Letting Go
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 23,566 (Part 2: 6,393)
Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.
Part 2.
Haven't seen you in a while.
The chat window popped up unexpectedly while he was waiting to either find a chess partner, or have someone ask him to play. He had not seen BlueBelle18 in a while, but it was she who had pinged him via chat.
I know, he said in response. Things got complicated. Wife is really gone for good. He thought about the next round of paperwork, the meetings they would have, and he felt tears prick the corners of his eyes.
Sorry to hear, she said. Haven't been interested in chess so much as a friendly ear. You need one too from sound of it.
Yes, he said. Thanks.
You have been listening tho right?
Thought I had been. Tried my best, he said. The thing is, though, that I still love her more than anything in the world, that everything I did—that I do—is only because I love her.
There was no response right away. She knows that, right?
I've said it enough times, he responded. Don't know how she can't. He stopped to sip at his ale. How about you? What's going on?
Splitting from husband, too, came the response. Things were looking up but everything went to shit. He just does not get me.
Sorry for you, he said. I wish I could say I didn't know how you felt. Maybe you'll have better luck next time.
LOL, she typed. At this rate will not be next time. Convent for me. Ha ha ha.
He chuckled. I strangely can't see you as the convent type, not with language like that.
ROTFL, she replied. You're right. Thx for laugh again.
It's just aggravating that my good intentions are being interpreted as something… not.
Well you know what they say about good intentions, she replied. Road to hell paved with em.
He chuckled, but realised she had a point. Will bear that in mind in future. Thanks. He had another long draw of his beer. Do you still love your husband?
She did not respond right away, such that he was convinced his connection had dropped, or hers had. But then he saw signs that she was typing. Yes, v much, she said. Love of life. Afraid things are now beyond repair tho.
He felt himself get very emotional. I'd do anything to fix things, myself, he said. If I only knew what I needed to do.
Another lengthy pause. Getting v weepy, she said. Need to go. Sorry.
Sorry to upset you, he said. Take care of yourself.
I will. You too.
And with that she was gone.
He sat back, feeling terrible for causing any sort of pain to his chess companion, however inadvertently. He also further pondered the old proverb about hell and good intentions, because if there ever was a description for where he was now, hell was surely it.
………
From the moment he clapped eyes on her, he knew it had been a mistake.
Talk through the office—through the legal community—of Mark's impending divorce meant that every woman he knew (or knew of him) who had ever had an inkling of fancy for him was suddenly giving him a bright smile and more attention than they ever had before. He hated every minute of it. He didn't want other women's attention. He only wanted his wife back.
It was Jeremy's idea—undoubtedly, one he'd had without the consultation of his own wife—for Mark to take out a second cousin of his, one who'd be visiting London from Birmingham in a few weeks' time. Jeremy claimed (with typical lack of grace) that with the last few nails about to be pounded into the coffin of Mark's second marriage, it would be a good idea to get the swing of the dating world again, what with all the women lining up to snag him. "She's nice," said Jeremy. "Sweetest girl you ever wanted to know. She's pretty, too."
After days on end of pressure, Mark relented and agreed to take the girl out for dinner. He told himself he was doing it to get Jeremy off of his back. He was certainly not interested in dating again. He still loved Bridget far too much.
"One dinner, Jeremy," he said in a dire tone. "I'm not making any promises and certainly no commitments."
"Wouldn't be so foolish as to assume."
He'd gone at the appointed time to the appointed address and knocked on the flat door. It swung aside to reveal a thin woman no older than thirty-five, with shoulder-length straight dark hair and dark eyes. Her attire was modest yet slightly snug; the collar of her jumper was vee-shaped and though no lower than anything Bridget had ever worn, seemed too low; her skirt came to just above her knee. She was wearing modest heels yet combined with her height they put her as tall as he was.
"You must be Mark." With the way she was looking at him, smiling at him, he felt decidedly like a piece of meat under studious inspection.
If not for his good manners he would have excused himself and gone home just then.
"Yes," he said courteously. "And you're Jeremy's cousin Marjorie."
"Indeed I am. Nice to meet you." She stepped forward, pulling her door closed, twisting the knob to make sure it had locked, then, with her thumb looped on her purse strap, she beamed a smile at him again. "Shall we?"
He held out his hand to suggest she head down the stairs first. She did.
Mark had decided not to take this woman to any of the places he and Bridget had liked to go together. He chose instead a new restaurant, a steak house with a casual atmosphere. He did, however, know it was just the sort of place Bridget would have loved.
"Oh," said Marjorie, looking around the place, her expression betraying her disappointment at their surroundings. She added in what he assumed to be an apologetic time, "From what I'd heard I was expecting something more upscale."
A short while after they were seated and had ordered, after their wine had arrived and been poured, Marjorie drank from her glass and pushed past all of the small talk right off of the bat. "So Jeremy tells me you've recently split from your wife. I'm sorry."
"Yes," he said.
"Must be very difficult for you," she continued. "Being in this wonderful city, a good-looking man like yourself, all alone…"
His hackles raised. "I'm getting by, so far."
"You're a barrister as well?"
"Yes. Jeremy and I work together."
She reached her hand out and placed it on his. "If there's anything you want to talk about, anything at all, I'm here for you."
I barely know you, Mark thought, fighting the urge to recoil back from her touch because he did not want to be rude. She was, after all, only trying to be nice, even if her boundaries were ill-defined. His thoughts, oddly enough, flashed to his chess companion; he realised that if there was anyone with whom he would want to commiserate about his woes, it would have been her. She truly understood.
The waiter arrived at that moment with dinner; with another smile she retreated her hand, brushing her fingers along the back of his. "If you want," she said again with a little nod.
Regaining his composure, he said, "So, Marjorie, what is it that you do for a living?"
"Nothing as exciting as being a barrister," she replied. "I'm an administrative assistant at the university. Lots of taking care of professors and students."
"Which department?" he asked.
"The English department," she said. "Love working there, and the campus is beautiful—"
She continued to speak, but Mark did not hear. English was what Bridget had gotten her degree in. He felt a forced smile creep across his lips as he met her gaze.
"But enough about me," she said with a bubbly laugh. "Tell me more about your work. I hear you've been involved in a few very big cases: Kafir Aghani, something in Mexico and Peru… Jeremy can't help but gush about your work."
He didn't think her praise was in any way fraudulent. He was not susceptible to flattery, but it was nice to hear a kind word thrown in his direction. "Thank you. I find it's important work to do. Challenging but ultimately very rewarding."
"I bet," she said admiringly. "I can't imagine staring down, oh, I don't know, some Chinese diplomat. I can barely get through talking to surly faculty members."
He laughed lightly, causing her to smile too.
"What?" he asked, noticing the odd, faraway look in her eyes.
"Just thinking what a nice smile you have," she replied.
He swallowed hard, firming his jaw, reminding himself that ultimately he needed to retain his distance. "Thank you," he said curtly.
She glanced down to her plate, continuing to eat. "Whoops," she said. "I stepped in it, didn't I?"
He thought for a moment about what to say, and decided to just be upfront about it. He tried for a sympathetic yet firm tone. "It isn't really you, Marjorie, or what you said. I am sure you're a very nice woman. It's just that Jeremy… well, I'm afraid he thinks I should be ready to brave the dating world again, and I thought maybe he was right, but I guess I'm just not ready after all."
She watched him carefully as he spoke; if she was hurt or angry (which he wouldn't have blamed her for at all), her expression did not reflect it. "Still love your wife," she said at last, smiling wistfully. "I can sort of read it all over your face."
"Is it that obvious?" he asked.
She grinned. "Yeah."
"I apologise if I—or your cousin—misled you in any way," he said.
"Really, it's all right. I'll get over it." She paused. "Besides, I know him all too well. You should have told Jerrers to bug off."
"Next time, I will." He smiled again, and so did she.
With expectations correctly set, the rest of dinner was pleasant enough; he insisted on paying for the meal and escorted her back to the car and back to her flat.
"It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance," Mark said. "Enjoy the rest of your time in London."
"Same here," Marjorie replied, then smiled furtively. "And if you ever find yourself over your wife, let me know."
Truthfully it was pleasant in a way to think he might be appealing to another woman, even if he wasn't interested in her himself. He decided to keep his response neutral, though, as he did not want to get her hopes up; instead, he offered a polite smile and said, "Good night, Marjorie."
"Good night."
He arrived home and was tempted to head straight for bed, but thought he might check and see if BlueBelle18 was online. When he logged into his computer, he found he had an email waiting from her via the inbox connected to the chess site.
Numan,
Was hoping to see you on the site tonight, but couldn't stick around there, so thought I would pop you a note to say 'hi' instead. So, 'hi'. Hope everything is okay, that you are just out with your friends, and not drowning sorrows in bottle of rum. Take care.
~BlueBelle18
He found himself smiling, as her words echoed the thoughts he'd had before finding his online chess hobby. He hit the Reply button to respond.
BlueBelle18,
'Hi' back. Pleasant night, no rum involved, just glass of wine over dinner away from lonely house. Hope all's well with you, too.
Numan
He felt a little strange signing his email with his online moniker, but figured it was proper etiquette to follow her lead. He locked his computer up again, then trudged back upstairs for bed.
………
"Well, here we are."
He looked down to her, observed her reaction at the décor in what he considered to be the finest restaurant in London. She looked beautiful with her off-the-shoulder dress, her hair swept up in a twist, her elegant silver necklace shining in the light against her gleaming skin. She turned her eyes to meet his. "It's lovely."
"I'm glad you like it," he said. It was nice at last to take her out to a proper date, not takeaway, not a pub, not the movies, but to a top-flight, first-class restaurant where he could treat her to an evening she deserved.
They were just in time for their reservation, and walking with her on his arm to their table was a moment of beaming pride and pleasure; she was easily the most gorgeous woman in the room, though he did admit to himself that he might have been a tiny bit biased.
They placed their orders—she went with pasta; he chose beef—and shortly afterward the sommelier came around to suggest vintages based on what they would be eating. There was just something almost magical about their being there: the warm, private ambience; her eyes reflecting the candlelight; her hand over his on the table; the comfortably silent moments in which the only communication they had was with their eyes. He was happy to finally have the chance to show her what she meant to him; after all, it wasn't every woman he wanted to bring here.
Dinner arrived; he thought his was delicious, and she seemed to enjoy hers as well, though she seemed to pick through it slowly, almost as if to match his pace. He suggested dessert, but she declined, which surprised him.
After retrieving their coats, he asked as they walked out of the restaurant, "Is everything all right?"
"Yes," she said. "Fine."
"Did you not enjoy supper?"
"It was delicious," she said in a not-at-all convincing tone.
"Bridget," he said, "you seem distracted. What is it?"
Pausing as they got to the car, she sighed, looking a little sheepish. "Feel kind of silly, since you went through the effort and paid a fortune for dinner tonight, and it really was a great restaurant, but… in all honesty… I would have been just as happy going for takeaway."
He drew his brows close. "Did you not like the food?"
"Oh, yes, amazing food though a bit small on the portion; fantastic wine." She pursed her lips. "It was just rather… posh."
She said 'posh' like it was somehow a vulgarity.
"Well, yes. It's a five-star—"
"Mark, you miss my meaning," she interrupted, then smiled, reaching up to run her fingers delicately over his face; with the heeled shoes she was wearing it was less of a reach for her. "It's not where we go that matters to me, or what we eat. I appreciate your treating me to such a lovely evening, but in the end, all that really matters to me is that I'm with you, and that doesn't cost a thing extra."
He looked at her, not quite sure what to say. So he didn't say anything. He just kissed her.
………
The following morning, even though he did not usually do so, he checked his email before leaving for work, and found another message from his online friend.
Numan,
Wish could say I took own advice. Part of a bottle of wine helped to half-drown my own sorrows. Understandable as learned that husband already has new girlfriend. But! This has strengthened my resolve. I made the right choice.
~BB18
He felt terrible for her. He shot off a quick reply.
I'm so sorry to hear. What are your prospects? Back to school? Working?
Numan
Surprisingly he got an immediate response:
LOL! Thanks for chuckle. I'll keep working. Still.
~BB18
Mark glanced to the time. He decided to reply anyway.
It's a pity someone as smart as you has given up attending university. You should consider it.
Within a few moments, he had another reply.
Have finished university! Good grief. How old do you think I am?
Gotta go.
~BB18
He sat back, feeling slightly stunned, wondering how old she might actually have been. Signing out of the computer, he gathered up his bag and headed to his office.
………
As days go, it wasn't a bad one; a little slow, with most cases in a pending state or on a back burner waiting for a ruling, which meant his mind frequently drifted back to previous conversations with his chess companion. He wondered whether or not she'd ever said anything to make him think she was very young, or if it was an assumption he'd made based on her username alone; if there was anything she'd said that hinted to her true age.
He couldn't think of anything, either way.
When he arrived home, he found himself heading to his computer with his dinner again, scolding himself for willingly developing such a bad habit.
It was hard to resist a friendly face, virtual or not.
There were no emails awaiting him; she was not to be found on the chess site, either. He brought up a new email message and wrote the following.
Quite the mystery then; I guess I thought you younger than you are. I apologise if I offended you. (A gentleman does not ask a lady her age.)
If you're around, I am too. A good chess game might be what the doctor ordered.
Numan
Within a few minutes she appeared in chat on the chess site.
Hey, she wrote. How's it goin?
Not too badly. Yourself?
Residual headache from last night. Don't trounce me too badly at chess, ok?
He smiled. I'll do my best.
To her unmitigated surprise—OMG!! appeared repeatedly in the chat log—she won the challenge.
You let me win, she typed, followed by a smiley face.
I swear that is not the case. It just proves you're gifted… regardless of your age.
LOL, she said. Very smooth of you before. Shall have to spread word far and wide on the site that Numan is a gentleman.
I think I can handle the notoriety, he replied.
Are you a famous person lurking amongst the unwashed chess masses? she asked.
No, he replied, though his renown as a barrister might have qualified. Not really.
What kind of answer is 'not really'? You either are or aren't.
He didn't want to get too deeply into personal details, so he deflected it by asking, What about you? For all I know you're, oh, Paul McCartney.
LOL! she said. Totally wrong plumbing.
At that he chuckled outright, sitting back in his chair, eating another forkful of his pan fried noodles.
Maybe you are Paul! she added.
I can assure you I have never handled a guitar in my life, he typed, then added a smiley of his own.
Oh, come now, fess up, she said. You're secretly sitting on the Beatles' fortune.
This light exchange continued back and forth for many minutes; it kept Mark's spirits lifted for the longest stretch since Bridget had gone.
Thank you for the laugh, he said. I've been so down since my wife left.
I know what you mean, she replied. Well, not wife, but, you know.
He smiled again. Yes.
After a minute or two of nothing, she returned, Thanks yourself. It's nice to feel happy again, even for a little while.
Glad to oblige, he replied.
I'm glad we bumped into each other. Most of the other players avoid me, she typed. Or they treat me badly because I win so much.
They're just jealous, I'm sure.
It would be nice to take comfort in that, she replied. But since this is a place to escape… well, it sucks to be shunned in one's so-called happy place.
I'm so sorry. You should always feel free to find me. I find your ability to beat me refreshing. He then added a smiley face.
She did not reply right away, which always made him wonder if he'd said something wrong, though he knew logically as not she might have just gone off to the loo. At last, she gave a reply:
*Hug* Thanks a bunch for makin me smile.
The hug, however virtual, made him blink in astonishment; it was such an expressive, impulsive thing to do. He wasn't sure about offering one in return, thought only of the last actual embrace he'd been in, and felt like even a virtual hug might be a betrayal against his wife. Instead, he only offered a neutral, You're welcome. And thank you.
Anytime.
He glanced at the clock and saw that far too much time had passed. I have to go. Long day tomorrow. He thought of the meeting scheduled the next day with Bridget and their respective lawyers. It was something he dreaded.
Yeah, she replied. Same here. Tell you what, meet you back here for a consolatory game tomorrow night.
Sounds excellent.
And I have another idea.
What?
No more talking of real-life woes, and of soon-to-be exes. This is our happy place.
Wistfully he nodded to himself. Sounds like a plan. Until tomorrow, then.
He logged off of the site, then leaned back in the chair, rubbing his thumbs into his eyes.
………
"Sir?"
Mark looked up lightning fast at the attentive man behind the jewellery counter.
"Would you like to see alternative options?"
"No, thank you," he said. He had his choices narrowed down to two: one with a marquise cut stone, and another with a round one. He was very fond of the marquise, but the round cut stone had additional smaller stones flanking it on the band, and it really just sparkled from every angle. "I'm not sure which between these two."
"Both are fine choices," said the staff member. "Both equally stunning. I will say that I do tend to suggest for our customers who tend to do work with their hands that the round is a better choice."
"Why do you suggest that?"
"The point on each end of the marquise cut tends to catch on things," he advised. "That can loosen the prongs and result in a loss of the gem itself."
Mark thought about this, and felt his mouth curl into a smile. He loved his Bridget, but had no illusions about her sometimes clumsiness. "Think I'd better go with the round, then."
The man smiled. "I'm sure your intended will love it."
………
"I just hope she's reasonable about this."
Mark looked up to Roger Whitman, his lawyer.
"That she won't try to do what so many women do," the man continued. "Try to demand more than to which they're entitled." Roger glanced down. "You were mad to not have drawn up a prenuptial agreement, Mark; when a woman's divorcing a man who's well-off—"
"Bridget won't do that," he said flatly. "She's never been in it for the money."
"I can't tell you how many husbands have told me that, only to be shocked in negotiations."
Mark sighed, steepling his fingers on the table before him. "Bridget won't." He was sure of this as of the sun rising the next morning.
Roger looked sceptical but did not reply, and it was just as well, as a rap on the conference room door announced the arrival of Bridget and her lawyer, a man called Stanley Harrison, one Mark knew by reputation as being personable yet sharp as a tack, and reasonable and fair in his advice.
After greetings—during which Bridget remained silent, head bowed, not meeting Mark's eyes; he noticed with a stab of pain to his heart that she looked pale and a little gaunt—they all sat at the table and began the meeting. "I just want to state for the record," said Stanley, "that I have strongly advised my client against her chosen course of action."
No, thought Mark, his mind instantly leaping to Roger's proclamation. Not you, Bridget.
"She has advised me to tell you she doesn't want anything."
It took a moment for it to sink in. Roger stepped up and asked, presumably to clarify the statement, "Doesn't want anything in addition to what—?"
"No," interrupted Bridget. "I don't want anything, full stop."
Mark's stomach sunk. "At least take the house, Bridget," he insisted. "I can find somewhere else to live and you can sell it if you want."
"No," she said again, very firmly. "It was yours before we met. It should stay yours."
"Then at least I can provide support—" began Mark, while his lawyer interjected that he and Stanley were the ones to be negotiating these things.
"I've made up my mind," she said. "I can take care of myself."
"Bridget," said Stanley authoritatively, turning a little red in the face, "I must insist that as your legal consultant in this matter—"
She made a scoffing sound and shot the man a piercing look, one that broke Mark's heart a little; it was a look he was familiar with when she got into one of her stubborn moods. He wanted nothing more than to pull her into his arms.
Instead, Mark said, "Bridget, take the support I'm offering."
"I said I've made up my mind," she said, looking away and out of the window. "I have my flat and my job and I don't need anyone to support me. I don't understand what's so hard to grasp here."
"Bridget, I made a vow to—" said Mark.
"I made a vow too," she said fiercely, flashing her eyes back to him, "and yet that's all being dissolved, isn't it?"
Mark did not know what to say to such a rejoinder, and instead felt himself go cold all over, turning away from her. Roger spoke up. "I think we should table this for the time being."
Stanley agreed, getting to his feet. "Yes. Come on, let's go."
Mark, still unable to look at her, heard the scraping of her chair against the floor as she pushed it back to stand. She said nothing more, and he did not move until the conference door closed behind them.
"Mark," said Roger, looking a little perplexed. "This may yet turn out to be the easiest divorce I've ever handled, so why go and complicate things? If she's going to insist in not accepting your support, let's roll with it."
"No," he said firmly. "I want to support her."
Roger looked at him soberly. "Mark. She's not going to be your wife anymore. You have to let go of the notion of supporting her, wanting to or having to."
He felt the sinews of his jaw clenching as he fought back the emotions swirling in his mind, in his gut. "We're finished today," Mark said curtly. "I'm going home."
He did not, in fact, go home. He broke his pact about drinking to relieve his sorrows and went to the Carlton for a shot of scotch to steel himself for the return home, thankful that he'd had the presence of mind to ask his driver in advance to bring him to the meeting. He guessed he'd known deep down that the meeting would be difficult, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself.
If not for the promised match on the chess site, he might have stayed for a few more.
He turned over in his head again and again what would possess Bridget to refuse his support, aside from wanting to make a statement that she could take care of herself. The fact that Bridget was acting as if she wanted to reset her life, pick it up where she'd left it before they met, before they married, made him angrier than he wanted to admit. He felt not only rejected, but betrayed. It was like she was trying to erase their time together, like the whole relationship and marriage had been the biggest mistake she'd ever made; that she was trying to sever all ties to him, to their life together, acting as if she couldn't forget him quickly enough. What had he ever done to deserve such treatment? He had not been unfaithful; he had not lied to her; he had not treated her unkindly. He had always thought of their marriage as happy. As perfect. The most he could be accused of, in his own mind, was of being overly attentive, of loving her too much.
He didn't have an appetite to eat, even though he knew he should, so he opted for something relatively bland and easy on the stomach, baked chicken and mash with gravy. As dinner was placed on the table before him, he could think only of Bridget's mother's obsession with gravy.
Everything painfully reminded him of her in some way. He wondered if it would ever stop.
Upon returning home, he went straight back into his office and to his computer. An email message was waiting for him.
Hope your day was better than mine. Am hanging out in chat and at chess table waiting.
~BB18
He went straight to the chess site and as promised, she was there.
Sorry, he said. Went out for some dinner.
Ah yes, she returned. We must keep eating, mustn't we? Only positive thing to come out of all of this is that have managed to drop some stubborn weight. Ha ha. :-/
He could tell she did not seriously think it funny. No woes. Happy place.
*Hug* Thx for reminder, she wrote back. Shall we begin?
They engaged in a game, and he could tell that neither were at the top of their game; it took them each a lot longer to make their moves, and the game ended in a draw for the first time in their association.
Wow, he said. Day must have been harder on me than I thought.
It's all right, she replied. It was a nice distraction nonetheless, God knows need one. After a pause of quiet, she asked, Have a question for you, if you don't mind. Verges out of happy place bounds.
No, he replied. Go ahead.
Have you considered seeing someone else?
Mark was thoughtful for a moment, caught up with the idea of distraction, and of what Roger had said that had affected him so deeply (about Bridget soon not being his wife anymore), of the women of his acquaintance who were, to quote Jeremy, lining up to get a crack at him.
At last he wrote, Not seriously. You said your husband had another girlfriend already. Have you considered it?
She did not respond right away. No. But if he's already moved on, I thought maybe I should try, too. Did not know if it was too soon.
Probably different for everyone, he replied, thinking it probably depended greatly on how much one still loved one's soon-to-be former spouse. Maybe you should try.
Maybe, she replied. Maybe you should, too.
He sighed, thinking of the way Bridget had talked to him, looked at him, made him feel that day. Maybe.
………
There was a quiet rap on his office door the next day. He looked up from his work and called out quietly, "Come in."
The person who came tentatively into his office was one of the last people in the world he expected to see. Her hair had gotten a little longer, making her look less severe, and she offered him a gentle smile. "Natasha," he said, astonished. "I had no idea you were in town."
"Just for business, and just for a little while," she said, stepping fully in, and closing the door behind her. "I heard about your divorce. I'm sorry."
He supposed she was not sincere, and was half-surprised she didn't say 'I told you so', but realised it would have been impolitic of her to say so, especially if her visit was an attempt to wedge her way back into his life. "It isn't final yet," he said. "But thank you."
"You're welcome, Mark," she said. "Pains me to think of you having to go through that again." Mark could only think there was no comparing the two. "But the real reason I stopped by was to see if you were interested in having lunch."
He glanced to the clock, saw it was indeed lunchtime.
"As friends," she added. "Nothing more."
He wondered if his suspicious look had been that transparent. After a moment of thought, of realising he should eat, he agreed. "Let me slip my jacket on."
Natasha being Natasha, she of course opted for posh, and after a quick call to confirm a table for two, they departed for The Ivy. Natasha chattered on about having missed the place as they entered, which didn't surprise him in the least; it was the sort of place to go to be seen, and soon after their arrival he regretted ever having agreed to going there.
Well, he thought. Nothing to be done about it now.
They ordered drinks with lunch, chatting amicably about Natasha's career and life in New York City, when movement in his periphery caught his eye. He glanced over and had to do a double-take when he realised that a blonde woman entering with a handsome, distinguished-looking man was in fact Bridget. She was smiling, seemingly ruddy with joy, as they were led towards their table.
As if sensing his gaze upon her, Bridget's eyes locked on his. She looked startled to see him, but quickly hid it; both of them knew that speaking to one another was unavoidable. As she got closer, he could see the disgust, the disapproval, in her look at his choice of companion.
"Hello," she said coolly, pausing next to their table. "Natasha." The way she said it underscored what he'd read in her expression: You've gone back to that bitch; how could you? He wanted to explain, but thought it futile.
"Bridget," said Natasha. "Are you going to introduce your… friend?"
Mark inwardly winced.
Bridget lifted her chin, then turned to her companion. "This is Paul." He was tall and lithe, wore trendy squarish glasses, had his light brown hair pulled into a ponytail, and dressed casually in a dress shirt and trousers, with no suit jacket or tie. He smiled in a friendly manner and held his hand out. He clearly had no idea who Mark was, holding his hand out to shake.
Mark got to his feet; Bridget looked panicked for a moment, but Mark only accepted the handshake as the polite thing to do. "I'm Mark," he said. "Bridget's husband."
Paul looked astonished. "Oh. She told me—"
"We are divorcing," Bridget said in that same cold tone, meeting Mark's eyes. "Well. Have a nice lunch." With that she gestured that she and Paul should head off towards their table.
Mark felt shaken to the core. Unperturbed, Natasha carried on with their small talk, but the only thing that existed in Mark's universe was that Bridget was at a table having lunch with another man. His attention kept diverting back to her, where she was obviously having a great time, smiling, laughing, talking animatedly, except for those moments when she would catch him looking, and her high spirits would flag for that moment.
"So, another man," said Natasha, in one of the rare instances in which he was actually paying attention to her. "That must sting, to have history repeat itself like that."
Mark felt his expression go stony. "Infidelity did not factor into this."
"Oh, I'm sorry," she said, looking a little contrite, which he was certain she was feigning once more. "I just… assumed. I apologise. They just seem so, well, you know. Chummy."
Mark set his fork down, and met her gaze. "I think we're done here."
"Yes," she said lightly. "I'm finished as well. I'll try to get the attention—"
"That's not what I meant," he said in a low tone. "Did you come to see me just to crow over the failure of my marriage to Bridget? Or did you think you might have still had a chance with me?"
She looked stunned, but from the way she was rapidly blinking, he could tell he'd hit the bull's-eye. "Mark, I would never do—"
"If being with Bridget has taught me one thing," he interrupted, "it's the ability to see through artifice and façade. I guess it's been long enough to have forgotten you're a master of both."
The waitperson appeared just then, looking sheepish at having interrupted at such a tense moment. "Will there be anything else for you, sir, ma'am?"
"No, thank you," he said. He reached in for his wallet, but she spoke up.
"No, I invited you to lunch. I'll pay." She pulled out her handbag, fished out a card and gave it to the young woman. "I'll hand it to you, Mark," she said, cocking her brow, smiling almost as an admission of defeat. "At least in your time with her, you've grown a bit of a spine."
It was Mark's turn to be shocked, though he tried not to let it show.
She continued. "Not that it matters to you at this point, but I think it makes you even more attractive." Her card and the receipt were returned, which she signed; she tucked the card back into her handbag before flashing her dark eyes to him again. "Can't blame me for trying, Mark. I've always thought we were a good match. Equals. Compatible. I'm sorry you don't feel the same way."
"It's good to hear that might actually have finally sunk in," he said.
With that, they both rose from the table, and ever the gentleman, he allowed her to precede him out the restaurant. He resisted the urge to cast his gaze back to look at Bridget.
For the rest of the afternoon Mark was distracted by thoughts of lunch, of the things Natasha had said to him, her observations about being a stronger man than he used to be, but mostly he thought of his conversation via chat about being ready to put his marriage behind him and move on, of seeing Bridget there with another man. He had thought it was too soon, but she obviously did not feel the same way.
Maybe it was time to move on, after all.