Of Curry, Cake and Classics
Part 2 of 2
By S. Faith, © 2008
Words: 12,530 (Pt 2: 6,296)
Rating: T / PG-13
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.
Many years later
"But Mark," said Elaine Darcy, "you had such a nice time the last time you went."
Mark laughed. "Mother, the last time I went was nearly twenty years ago." He remembered that New Year's Day so long ago, remembered meeting the girl with the childish dress and the mouth full of braces, who had given him her dog-eared copy of Jane Austen… which, he realised guiltily, he had never shared his opinion about with her.
"And Pam tells me that her daughter will be there… so you can finally get to meet her properly! She's turned out very well, I hear; works in publishing, avid reader, very popular with her friends."
He smiled to himself, not surprised in the least.
"And," added Elaine, "lives very near to you, I'm told." She patted Mark's shoulder. "It's been such a rough few years for you with… well, you know—" He thought of the debacle with his now-ex-wife and his former best friend, closing his eyes. "—and it might be good to meet someone nice."
In his mind's eye flashed the image of the fourteen year old who looked like age ten with the bob, the braces, the glasses and the pink dress, and he couldn't help chuckle. He knew she very likely didn't look anything like that any more… but that would be a hard image to shake. In the hopes of dislodging from her head the memory of the awful, bulky knit jumper and out-of-control hair from his late teens, he had been sure to stop in for a trim, and took extra care with shaving.
………
Some things never change.
Bridget was in her childhood bedroom, head pounding from a New Year's Eve hangover, standing facing what looked like upholstery fabric shaped into a dress and skirt and a ruffly red shirt to go with it, her mother's idea, apparently, of an attractive dress in which to meet a very nice, very rich barrister, one who was terribly lonely and just in need of the right girl. Why do I not have the willpower to say no to my mum? Why? she thought, sitting on the edge of the bed and staring at the thing, then pinched the corners of her eyes in an effort to obliterate the pain. Bridget had, however, determined many years ago that in the long run it was just easier to capitulate to her mother's crazy wishes then be subjected to torture for months afterwards.
Why did it have to be this year though, the year when she'd be reintroduced to the nerd she'd met all that time ago while wearing the candy pink polka dotted frock of doom? She sighed. At least now—almost twenty years later, she thought with a wince—she no longer had a terrible haircut, winged glasses, and orthodontics. Thank heavens for small favours.
Fuck it, she thought. I'm wearing what I like; this particular man's already seen me at my worst. She changed out of her clothes and into the dress she'd packed, then let loose her hair from the ponytail and brushed through it. After patting at her nose with powder and putting on some lip balm, she smiled at herself in the mirror, then headed down.
………
Much to his surprise, when Mark arrived at the house with his parents, Pam Jones (who looked much as he remembered only understandably older) had nothing for him but a big smile and a hug.
"Looking very well, Mark," said Colin Jones, who was also not much different than he remembered, save for the softer jawline and greyer hair.
"Thank you, sir," he said.
"Oh, come now. Call me Colin."
Mark grinned, though he was not sure he could actually do it.
"You look wonderful," said Pam at last, looking rather moony, which he was not sure he understood; "very good to see you again."
"Good to see you too. I'm glad I was able to make it."
"This must be a very hard time of year for you," Pam said confidentially.
"I'll get you a drink," said Colin, then dashed off for the kitchen; Mark understood the man's not wanting to be present for a discussion on the touchy subject of Mark's wife leaving him, was even amused a little at his lack of subtlety even as he drew in a deep, steadying breath.
"I try not to think too much about it," said Mark. "With the benefit of hindsight, I can see now I rushed too quickly into things."
Pam pursed her lips and nodded sympathetically. "Still, I'm so sorry."
"I appreciate your kind words."
She beamed up at him. "Oh, you are more than welcome. Did you know that my daughter's here? She's upstairs getting dressed. She'll be so pleased to see you, and you have so much in common, both living in London and working and…" She started to falter a little.
"And she's very much the feminist, and has an incredibly glamourous life," chimed in Una Alconbury, presumably in an attempt to win him over to the idea of Bridget as a potential girlfriend, "and is a social butterfly with millions of men taking her out all the time."
Pam jabbed Una with an elbow, then gabbled, "Well not millions, Mark, of course, but she has always been very popular with the boys ever since she discovered them, or rather, they discovered her… oh! Here's Colin with your drink."
"Figured you'd outgrown fruit punch," said Colin dryly, handing him a generous glass of dark red wine, holding a glass of white close to him.
Mark brought the glass up, caught the scent of the bouquet, which was very pleasant; the taste was exceptional. "Very good, thank you."
"Though you might approve," said Colin.
Out of habit, he found himself drawn to where his parents were standing. His mum was looking up at him with a familiar fondness and pride, only more intense than usual; his father was tipping a tumbler of scotch up, taking a sip.
"What?" Mark asked suspiciously, a grin playing on his face.
"Nothing," she said in an unusually coy tone. "Just… well, I couldn't be prouder of you, is all."
He knew his mother better than that. "And?"
"She's hoping you and Bridget hit it off," said Malcolm. "Snogging under the mistletoe and what not."
"Oh, Malcolm, stop it," she said, though she was flushing red. "I just want you to be happy, Mark, that's all."
Despite looking forward to seeing how the Joneses' daughter had turned out, he was beginning to feel a bit pressured by all of their expectations. "Mother, I've met the girl once."
"Twice," reminded Elaine. "At least. There might have been other parties you were both at as children."
From behind him he heard, like an approaching siren, his name called out. He turned slowly and saw Pam Jones, and…
His eyes fixed on her, and he could at once see the awkward young girl from so many years ago; however, he had been completely right about her, at least about her turning into a lovely woman. Her blue eyes looked up at him apprehensively yet challengingly, and her shiny blonde hair was loosely waved and just brushing her shoulders. Far from the pink polka-dot dress that had made her look much younger than she was, she had on a black dress that came down to just above her knee, longish sleeves and form-fitting enough for him to see that she had bloomed in other ways, underscored by the low vee of the dress' neckline and the silver floating heart on the chain that seemed perfectly framed by it.
He had a vague awareness of Pam speaking, reintroducing him to her daughter and vice versa, so he offered a polite smile and said, "It's very nice to see you again."
………
Coming downstairs had made her stomach twist into knots, waiting for the verbal onslaught from her mother wondering why she hadn't chosen to wear the floral nightmare dress after all; but instead, Pam merely looked at her with a surprising measure of approval, only mentioning that black "is the colour of mourning, not of New Year's parties and meeting men, darling." Bridget was, however, thankful to get away with as little criticism as she had.
She'd met briefly with her father, who seemed to have a glass of white wine at the ready for her. "You look wonderful, my dear," he'd said with a smile, though to be fair, he always told her that.
"Come on, darling," her mother had said. "Mark's here."
Might as well get it over with.
She first saw him from behind, speaking to his parents, and was surprised by how tall he was; she had assumed that her memory had exaggerated his height due to her own having been a little shorter at the time. She also found her eyes drawn (somewhat embarrassingly) directly to his backside, which, she had to admit, was rather eye-catching.
The back half had been nice enough. Then he turned to face her.
She was at once struck by the importance of a good haircut and meticulous grooming, as well as the indisputable fact that some people just were destined to look better with age. He was one of those people. He offered her a small smile and a compliment, which she then paid in kind: "It's nice to see you too."
Una fluttered in and pulled Pam away with a really obvious lie about gravy (considering this was a turkey curry buffet), leaving the two of them with their glasses of wine and uncertain looks.
"So," he said, his smile broadening a little, revealing rather handsome indentations around his mouth. "Have you read any good books lately?"
She stifled a laugh. What an opening line. "Not really," she said. "Have been too busy. How about yourself?"
He looked a little perplexed. "Um, no."
There was silence. This, she thought, was not starting out particularly well. Maybe he was single for a reason.
"Well," he continued tentatively. "I did actually recently get the opportunity to read one of the great classics. You might even have heard of it."
"Oh?" she said, thinking he was probably referring to Socrates, Aristophanes or similar.
"Yes," he replied. "Pride & Prejudice." He lifted his wineglass up and sipped from it, leaving her reeling. She was convinced he'd forgotten all about their discussion, had tossed the paperback into the waste bin the moment he'd gotten home.
"Oh," she said at last, cursing herself for the strangled quality of her voice. She cleared her throat, wishing she had a cigarette to calm herself down. "And what did you think?"
"Very good, very thought-provoking," he said soberly. "Very allegorical on some level, I thought, what with Mrs Bennet being incapable of controlling her emotions, and Mr Bennet incapable of showing his; they are sort of the extremes between which Elizabeth must balance herself."
Bridget was surprised. This was nothing she'd ever thought of herself. She covered her silence with a sip from her own wine.
"Then there was the very radical notion, for the time, societally speaking," continued Mark; she could have sworn she saw his eyes glance down to her neckline, "that one should not simply settle for the first offer that comes around, or any offer that does not truly appeal to one's heart, as Elizabeth did with proposals from both Mr Collins and Mr Darcy… well, at first anyway."
She nodded. "To stand up for what you want, regardless of what society wants for you." Oddly enough, she thought of her mother and the dress she'd refused to wear.
"Exactly," he said; his smile was warm but his gaze, intense.
"So," she continued after a beat, realising she had not blinked in many moments. "I hear that Cambridge has paid off for you."
He nodded. "Human rights law. One thing can be said: it's never boring."
She smiled.
"I hear that books have been kind to you, that you work in publishing."
She uttered a scoffing little laugh. "Well, yes. In the publicity department."
"There's nothing wrong with that," he said. "I'm sure you're very… passionate about your promotional ideas." She didn't imagine it; she saw his eyes flit down to her chest as he paused in his sentence.
"Some of the books are, honestly, not very good," she said, reining in her amusement at Cambridge checking her out; "there's one we're doing now, due to launch in April… it's just appalling, yet we've decided to promote it as 'the greatest book of our time'."
"Are you trying to tell me," he said with a sarcasm-laden voice, "that there is no truth in advertising?"
She chuckled, as did someone nearby; she suddenly became aware of her mother, Una, and his mother hovering on the periphery, and at once felt like a lab experiment. She drew her brows together in consternation. Bloody Mum and her friends.
………
"Is there something the matter?" he asked; he had not meant his query to be serious.
"I feel like we're expected to start performing at any moment," she said, darting her eyes around the room to where his mother, her mother, and Una Alconbury had formed something of an audience.
It was his turn to laugh.
"If we were to relocate," he said in a low voice, "surely not even they would follow."
"It wouldn't surprise me if they did," she said drolly.
He held out his hand in an offer to test this theory, indicating she should precede him to the dining room. She did.
"Have you had anything to eat yet?" she asked; the buffet was up and running, and people were serving themselves from a large tureen.
"I haven't," he said. His memory of whether or not he had liked it nearly two decades ago was eluding him. "It looks… interesting."
She laughed. "It's actually not that bad," she said, leading him up to the table, and handing him a plate. "Here you are."
"Thank you."
He watched as she spooned out something to eat for herself on her own plate, then offered to dish out his as well.
"Say 'when'," she said, going for a second ladle-full.
After the second he told her that was quite enough, and she set the ladle back into the tureen, then replaced the lid. He reached for two forks and handed one to her.
She smiled. "Thanks."
They moved off to the side to eat, setting their wine glasses down onto the shelf of a hutch. It would seem that the trio of ladies did not actually follow them. He was thankful.
"So," he said, straining to think of something to talk about.
"So," she said.
"The curry's quite good," he said, then felt stupid for saying so.
"Think it's Una's recipe," she said. "It's a shame that I tend to associate it with feeling—" She stopped suddenly, turning crimson, reaching for her wineglass and taking in a sip.
"'Feeling' what?"
She looked back to him sheepishly. "Feeling hung over."
He chuckled, reminded what Una had said. "Must have been quite a New Year's party," he said, then said in a teasing tone that surprised even himself, "I've heard about your glamourous lifestyle."
"What? 'Glamourous lifestyle'?" she asked. "Who told you I had a glamourous lifestyle?" He wasn't sure if she seemed pleased or offended to be pinned with such a description.
"Una Alconbury," he admitted.
"Oh, God," she said. "I dare not think what else she said about me."
"That you were an avid reader," he said; she actually brightened at that. "And an avid feminist, and that you were constantly being taken out—" He stopped suddenly, wishing he'd never mentioned it, but then added so as not to leave things hanging, "By men."
"Oh," she said.
Her mother came up to them at that moment, beaming smiles to each of them. "Enjoying yourselves, then?"
"Yes," said Mark. Bridget only nodded. "Having a very nice time."
"Good, I'm glad," said Pam Jones; turning to her daughter, she leaned in to hiss what he presumed to be advice, in what she must have thought was a confidential tone of voice: "Now, you be careful when you sit down, young lady, with that dress as short as it is; don't want him thinking you're easy meat."
Her skin flooded practically burgundy at that comment.
"By the way, Bridget," he said smoothly, "I meant to compliment you on your dress; very classy, and quite becoming on you."
She offered a grateful smile. "Anything beats the last dress you saw me in."
Pam's smile turned to something a little more forced. "Well," Pam said, "you two have a nice time talking, then."
When Pam was out of earshot, Mark offered, "I'm sorry about that."
"I'm the one who should apologise," she said. "After all, she is my mother."
"I didn't quite mean that."
She furrowed her brows. "What for, then?"
"I didn't mean to suggest earlier that… well, that I thought you were."
"Thought I was what?"
"Dating a different man every night," he said euphemistically.
"Ah," she said, spearing another section of curry, then looked up with a smile. "'Easy meat'."
He chuckled despite his discomfort. "I suppose so."
"If I were," she continued, "I'd hardly need the hens of Grafton Underwood trying to set me up." She blushed again. "Not that I mind renewing our acquaintance, I mean."
"No, I know what you meant." He stopped to eat some more of his dinner, reflecting on the things his mother had said; she was probably on her best behaviour in front of her parents, but even still, he could tell that she was rather nice, sweet, and all of those overused but appropriate adjectives that his mother had described her with, and found himself very much warming to her.
………
They made it through dinner with no more disasters, continued to banter small talk back and forth as they finished their food, and all she could keep thinking in amazement that her mother had finally got it right, that she had finally managed to find a man with manners, grace, and kindness, all wrapped up in a very handsome package, with whom to set her up.
The trouble was that she had not had a fag since she'd arrived in Grafton Underwood, and as the minutes ticked away, she found herself craving one more and more until she could no longer stand it. "Here," she said abruptly, holding out her hand and completely breaking the flow of the conversation. "Let me take these to the kitchen."
He looked surprised. "Oh, sure, okay."
She stacked his plate on hers, then, swiping up her clutch purse, headed for the kitchen. She put the plates down on the counter midstride before heading straight out the back door, not even caring that she had no coat on.
………
Mark had expected her to be back immediately from the kitchen, but when she did not return right away, he put two and two together and realised what her grasping her purse was all about. He chuckled. Still the rebellious child sneaking off for a smoke.
He went into the kitchen, found no Bridget and no other exit but the back door.
He cleared his throat, put on his most severe expression, and went to the back door, preparing to 'discover' her. She was standing there on the patio under cover of the awning, clearly enjoying her long-denied cigarette, eyes closed, slowly exhaling a trail of smoke and breath as she stood there.
He pushed open the door so that it swung out and made a great racket at the same time he said in a very solemn, stern voice, "I was wondering where you'd got off to." The combination caused her to almost literally jump. He strode closer to her, bearing down on her with his imperious gaze.
"Hi," she said, withering beneath his implied censure. "I just… decided to… smoke."
"I see that," he said disapprovingly, lifting his chin, folding his hands behind his back. "It's not very good for you."
"I know, I know," she said in defeat, drawing one last drag from that cigarette before dropping it to the ground and snuffing it out with her shoe. "I get the lecture from my mum often enough."
"I'm surprised at you," he said coolly. "I really am."
She looked down.
"I half-expected to find you in the shed like last time."
Her eyes flew up to meet his again and only then did he dare to smile.
"Oh!" She burst out in a relieved laugh. "You bastard!" she said, still chuckling.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I couldn't resist, given our history."
She was still grinning, and God, she had a great smile. "I would hate to face you in a courtroom with a poker face like that."
He chuckled again; it wasn't the first time he'd heard that. "Though you really ought to have taken my advice at age fourteen and not taken up the habit to start with," he offered seriously, though was still grinning at her.
"I'm trying to quit," she said tartly, smiling impishly herself.
They stood there, face to face; as those smiles faded he simply gazed down into those bright blue eyes, their breath floating up into the cool night air.
"We should…" he began.
She nodded.
"Go inside," she said, just as he said,
"Have dinner sometime."
He saw her flush pink again, but recovered her composure quickly. "We had dinner tonight," she volleyed back.
"Have dinner again sometime," he amended, then added, affecting a more serious tone, "There's just one problem."
She looked alarmed. "Problem? What's the problem?"
"The problem," he said, "is my mother. And your mother. And Una Alconbury."
She gave him a sidelong look. "What about them?"
"I'm hesitant to give them the satisfaction of knowing they were right."
He watched with amusement as his meaning trickled through; she then smiled, which turned into a chuckle and a shy glance downwards. "Oh."
"It's odd, thinking back to those years ago," he said quietly.
"How do you mean?" she asked, looking up again.
"I had a feeling back then you'd turn out to be as pretty as you are."
As he said it he felt his own face flush with heat.
She smiled, her eyes fixed on his. "I think you were the only one who did," she said softly.
There was a quiet silence to follow, a somewhat charged silence, and he thought about following through with the impulse to pull her into his arms and kiss her, but the warring faction in his head held him back; they had only just met again, after all, and despite all he'd heard about her, he didn't really know her that well at all. Even if he did like what he knew.
"There you are!"
It was Pam Jones, looking somewhat smug as she came out onto the patio. He took a small step back away from Bridget.
"What are you two doing out here in the cold? Durr," she said. "You'll catch your death."
"I was keeping your daughter company while she—" At Bridget's panicked look, he finished with, "got some fresh air."
"Well, just wanted to say that dessert's out," announced Pam. "Raspberry surprise as well as chocolate cake."
"We'll be in straightaway," said Bridget.
She watched her mother retreat back into the kitchen, watched her further retreat into the house before turning back to Mark. "You heard the woman," she said. "Chocolate cake."
Mark chuckled.
She turned to lead them back into the house, but just outside the door, she turned so abruptly he nearly walked into her. "What—"
He stopped because he was too surprised and too otherwise occupied to continue.
………
She knew it was against every rule of dating that existed: men did the pursuing, women were the pursued and it was bad form to lay down one's cards so soon into the acquaintance. The truth was, however, that she had pretty much decided she wanted him to know she liked him, and that she was definitely interested in getting to know him better. Perhaps it was the wine causing her to be a little bolder than usual, but just before they went back into the house, she turned, got up onto her toes, and planted a kiss on his lips.
What she wasn't expecting was for him to take her around the waist and return the kiss, holding her close, kissing her with a depth of passion that caught her completely unawares, especially considering they could be happened upon at any time by one or more parental units.
"Am I to assume," he asked when he pulled back, "that's a 'yes' to dinner?"
She laughed, and nodded; yes, she liked him very much indeed. She reached and took his hand, tugging him into the house.
………
Though he'd very much enjoyed it, Mark had been taken aback by her impulsive kiss, though he realised he shouldn't have been; spontaneity seemed to be part of who she was. They went to the dessert buffet and he served up two plates of chocolate cake for the two of them. Just like old times, he thought with a smile.
This time they found a sofa to situate themselves on; his eyes were, of their own accord, drawn to her thigh as she sat down. She caught him looking and rather than purse her lips and look stern about it, she chuckled and blushed again, taking in a bite of cake.
"You're not," he reminded, which meant nothing to others around them, but meant everything to both of them. He leaned in to add, "Hardly your fault that you have nice legs."
Her blush deepened, but she was definitely smiling as she pulled the fork out of her mouth again.
"Well, hello there," said his mother, approaching them from behind the sofa. "Hope you're enjoying yourself, Mark."
"Yes, Mother, very much so."
"And Bridget," she said sweetly, "hope Mark has been treating you like a gentleman."
"Perfectly so, Mrs Darcy," she said, flashing a smile up to Elaine before turning to Mark again. "Almost to a fault."
His mother laughed. "That sounds like Mark, all right. Well, Mark, just wanted you to know that it's time to go."
"Oh," said Bridget, sounding disappointed.
"Okay," said Mark. "Drive home safely."
Now Bridget looked confused.
Mark explained, "I brought my own car. Heading back for London when I leave. Have court in the morning."
"Oh," she said.
Elaine bent to kiss Mark goodbye on the cheek. "Offer to drive her back," she whispered, then pulled back and gave him a sly wink and a smile before saying goodbye again then going off to find Malcolm.
Very fine idea.
"So," asked Mark, eating another bite of cake. "When do you head back for town?"
"In the morning," she said, then added miserably, "on the train."
"If you like, you can ride with me."
"Tonight?"
He nodded.
"I'm not really… packed."
"Would it take long for you to do so?"
She offered a small smile, which then broadened into a grin. "Not at all."
………
She'd eaten her cake more quickly than was lady-like, but for a chance to not only get a ride back to London but with a man she was liking more and more by the minute, she thought she might be forgiven by the etiquette gods.
She hadn't really unpacked the bag she only brought for what was to be an overnight stay; it was only her makeup, hairbrush, and other toiletries in the loo that she had to gather up and shove back into her bag. The one thing holding her up, though, was her other trainer. She scoured the bedroom and the bath and had no luck finding it.
Even as she realised she'd been upstairs for far too long for her supposed not-too-long packing, she just couldn't leave without it.
She heard a light rapping on the slightly open door, saw Mark in the hall peeking in. "Was just coming to see if you needed a hand carrying anything down," he said.
"No," she said, still striding around the room to see if she could spot the errant shoe. "Just looking for my lost trainer. Can't leave—"
"This one?"
He had come in and picked it up off of her pillow, where it had nestled in with a stuffed bear.
She grinned, though felt foolish for not having spotted it. Handsome, witty, she thought, and useful to boot. "Thanks."
"No problem," he said, giving her the shoe, then looking at her and the room around them. "Looks just like I remember it. Mostly."
"Mostly?"
"Well, it was a long time ago."
She chuckled. "Yeah, it was."
"Half a lifetime ago," he added.
"More than that for me."
He came near with his hand outstretched, and she handed him the bag, which was what he seemed to be asking for. "I'm glad we met back then," he said, "though I have regretted not getting back to you sooner about the book."
She chuckled. "I figured you just pitched the thing, thinking it was a load of romantic teenaged crap I was hurling at you. No harm done."
"On the contrary," he said, "I read it as soon as I got home."
She blinked in surprise. "You did?"
"Yes," he said. "And I made a point to read it again every once in a while." He chuckled, though it seemed a bitter sound. "There was a period there where I didn't, though, when the copy you'd given me had utterly and completely disintegrated, and I didn't get another one until recently." He cleared his throat and looked back to her, his gaze piercing again. "I made some pretty foolish mistakes during that time, but I'm back on track now."
"I'm glad to hear," she said, her voice seemingly having gone on holiday without her.
He laughed, more like the comfortable laugh she'd gotten used to hearing that night. "You know what's very strange to me?"
"What?"
"The cognitive dissonance of this room from then coupled with… you. As you are now, a beautiful woman."
She turned very shy again. "I was not much of a looker then, it's true," she said. "It horrifies me to think—"
"You were adorable," he said firmly, "and sweet and engaging and sharp as a whip, and I knew even then it would only be a matter of time before you'd have the boys' hearts racing." He paused, looking away before looking at her again. "Didn't have the faintest idea at the time that it might eventually turn out to be mine."
She had no earthly idea how to respond to him; she met his eyes and smiled. After a too-long silence, she said at last, her tongue feeling clumsy in her mouth, "You're too kind."
He smiled a small smile then turned for the door.
"Mark," she said. When he looked back to her, she added, "It is strange."
"What?"
She took in a deep breath. "For you to tell me… that… while we're in my old room, the place where most of my insecurities as an awkward teenaged girl are still concentrated," she explained quietly. "I thought about that conversation often as I was getting older, how it—and I mean the one after you came in, after I slammed the door in your face—felt like the first real adult conversation I'd ever had. Every other adult always had talked to me like I was a little girl, a child. But we… we had a… real conversation."
………
It was Mark's turn to be surprised, since he had always thought he'd been kind of heavy-handed with the directness of what he'd said, the advice he'd offered to her. "You explained your problem and I tried to help; that's all, really."
"Ah, but it was as much what you didn't do as what you did do," she explained. "You didn't dismiss my feelings or tell me to stop being such a silly-willy."
"A what?"
"Never mind. That's my mum's term," she said. "And then there was the book. I realise now that I probably was being rather a romantic, starry-eyed teen about it. You not only let me ramble on about it and granted that I might even be right about it, but even allowed yourself to be convinced enough to read it, too." She shook her head then said, more to herself than anything, "Still can't believe that…"
He chuckled. "It is a good book."
"Yes," she said, nodding enthusiastically.
"One that I would very much enjoy continuing to discuss with you," he said, spotting the digital bedside clock and doing the mental math for the length of the drive, "but as it's getting on towards eight o'clock…"
Her hands flew to her mouth. "I'm sorry. You have court in the morning. I'm so sorry." She headed for the door, headed for where he was standing. "Let's go."
"Is that everything?"
"Yes," she said.
"Hold on, there is one thing you forgot."
"What's that?"
"To allow me to banish those teenaged insecurities."
He caught her look of confusion even as he quickly bent, pressed his lips to hers, and kissed her at length, cradling her head at the back of her neck.
When she pulled away, looking very rosy-cheeked and even more gorgeous, she said in a low voice, "Consider them banished."
………
The normally boring-as-arse drive passed quickly in his company (and in his very comfortable car); she learned very quickly that he was brilliant beyond all sense and that he forgot nothing in the course of discourse. It was a true pleasure talking with him, just as it had been those years ago in her room; so spirited was the discussion that she nearly forgot that she was riding home with a man who'd admitted to her she made his heart race.
She remembered again in a rush when he asked her, as they got nearer to the heart of London, where exactly it was she lived. She told him, and he smiled. "Not far from me at all," he said amusedly. "Just like Mother said."
"Where do you live?" she asked.
"Over on Holland Park Avenue."
She felt her eyes grow hugely wide. Wealthy, she thought; just like Mum said.
He chuckled, then indicated, turning onto her street.
He pulled up to the kerb to park, then rose from the vehicle to open her door.
"Here we are," he said, reaching out to take her bag. "Service with a smile."
She laughed, rising from the passenger seat. "Thank you."
"So," he asked. He suddenly looked very nervous. "About dinner."
"Oh, yes," she said. "I'm free Friday if you are."
"I mean now."
"What are you talking about? We had dinner already."
"Turkey curry seems a very long time ago," he said. "I'm hungry again."
"But you have court in the morning."
"And I'm sure you have to work," he said.
"I do," she said. "And where would we go at a time like this? It's nearly ten-thirty. By the time we were to get seated and order…"
"I suppose you're right," he said, looking back to his car. "I guess I'll see you on Friday, then."
She realised that she sounded very much like she did not want to have dinner with him.
"Wait," she said. He turned back to her. "What did you have in mind?"
"Delivery," he said. "And at the risk of sounding completely tasteless: your place or mine?"
She smiled, then laughed (as did he), then gestured towards her building. "Well, since we're already here… come on up. There's a place 'round the corner I order from all the time. They can have it here in twenty minutes."
He smiled tenderly. "It's a date."
………
Her place was warm and cosy, which didn't surprise him in the least; neither was he surprised to see books everywhere. The place around the corner turned out to have Thai and Chinese offerings. He settled on pad Thai, she decided on the same, and he offered to pay for it all. While they waited for the delivery, she excused herself to change into something more comfortable, which sent them both into giggles again.
The food was good, the conversation better, the company best of all.
"You know," said Bridget, digging chopsticks into the spicy fried noodle and egg dish, "it almost feels like we're on a third date."
"I don't understand."
"It was like we had three dates in all in one day: the Turkey Curry Buffet, the two-hour-plus drive, and now this."
He chuckled again. "If you really want to stretch it… fourth," he said, leaning back on the sofa and pulling up another mouthful of noodles with his chopsticks.
"How do you figure?"
"Cake and conversation in your room at your parents'."
"Oh, that is stretching it," she said. "I was just a kid then. I didn't even have—well." The way she glanced down fleetingly at her own front completed her sentence for her.
"That's true," he said, chuckling. "I remember I thought you were ten."
She picked up a small pillow and threw it at him. "You don't have to remind me."
"I'm simply pointing out the stark difference between then and now."
Her playful grin became a little more sober as she looked at him, then looked down into her takeaway container, scraping together the last bits and ends of noodles and egg.
He looked into his own, saw it was almost gone. He looked back to her; she was studiously gazing into the container as if it held the meaning of life.
"Did I say something wrong?" he asked gently.
"No," she said, "not at all. Rather the opposite." She cleared her throat and raised her eyes to meet his at last. "This entire day flies in the face of every dating guide and self-help book I've ever read."
"Excuse my ignorance of the genre," he said, "but: how so?"
He saw the flash of a smile crinkle her eyes before her more serious expression returned. "I've known you a day," she said, which didn't honestly tell him much more.
"That isn't true," he said. "You've known me for almost twenty years."
"Not constantly," she said. "We've both changed a lot over that time."
"Does it really feel like you've only known me a day?" he asked. "Because I can say with a great deal of confidence that I feel like I've known you much longer. New acquaintances are still dancing carefully around one another, afraid to say what they're thinking, feeling self-conscious, guard fully in place. I don't feel like that at all."
She smiled shyly and looked down again. "No," she said at last. "I don't suppose I do, either."
"That's good," he said. "I'm not sure what the problem is then."
"I should, though," she explained, looking up again. "Should be more cautious."
He furrowed his brows.
In a small voice she added, "Shouldn't want to keep you up late, with court in morning and work and all."
What she meant precisely was not lost on him, and he was flattered… and even more attracted to her than before. "Ahh," he began. "I, um. I see."
He heard her chuckle, slightly nervously. "I'm not sure if causing you to fumble for words is a good thing."
"You caught me off guard," he said. "Especially when the next thing I was going to ask you was only if you were still interested in dinner on Friday, too."
"Oh." He saw her skin turn pink.
"You misunderstand," he explained. "That was just me being cautious."
"Oh," she said again with a smile.
He reached and set his container down on the floor, then reached over to take her face in his hand, brushing his thumb over her cheek, before dropping his head to place his lips on hers for a kiss. He combed his fingers back into her hair; she sighed a little into his mouth as the kiss deepened, and he slid his hand across her back to pull her closer, soft and sweet pressed up against him in his arms.
He then heard the thunk of her carton hitting the floor, of her chopsticks striking the wood, and they broke apart with a chuckle.
"Sorry," she said, her laughter fading, leaving them gazing into one another's eyes.
It would have been so easy to resume that kiss, and easier still to carry on making love to her, but he instead said quietly, "It is late… and I should go."
"Oh." Hesitantly, she nodded, though it didn't seem like she really understood; she looked slightly hurt. "Okay."
He brushed her long fringe out of her eyes. "Court is early… and I would prefer to take my time, give you my full attention."
He watched a smile spark her features. "Okay," she said again.
"Okay," he repeated with a smile, then ducked forward for a quick kiss before getting to his feet, then reaching his hand to take hers as she stood too.
"Thank you for a most memorable day," he said. "Two, actually."
She laughed. "Likewise."
After slipping into his coat, she walked with him to the door. He pulled it open, preparing to leave, when she asked in an amused tone, "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Oh, of course. Pardon my manners."
He turned and gave her a kiss goodnight; before he knew it she was in his arms again and he was kissing her slowly, languorously, and with more passion than he should have been considering he was on his way out the door.
"Mark," she said, pulling away. "I meant my number."
"What?" he asked.
She looked amused; he wasn't sure how he felt about it. At last she continued, "How can you call me about Friday if you don't have my number?"
He laughed, cupping her face in his hand gently. "If this day goes against all dating guides and self-help etiquette," he said, "then they're obviously wrong. Sod them all."
She laughed too.
She popped back into the flat proper to get a notepad and a pen, then scrawled down her numbers for him and tore the page out.
"Hand that to me."
He wrote his own numbers down, both home and mobile.
"If we're telling self-help and dating etiquette books to sod off," he explained as he did so, "there's no reason why you shouldn't call me."
………
Bridget smiled as she accepted the pen and pad back from him, saw he had put his numbers there in very precise printing.
"Talk to you soon," she said as she looked back up at him, very seriously in danger of getting lost in his dark brown eyes. She too never would have guessed all those years ago that she might have ended up falling hard for the tall, lanky nerd she'd first befriended in the potting shed.
"Count on it," he said, then, after folding the slip of paper twice and slipping it into his pocket, he walked down the stairs. She stayed at the open flat door, watching him until she could no longer see him and then even still beyond that, leaning against the jamb and feeling a little starry-eyed.
Well, she thought, I have a right to be; he is a good kisser.
The end.
N.B. It was this description in the book Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (Chapter 3: Doooom!) that inspired my portrayal of Bridget the teenager:
Reminded me of when was fifteen and walking along lonely backstreet into town and man started following me then grabbed my arm. Turned to look at attacker in alarm. At time was v. thin in tight jeans. Also, however, had winged spectacles and brace on teeth. Man took one look at my face and ran off.