Mark said. "Come on, I'm sure Constance is wondering where you two have got off to."

As it turned out, Constance had been so busy getting together ingredients for a cake that she didn't notice their absence until they returned. "Sorry," she said, blushing. "I hope they didn't interrupt you."

It never failed to surprise Mark that the girl—A young woman of eighteen, he corrected—standing before him was the same one he'd met for the first time at her third birthday party; she had grown into a tall, slender, bespectacled adult with long, wavy hair (auburn like her mother's), and a penchant for knitting and baking, the latter of which always made the children happy to see her.

"Not at all," he said.

"Upstairs, Daddy kissed Mummy'th neck!" said Mabel with a grin.

"It was a peck," said Bridget, flushing pink enough to match her goddaughter. "We are very grateful you were available to sit the children."

"It's my pleasure," she said with a grin.

After donning his coat and helping her secure her faux-fox wrap, they walked arm in arm out to the car, then were off to the event.

"I sort of wish I weren't working," she said. "I'm a bit nervous—I haven't done this in a while."

"You've directed lots of times," he said as he navigated towards the hotel.

"I meant be on camera," she said, "and I certainly haven't done both at once before."

"I have every confidence in you," he said. "Just one word of advice: hold off on having a cocktail until you've finished the segment."

From the passenger seat, she playfully poked his arm.

Upon their arrival, it amused and bewildered him that the throng of paparazzi unleashed a flood of flashes in their direction as they emerged from the car, which was then to be valeted away to the hotel's lot. After depositing her wrap with the coat check, they made their way to the ballroom. The event was dazzling, truly a gala affair; the ballroom was alive with the hum of voices and laughter, of tinkling stemware and mellow strings.

"I know you want a drink," she said, taking his arm. "Let's get one for you, then I'll find my crew."

They waited at the bar for a glass of red wine when Mark heard his wife say, "Oh my God, it's Mr Wallaker."

Mark turned with his drink to see that in fact it was Wallaker, who seemed to see them at the same time… and the look on his face as he took in Bridget's appearance spoke volumes to Mark, even as it had no noticeable effect on Bridget.

It told Mark of his attraction to her; it also explained the interactions she'd described to him. It wasn't that he disliked her; it was that he might have liked her a little too much. Interesting, he thought.

"Oh my God," Bridget said again. "That must be his wife!"

As Wallaker drew nearer Mark's eyes shifted slightly to the woman beside him. His first impression was that given the garish but obviously well-tailored couture gown she wore, she clearly came from money; that she had probably been a beautiful woman in her youth, but in her attempts to cling to that youth, she'd taken extreme measures that hadn't altogether succeeded. The result was that there was a plastic sheen to her, an unnatural immobility to her features.

"Mrs Darcy, nice to see you," said Wallaker with a tight smile; he turned, then continued, extending his hand. "Mr Darcy, I suppose I shouldn't be surprised to see you here, given your line of work." After an awkward pause, he said, "Allow me to introduce my wife, Sarah. Sarah, this is Mr and Mrs Darcy, parents to one of my students."

"Nice," she said. "To meet you, I mean." It occurred to Mark then that with her unfocused demeanour and sway in her stance, she seemed more than just overly fond of cosmetic surgery; she seemed half-drunk already. The impression was not dispelled when she then said, "Will you get me that gin and tonic, dear?"

"Yes, Sarah," Wallaker said to her, then to Mark and Bridget, "If you'll pardon me."

The Wallakers carried forward towards the bar as Mark and Bridget left it behind; Mark saw her brows raise ever so slightly. "Wow, she is… not what I expected at all." Then she looked enviously at his wine. "Well. I should find my crew," she said. "Not sure why I'm so nervous."

"I'm sure you'll do fine," he said, then bent to kiss her cheek. "I'll have a drink at the ready for you."

She smiled. "You really are the most perfect man." With that, she walked away, and he took great pleasure in watching her walk away in that dress she was wearing. And you, the most perfect woman, he thought.

He took a turn around the room before going back to the bar and ordering a mojito for her—it was a recent discovery and her newest favourite cocktail, displacing the old standard of a Bloody Mary—then found where she and her camera crew were preparing to film. He watched her give them instructions with the authority she had developed over the years, then the lights came up, and they began shooting. He smiled with pride, then chuckled a little remembering her earliest endeavours on screen. And now, back to the studio, he thought with amusement.

"Do you get arm-twisted into to these often?"

He glanced over to see Wallaker had joined him, and the tone suggested he was joking. He was without Sarah, and unkindly Mark wondered if she had decided to hover at the bar.

"Not often, but so far this one's better than most, and a great cause, so I can't complain." He sipped his wine, thinking, but not saying aloud, how he always liked to have an excuse to take his wife out for a glamorous evening. "How about you?"

"Sarah does a lot of charity luncheons," he said. "She doesn't drag me along often." Mark got the distinct impression that Wallaker did not feel the same about a glamorous night. Then he was surprised to hear Wallaker add, "Well, not as often as before the divorce. I'll grant this one's pretty good, though." Wallaker squinted at the lights and the cameras. "Do you know what that's about over there?"

"Bridget and her crew are filming a segment for tomorrow's Sit Up Britain."

"Bridget? Filming?" he asked.

Mark then explained the consultation work she usually did for Cinnamon Productions, sponsors of the event; how she usually worked behind the scenes on the show, but how she had arranged to film the segment for coverage to try to promote donations after the fact. "Since she was coming anyway," he added.

"Ah," he said; it was obvious to Mark that Wallaker was flummoxed. He realised Bridget had been right: Wallaker had no idea that Bridget worked, and not because she needed to, but because she wanted to.

The bright camera lights extinguished, and very soon after wrapping, Bridget came to him, hand outstretched. "My saviour," she said, taking the drink, then giving him a full kiss on the mouth before taking a long sip. "Ahhh. Lovely, thank you." She started, her eyes darting to Wallaker; a blush tinted her cheeks. "Oh, hello. Sorry. Didn't see you there. Having a nice time?"

"Hello again," he said coolly. "Not bad, so far. And you?"

"I intend to now that I'm done with working," she said, lifting her glass in a toast. After another sip, she asked, "Where's your wife?"

"Off to the ladies, I think," he said. "I should find her." He returned the toast, then withdrew.

"I'll grant you," she said after another draw from her glass, "that he's a bit more of a human being outside of the school scenario." Her voice lowered. "What is the story with that wife of his?"

"Ex-wife," he said.

"Oh, really? Huh. Interesting," she said. "Wonder if she's got dirt on him?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, why else would he come with her?"

"Maybe he's interested in the cause too," he said, then he slipped his arm around her waist, placed a kiss on her temple, taking a moment to savour the scent of her perfume again. "Darling," he continued with good humour in his tone, "it doesn't do to speculate on their relationship. Not to mention that it's not how I want to spend my evening."

He drew back to see her grinning. "All right," she said. "We can spend this evening however you like, but first, I need another mojito."

"Your wish, my command, and all that." He turned towards the bar, and saw something that confused him: Wallaker, looking directly at them, an unmistakably pained expression on his face before the mask slipped back into place, and he turned from them.

Mark wondered then if perhaps the man was more than just attracted to his wife.

He went to get the mojito for her, considering with a high level of amusement that even if she were inclined to be unfaithful (she wasn't), she never would have succeeded because she had no awareness whatsoever of when a man was interested in her.

"Gin and tonic, please."

Mark glanced over, half-expecting to see Wallaker ordering for his wife again, but this was a young man, probably thirty, fairly good-looking with dark hair and a broad smile marked with a slight diastema. He looked to Mark, nodding once in acknowledgement. "Hey," said the stranger.

"Hello."

"Had no idea Sit Up Britain would be here," he said, nodding to where the cameras had been. "Haven't seen that presenter before, though." He whistled low. "Don't mean to sound like a chauvinist pig, but wow… what a hottie."

Mark chuckled, considering his previous thought as the barman handed the mojito to him. "This drink's for her."

"Snapped her up already, did you? Lucky bastard," he said with a grin. "Early bird gets the… well, bird. Well, cheers."

You have no idea how much earlier, Mark thought. "Cheers," Mark said, turning away from the bar.

When he found Bridget again, she was chatting with Talitha. "Oh, thank you, love," she said, taking the drink gratefully. "What are you smirking about?"

"Oh, nothing," he said, then thought, have only just identified two admirers of yours in thirty minutes.

…

Over the first three months of the year, the nightmares had returned. To Mark's dismay they had begun to occur more and more frequently, from the one first substituting Wallaker for Anton as the driver, to the one the evening after the charity event, where the armoured vehicle, under siege by rifle fire and again driven by an unrecognisable Anton, carried himself, Wallaker, and Bridget's unnamed admirer from the bar.

It was becoming harder to disguise the fact from Bridget.

"Mark, I'm not stupid."

"Bridget," he said, rubbing the corners of his eyes with a thumb and forefinger as they sat at the table with breakfast. "I have never thought you were."

"Then go and see someone about the nightmares." Her hand covered his, her voice gentler than at first. "You know that I am more than willing to listen, but I know there may be things about them you don't want to burden me with." She sighed. "Even if I don't agree with that."

"It's nothing I can't handle."

She exhaled roughly in her frustration. "You don't have to be all stoic and go-it-alone."

"It didn't help last time," he shot back. "A waste of time."

"Then talk to me."

He didn't want to share the vivid imagery that played in the theatre of his mind. She already knew he didn't want to share it with her, so he said nothing at all, looking down to his breakfast, taking his hand back from hers in order to eat.

She pushed quickly back from the table. "I'd better get the kids up," she said, but didn't move away. She spoke again. "Mark."

He looked to her, and was surprised by the glossiness of her eyes.

"Please talk to someone. For my sake."

He found himself nodding slightly. "Okay."

"Thank you."

As the days went on, he still had no idea what he was going to do, and other tasks were always higher priority. Inertia being what it was, he made no further progress. The nightmares continued, though he tried not to disturb her when they did.

…

June 2013

Bridget had not been kidding when she said it was usually only the mums who turned up to these sports day events. With Billy participating in his first one, though—in the long jump—Mark thought it was worth clearing his day for. As it turned out, the only other men there were teachers, and he found that he was, amongst the other mums there, something of a curiosity.

"How nice it is of your hubby to come—such a handsome fellow," confided Farzia, who Bridget had once told Mark was the nicest of the school mums. He supposed he was not meant to overhear this comment to Bridget, but he had, and it made him blush a bit.

Bridget had practically arranged half the kitchen into the picnic hamper as well as the red and green bell pepper slices she had been asked to contribute to the day for general group consumption. She'd also smuggled in a large bottle of Pimm's against his recommendations (and without his knowledge). "Trust me," she'd said. "We'll need fortifications."

Perhaps it was the Pimm's, possibly just the lovely summer weather, but Mark detected that perhaps Bridget was warming a little to the sports teacher; he saw her talking with him, smiling as if they were friends, which Mark was pleased to see given all the past animosity.

The competitive races were soon to begin; first up, the egg-in-spoon race. Mark had Mabel with him, riding on his shoulders so that she could see above the crowd, and she was as happy as could be in her little sunglasses and sunhat. Mark could see that the first event was lining up; Bridget was still near Wallaker when the starter pistol was fired.

That's when something curious happened. Wallaker reacted as if he were under siege; he made a move as if he were reaching for a pistol in a holster that was not there. Mark was too far away to hear the ensuing conversation, particularly with Mabel's running commentary, but he could plainly see concern on her face as she stood, listened and then talked a bit more during the race. Curious, Mark slowly made his way towards where they were, and upon getting close enough to be within earshot, all he could hear was, "…must be very difficult to deal with," before she noticed her husband approaching.

"Just coming for a closer view of Billy's event," Mark said. He looked from Bridget to Wallaker, could see the tension on his face, in his posture, that was still receding. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," said Bridget. "Everything's just fine, isn't it?"

Wallaker nodded a little. "Just a slight issue I have with... spoons."

It was an obvious lie, one he didn't want to challenge or about which to cause a scene. Clearly he had taken her into his confidence about something, and he was certainly not entitled to confidences made between her and another person, but for some reason it irked him.

"Mummy! Dey're measurin'!"

Mabel's enthusiastic bouncing on his shoulders brought Mark out of his thoughts, which made him realise those thoughts were a bit ridiculous. Bridget didn't keep secrets from him. Relax, Darcy, he thought. She probably just doesn't want to embarrass the man.

Their little group then turned to pay closer attention to the long jump. Soon it was Billy's turn; Bridget took and squeezed Mark's hand, and they both held their breath as he did his jump. As soon as he landed, they roared with a cheer.

"I think he did pretty well," said Wallaker in a quietly confident tone.

"Whether he wins or not, he's proud of himself, and I'm proud of him too," said Bridget. She looked to Mark with a smile and a wink. "We both are."

"Billeeeee!" shouted Mabel. "Daddy, lemme down, I wanna go see Billy!"

Mark did as asked; Bridget took his elbow and said, "A bit more Pimm's, I think. That girl gets my ears to ringing." With a smile he agreed and he walked with Bridget back to their blanket, hearing Mabel's distinctive voice the entire time; the gathering was restricted to students and parents, so neither were worried for her safety.

"Only a little bit," said Mark, pouring a generous splash into her cup. "The prizes will be given out soon."

She accepted it and took a sip. "Ohh, I am very glad you are driving," she said with a happy sigh.

As Mark had predicted, within a matter of minutes they were announcing the award ceremony's imminent start, so the two of them returned to where this was happening. Billy looked quite expectant; there had been a few more long-jumpers after he'd gone, but clearly he had hopes of coming in the top three in order to get a prize.

Unfortunately, Billy would be disappointed; the competition was fierce, the differences in jumping distance were apparently separated by inches. Billy came in fifth.

"It's okay," said Bridget, crouching to give him a slightly Pimm's-wobbly hug. "You did great."

"I really wanted a ribbon, though," Billy said, his sombre tone revealing how disappointed he was.

"If you want a ribbon," said Wallaker—there he was again, thought Mark; funny how he just kept turning up near their family, "you have to earn it."

Mark was just about to say that Billy was fully aware of that, but Bridget beat him to it. "Excuse me, Mister Wallaker," she said, rising to her full height again and clearly pissed off, "but Billy knows very well that he has to earn it. He's not some kind of… spoiled brat or something."

"If he knows that," said Wallaker with a smirk, "you probably don't have to console him like he's just lost a limb. You'll be fine, won't you?"

Billy nodded; Mark would never say so out loud, but he found himself agreeing with Wallaker. Billy then surprised them all by saying, "It's kinda embarrassing, Mum."

To his relief, Bridget smiled, then chuckled. "I guess we're already to that age where you're too old for hugs from your mummy. I see how it is," she said with a grin, prompting chuckles from Mark and from Wallaker alike. Then she looked to Mark, amusement still twinkling in her eyes. "And I know what you're thinking. Fine. Perhaps I overreacted."

"Mummy!" came Mabel's concerned voice. "You can hug me, instead!"

The way she stretched her arms up and out, coupled with such an earnest expression, was enough to melt even the coldest heart; Bridget crouched, took Mabel in her arms, picked her up and held on to her tightly. "I sure can," she said.

When the prizes were all awarded, they returned to their area to pack up the picnic then left the school together for home. As expected, the children crashed fast to sleep from the long day of activity; out of the corner of his eye he saw Bridget yawning too.

"So what was that all about?" he asked.

"What?"

"Back there with Mr Wallaker. After the starter pistol shot."

"Oh," she said. He waited for her to continue. "Well, you see…"

"Yeesss?" he prompted.

"The thing is, he took me into his confidence, Mark. The man does make me crazy, but I can't betray a confidence made in a vulnerable moment."

He brought the car to a red light, so he turned to look at her. She was clearly conflicted, so he decided to reach over and place his hand atop hers reassuringly. "I wouldn't dream of pressing the matter, darling," he said. "I was just concerned."

She returned the look and smiled. "Thanks," she said. "You know I would never keep anything critical from you."

"I wouldn't want you to go back on your word," he said.

"I'm glad you understand," she said.

He wouldn't ask again, but it didn't keep him from wondering. What would cause such a response? Former police? Former military? The haircut, the bearing, would suggest the latter.

Curious.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, the nightmare returned that night more terrifying than ever before, yet Wallaker's presence—this time, trying to wrest control of the armoured vehicle from Anton, flesh and body parts shaking loose in the struggle—seemed to fit into the scene a lot more now.

…

"Are we gonna see pirates?"

This was the only question Billy had about a proposed planned trip to the south-western coast of England for a holiday.

"No pirates," said Bridget. "Sorry to disappoint."

"Not in Plymouth, no," said Mark. "Now, if we were going all the way to Penzance…"

At this Billy and Mabel both erupted with a desire to go to Penzance to see the pirates; Bridget shot Mark a dirty look and said, "Your father is teasing. There are no pirates in Penzance."

"Not anymore," Mark added.

"Daddeeeee," wailed Mabel. "Where did dey go?"

"Oh, love, I am only teasing. Come here." He took his little girl into his arms. "We will go to the sea and look out across the water… and if you try very, very hard, and you're very, very quiet, you might even be able to see France."

Mabel's mouth dropped. "Really?"

"Really?" echoed Bridget.

He looked to Billy and winked; a recent homework assignment that Mark had helped Billy with had been about that area, and Mark knew Billy knew the truth that France was much too far from Plymouth to be seen. Clearly Bridget did not, but geography had never been her strong suit, anyway.

However, Mark's little tease would come back to haunt him within a few days; Bridget was exceedingly grumpy upon his arrival home from work. "Do you know, Mabel told Mr Wallaker that we were going to Plymouth and that while we were there, we were going to look at France… and he had the gall to say, 'See France from Plymouth? You must be mad.'"

"Oh?" Mark asked neutrally.

"So I told him that I have very, very sharp eyes," she said smugly. "That will teach him a lesson."

Mark assured her, then went to find Billy to tell him that he must never, ever tell his mum the truth about Plymouth and France.

"But I'm not supposed to lie," Billy said.

"In this instance," Mark said, "you may make an exception, on my authority as Dad."