AN: It can be argued that the famous dress at the end of ep 3 is dark green or black with a greenish tint or just black or if it's a trick of light that makes it either. For my story line I declare it to be a dark green.
Episode THREE – Green
As he refills his whisky glass, he sees his "BEWARE OF GRUMPY BOSS" mug: a daring gag gift from Claudine with a strong message to stop taking his bad mood out on her. He's well aware of the fact that Olivia and he got the nickname "the beauty and the beast", and who is who is interchangeable. Still, he's afraid for the longest time he's been the beast in his employees' eyes, running around and roaring like a lion with a thorn in his paw when things with Siobhan were at their worst. It pleases him to see that a thin layer of dust coats it by now. Still, he ought to let Claudine know. It doesn't do well for clients OR employees to see sloppy cleaning.
The morning of the fitting had started fabulous. Against all odds Catherine had not only been for once in Miami, but had also agreed to take Juliet in. In hindsight it should have made him suspicious, because it had been far too easy to persuade her. Bridget had been up early and had made him coffee. She needn't have to do this considering her bout of morning sickness. It made him remember the first year of his marriage to Siobhan. While he wasn't much of a breakfast eater, he used to have his morning cup with Siobhan while they had been chatting about their plans for the day. The entire morning he felt soft warmth from that mug of coffee Bridget had made him and basked in his anticipation of her reaction when she would step into Douglas Hennant's™ dress room. Siobhan had loved or at least appreciated these kinds of gift.
In fact, he was still in such a good mood that he was even glad to see Henry when he came to see him. With cold satisfaction hidden under faked concern he watched Henry reaching for the whisky. Now the man began to experience how it felt when your wife drove you to drinking. For the first time in way too many months he didn't feel secretly humiliated in Henry's presence who made the nature-boys' look of jeans and a shirt the haute of fashion. Was that the attraction for Siobhan? The very noticeable contrast to Andrew, who could barely remember the last time he had worn jeans and a t-shirt?
Coming to think about it, it must have been around the second Gulf War, when he still let his curls grow out. Olivia and he had emptied a bottle of the most exquisite champagne Picholine had to offer after the first 100 dead soldiers, because if the poor devils had to die anyway, the least patriotic gesture they could offer to make their death mean something, was to make the most profit out of it. They had returned dividends in double-digits for the first time for the handfuls of their first investors consisting of a couple of Andrew's loyal and trusting frat brothers, Catherine's relatives and Olivia's investors she had brought with her into the freshly founded company Martin/Charles when she had left Lehman Brothers, got about ten new investors who had taken notice of the new talent on the market and eventually created Andrew Martin™: the smart, sophisticated, attractive, charming yet cool calculating and occasionally ruthless British gentleman with nerves of steel, who wears designer suits straight out of Savile Row and manages to squeeze a dime out of a dollar, where others get only cents, in a nutshell: the James Bond of Finances.
He switched on his salesman persona for clients he preferred not to have – Olivia called it his used car seller impersonation. If Henry wanted to talk business, he would get official and adjusted discretely his tie out of habit. He rejoiced seeing his rival off-balance and cooking up insane ideas of self-publishing a book. But if the man wanted to throw away his wife's money - it was an open secret that while Gemma had taken on Henry's name, he really was only Mr. Gemma Arbogast - who was he to stand in his way? Let the man dig his own grave. Tim Arbogast would string him up by his balls until he sang soprano for throwing his daughter's hard earned money out of the window. And he, Andrew Martin, would pay a year's income to get a ticket for a seat in the front row. Yes, it had been one overall terrific morning.
Walking down that particular memory lane, he wonders, if Henry knows that he, Andrew knew about their affair since that morning about a year ago when he had turned over and seen a spot of dried semen not even ten inches away from his face half hidden under Siobhan's pillow, knowing he definitely hadn't left it there? And from then on, it had been just a matter of calling his old pal Josh and a bit of easy listening to learn who took what didn't belong to them. Often enough the man's gazes held a grating challenge, smugness and animosity when they had been without their wives. It doesn't matter anymore if Henry knows he knows, he decides after a moment of mulling the thought over. For a while it had looked as if Henry was winning the battle, but he, Andrew, had won the war - at least in Henry's eyes and that was what ultimately counted. Let the enemy defeat themselves, was Andrew's maxim. Andrew had known the moment he had claimed Bridget's child officially as his own and seen from the corner of his eye "Siobhan" leaving Henry all alone who had been looking like a defeated, kicked puppy in their favourite club.
The Cuba Libre had never tasted sweeter.
And then Jack Lewis had called, all false sympathy and true curiosity, to tip the unlucky husband off that his wife was meeting with a divorce attorney before he would gleefully call all his friends to spread the news. And all ugly doubts had resurfaced in a heartbeat. One sister was like the other and not in a good way. He had been so sure he had seen through the plan Bridget had come up with. She would establish herself as Siobhan, go through the divorce in a while and then ride into sunset with Malcolmto live on his money ever happily after. Sure, why should she content herself with just a bag of money she'd probably steal by clearing out Siobhan's account, if she could have a truckload of it when she divorced him? Well, she would be in for a rude wake-up, if she were stupid enough to go for it - contrary to her sister. He had irrefutable proof of Siobhan's affair with Henry and this time there were no incriminating documents to bind his hands.
Fuming he had immediately gone home to confront Bridget, still carefully avoiding to let her know he knew her secret. He didn't trust her enough to let her know that he knew. Not knowing was his safety net. If his wife's body was ever found, he would rather look like a complete and utter blind and ignorant idiot than being questioned why he had stayed with an impostor instead of trying to find his wife or why he had never informed the authorities about her death. He would look suspicious in the least. Maybe they would even accuse him of being in cahoots with Bridget and having a hand in his wife's death. No, he preferred to be a free idiot to be the smart cellmate of a man called Big Gun.
227 Pratt Street had been the last straw for him. He had gone more rounds with Siobhan over this worthless pile of brick and asbestos-laced mortar than Cassius Clay in his hardest fights. He had given Bridget a chance. He had taken her in. He had given her shelter and protection, food and clothes. He accepted her as Siobhan's substitute. He didn't exact marital rights. He wanted to raise her child as his own. He overlooked that she had killed a man in self-defence, that she must have hidden a gun in the apartment, but freaked out when Juliet brought home drugs. He'd cope with her alcohol problem. He even got her a designer gown, which would probably cost him more than the guy on nightshift in the entrance hall made in a year before taxes.
And this was how she thanked him? Why was it never enough what he did? Once again he was nothing more than a stepping-stone for a Kelly sister. If it weren't for the tiny fact that she alone knew what had happened to Siobhan, he would have kicked her out on the spot. Gradually he realised it wasn't guilt he read in her face but fear. What had made her fear him? Why couldn't she trust him? Didn't she know him one bit by now after all these years? He couldn't believe her gall. He hadn't killed anyone. She on the other hand had two lives on her conscience and cuckolded him. She had no room to take the moral high ground in their marriage. She cheated and she lied. In fact, his thoughts became so jumbled he couldn't distinguish any longer between Siobhan and Bridget, between past and present time, between past hurts and fresh wounds.
In the beginning he had relished the challenge and that Siobhan had relentlessly driven him on. These years had been his most successful with them opening affiliates in London, Frankfurt, Tokyo, even Paris just to please her and creating post box companies on the Cayman's and the Channel Island Jersey. And he had been so proud every time to come home and be able to tell they had managed to land another heavy loaded investor, had had again the right hunch about the market's development, contracted another deal that would bring high returns for them and to collect his reward from Siobhan. He took bigger and bigger risks, crossed the line between risky deals to shady deals just to see her eyes light up in admiration. He had pawned the last remnants of his conscience to her. But then the routine had got old and he had begun to see through her. She pushed him constantly because he couldn't fully satisfy her needs. She was insatiable, craving forever "more", needing higher and higher doses of "success" to find satisfaction like an addict. It was a crippling blow to his self-confidence to realise he simply wasn't enough for Siobhan. He made millions a year, played golf with senators, helped her getting into every charity committee she wanted to be in, gave her everything she wanted, made love to her for hours without paying any heed to his own satisfaction, and still she craved "more". What was it that Henry could give her, but not he? Was he a super stud on aphrodisiacs with an in-built GPS tracker for the elusive G-point? Was he better looking, more charming, wittier than boring old Andrew? Easy enough for him. Henry in his virile prime only sat back and let his imagination run wild between visits to the gym. He was well rested. He, Andrew, on the other hand had to watch his diet because of all these business dinners, drinks and long hours chained to his chair in the office working hard in order to stay ahead of the pack and let Siobhan max out her platinum credit cards and still direct unpaid invoices to his office for settlement.
Well, he had been through with feeling insecure and sorry for himself and taken back the initiative in this game. At least that was what he had been telling himself when he finally held the only copy of the stolen documents in his hands. He had thought he had got over it and regained his confidence. And it had taken only one lousy phone call to throw him back to square one.
And Bridget had fumbled through phoney excuses and poor flattery of the dress being an amazing gesture. He had so been fed up with her in that moment, that he couldn't stand being in the same room with her for one second longer. So he had fled to his office, one big ball of rage, pain and anguish and had nearly chopped Olivia's head off after the fight with Henry on top. Why couldn't she give it a rest? She hadn't been there, when Tim Arbogast had torn strips off him many years ago, coldly informing him that he never supported the businesses of any of Gemma's friends on principle and that Martin/Charles were just some upstart youngsters with a loud mouth and a few lucky hunches as references. When Arbogast had been through with him, he had left that man's office feeling like a six years old knowing he had wet his pants. Besides, if he ever learnt that Andrew Martin's second wife slept with his daughter's first husband... no, it was better to stay friends with Gemma and avoid attracting Tim Arbogast's interest, even if it was him these days who kicked overconfident youngsters out of his office far more often than he was politely complimented out of others.
Eventually he had calmed enough to be a bit more reasonable about it and listened to her phone calls hoping they might give him a clue what had changed so fast between them in the span of two days. She suspected him of foul play where his sister was concerned. Well, it was true, but that wasn't the point! He was the good guy here; certainly not her enemy, how could she not know that? In her confused fear Bridget could have easily shot him if she had had her gun in easy reach! Or that giant letter opener Olivia had given him for their first anniversary as an acknowledgment of his talent to slice his opponents open and leave them to bleed dry without any chance of recovery. And who had he to thank for it? Malcolm again, the velvety voice of understanding and reason. If she needed advice, it was her place to come to him for it. She was his responsibility now, not some professor from a second-rate college in a backwater town.
And then... Bridget had come to him, all dressed up and ready to go to the ballet. But she didn't. It was more important to her to make things right again with him. And to show him what his money had bought him.
He raises his eyes over his desk to a spot next to the sitting arrangement, right in the middle of his office. He can still see her standing there in his mind's eye. It's burned into his memory.
Bridget or Siobhan for that matter had never looked this unearthly beautiful before in that dark green gown in the soft light of his office. She had taken his breath away. And then she had opened up to him and said she had stopped listening to what other people, read: Siobhan's complaints and lies, had told her. She had made up her own picture of him and he was found worthy in her eyes. All fatigue and guardedness fell off and he soared to such new heights that they manifested in his need to rise from his chair and tell her how beautiful she was to him.
To his dying day he will never forget the sparkle in her eyes and the soft and pleased smile on her face. She practically glowed.
It broke the thick layer of ice he had grown around his heart for protection. Finally, he got the feeling back of being worth more than his pocketbook. And he understood that it wasn't the dress per se, it was the emotion that commanded him to give such a precious gift to her that turned things around for them. He finally understood the difference between the sisters. Siobhan judged by material, Bridget by immatrial things. Yet, he tested her again. He had to be sure. He was in such an emotionally vulnerable state and Siobhan such an accomplished player of mind games. Who was to say Bridget wasn't as well? She needed his good will to stay safe in New York. Was Bridget committed enough to make it work with him? Or did she just tell him what he wanted to hear? And she responded. Still a bit reluctant and slightly forced, but she made that one step to meet him halfway.
When they had stood at the window overlooking the city, as he does now once more by retracing their steps of that night, the knot of jumbled thoughts dissolved in his mind. Once there had been Siobhan. Now there was Bridget. She wanted to move forward – with him. She wanted to leave her old life behind. She wanted to start afresh, look at things with a new appreciation and be grateful and satisfied with what she's got. And if she could, then he could as well. If she could ignore what preconceived notions she had about him, he could as well. If she could trust him, so could he. If she was in for the long haul, so would he. Siobhan and he had not only been lovers, in the beginning they had been in total synch and shared the same goals in life. And now there was a real chance for Bridget and him to become at least friends. She wouldn't run anymore. He would learn to appreciate her for herself, as her own person and start looking for the difference not the similarity.
Their special dress would be dark green. Green was the colour of hope and luscious, fruitful life. Red, not only the colour of love and passion but also of danger, held no appeal to him anymore. And he knew, given time, he could fall out of love with his memory of Siobhan and in love with Bridget, the lady in green.
A fresh start indeed for both of them. Bridget, meet Andrew. Andrew, this is Bridget.