Letting Go
By S. Faith, © 2009
Words: 23,566 (Part 3: 4,957)
Rating: M / R (mostly for language and adult situations)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.
Part 3.
Did you have a good time?
Mark had to think about it for a little bit before answering. It was all right, I guess. Dinner at least was good.
Oh, dear, she said. That does not bode well.
He sighed, and agreed silently. It had been the second woman he'd asked out for dinner in the last three weeks, and it was the second time he'd had a pleasant enough evening out, but he had not felt that pull, that spark he'd felt when he'd met Bridget. No, it doesn't, does it.
Maybe third time will be the charm?
He chuckled bitterly. In thinking of what had gone so horribly wrong with Bridget, he decided that perhaps they had just been too different. He had therefore been focusing his energy and attention on women he considered to be more like himself, more moderately behaved, more mature. As he'd endured one date after another, he realised they'd had more in common with the likes of Natasha than he found palatable; each of the women he'd taken out had turned out to be insufferably overly polished and artificial.
The whole notion of dating had not been working out very well for him at all. He was glad he had a friend, albeit a virtual one, to talk to nearly every evening; talking to his family was out of the question, as his mother, her mother once she caught wind, would have been scheming and interfering to get them back together. It was much easier for him to be a little more open with the mask of anonymity than he ordinarily would be, and he'd found a friend who could make him laugh and forget about the disasters of day to day life as he wandered through the shambles of his broken marriage and the minefield of the dating world.
At last he typed, I'm about ready to hang it all up.
Nah, she replied. Gotta keep at it. You'll strike gold one of these times.
What about you? he asked, tired of conversation being focused on how his night had gone. Meet anyone new?
There was no activity for a while; he watched the screen, took another sip of his wine. At long last there was an answer. No.
Well, he replied. Gotta keep at it.
:-/
He knit his brows. What's that about?
There's really no one else I want but my husband.
He sat back in the chair. I know the feeling.
Her immediate reply: Though wife.
Yes, he replied with a chuckle. Right.
Hope that got you at least to smile.
It did.
Maybe, she said, if I don't eventually find someone, I can meet up with you for a drink and play chess over a real board with marble pieces. JK.
He must have been silent for too long, for she added:
You do know that means Just Kidding, right?
He shook his head, shook himself out of his fugue. Meet up with someone from the internet? That seemed somehow unnatural and wrong. I didn't, but thanks. Kind of figured you were kidding though.
After all, she continued, you might be in like LA or Paris or for all I know Hong Kong.
Mark chuckled. I would be eating dinner at a very strange time for Hong Kong.
LOL, she said. Who knows, maybe you're some kind of night-shift doctor or something. Or you eat really early so you could go to bed by sundown. For all I know you're a dairy farmer!
Oh, you've found me out, he said, chuckling under his breath. I'm the cheese king of the American Midwest.
She was silent again for a while. Oh God, she said at last. Hurting myself laughing.
He was grinning still; it was so freeing to kid around, to laugh, to not feel weighed down with the pressures of life. Well, you know, this dairy farmer's got to get to bed. Bessie doesn't abide human schedules.
LOL, she said. Sleep well, and don't forget to hang up your straw hat.
With that he signed out, and as his smile faded, he thought again about her offer to meet up if they found no one else. It certainly had its appeal. His online interactions with her were refreshing, charming, and very comfortable; as much as he liked the anonymity of his chess persona, he didn't imagine that their face-to-face interactions would be any different. It might also give me an advantage at chess, he thought with a small smile, if she has a terrible poker face.
………
"What is this?"
"It's a picnic. I want to go to Primrose Hill." She had come down to the street from her flat with a basket, a blanket and a big smile.
"It's March."
"It's sunny."
"It's still cold."
"It'll be nice."
He knew it was probably a bad idea, but he found himself warming to the idea. He smiled. "All right."
The moment they arrived, she set down the basket and spread the blanket down under a broad tree, but still in the sun. Still beaming a smile she pulled out the sandwiches and the wine, then sat on the blanket.
"I think we have the entire park to ourselves," quipped Mark, taking the glasses in hand. She then poured wine in each of them, then unwrapped the sandwiches and set one in front of him. The sandwiches were delicious; the wine was not the highest quality vintage, sweeter than he usually liked, but tasty in its own way. It felt marvellous to be out of doors after a winter filled with grey skies, out in the sun and green of the park, watching the sunlight and the breeze play in her hair, all of London encompassing them. While the food and the surroundings were enjoyable, they paled in comparison to her company, which he always enjoyed.
They finished their sandwiches and carried on with the wine as the sun shifted and dipped behind the tree. She tried to hide it but he noticed her teeth starting to chatter.
"Come here," he said, holding his free arm out. She curled up next to him, snuggling into his warmth. He rubbed his hand up and down her upper arm, along the cotton of her jumper.
"Perhaps a picnic in March wasn't my best idea," she admitted, after he squeezed her tight to him again.
"Oh, I beg to differ," he said softly.
………
There was an unreal sensation to Mark's life without Bridget, one that started to make him doubt his sanity, as if that wonderful interlude with her had been some kind of dream or illusion and that he was and would ever be a man living on his own with only his work to comfort him; a glance down to his hand, however, to the band that signified his now-tenuous bond with her, told him it had been no dream.
Maybe the dream was actually that she was gone, and he'd wake back to his warm, wonderful reality soon. Not that he really believed it, but it was a nice fantasy to harbour.
Ironically enough, divorce proceedings were halted on the fact that Mark refused to sign any paperwork that did not include terms of support. Roger told him it was the strangest impasse he'd ever encountered in all of his years as a divorce attorney. Technically, Bridget could have accepted the cheques and signed them over to whomever she wanted, but the principle of the matter prevented her from doing even that. Even Roger joked on more than one occasion that she could have signed them over to Roger to help pay for his therapy.
The fact remained, though, that she didn't want any attachment remaining to him, nothing to keep her in any way indebted to him. It saddened him every time he thought too much about it.
There were also some good moments when his mood was brightened; the occasional innocent remark—mention of the Beatles, or Hong Kong, or even cheese—would remind him of one of his conversations with BlueBelle18, and he would grin, causing comment more than once from Jeremy or Giles that the poor, lonely, almost-divorced man must have found someone to make him smile. He hadn't explained, because it would have taken far too much time, and the amount of teasing he would have gotten for 'hanging out in chat rooms' would have been too much to bear. He preferred to let them think what they wanted.
These positive moments, while wonderful, were few and far between in comparison.
………
It was an innocent glance through the paper that had caused him to realise, truly realise, that his marriage was over. He'd been eating breakfast, drinking his coffee and reading the paper when his eyes lit upon an article about a sort of literary boom in London.
That was when he'd seen it.
Even our own Bridget Jones was in the right place at the right time when the book-deal fairy waved her wand; Pygmalion Books announced today they've signed our weekly columnist to a three book deal rumoured to be at least 6 figures. Our very best wishes; we knew her when…
The paper slid from his hand. A book deal was what she had always wanted; how happy and pleased he was for her. That he had learned of it through the newspaper God knows how many days after the fact was like a slap in the face or a bucket of cold water over his head, signifying to him that she no longer cared enough to share such life-changing news with him.
That was the cold truth of it. She no longer cared.
Upon second read, he sighed and tried not to be too bitter. She wasn't even using his name anymore.
………
Do you think it's possible to love someone too much?
He wondered after hitting Return if he had gone too far, trespassed past the bounds of the 'happy place' and was about to offer an apology when she replied.
Well, yes, she said; that's why restraining orders exist. JK.
He felt a smile tug at his mouth, but carried on. I'm being serious, Mark returned.
Of course you are, you're always very serious, she replied, then added a smiley. Do you mean, she began, then paused, the sort of thing like… I don't know, wanting to be involved in every little thing she does, wanting to know where she is at all times, doing little things for her to the point of madness?
Yes, he said. I wouldn't say point of madness, but that's the gist.
Don't know. Think it is a bit obsessive.
But isn't loving someone all about wanting them to be happy, safe, well-cared-for?
She did not respond immediately. Well of course, she said, then paused again. But there's a point where one starts to wonder if a man like that has any respect for the person he loves when he treats her more like an object that needs to be tended to, watered and fed, than an equal partner in life yet still a person in her own right.
He sat back in his seat for a moment to think before he replied, But of course there's respect. A person can't really love someone they don't respect.
That's true, she said, but if a person doesn't seem to respect another through the things they do, how can the love they profess be considered to be genuine, either? There was a pause. We are getting awfully serious, indeed, and well beyond our 'happy place' border.
I'm sorry, he said. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I feel like I'm getting divorced for no reason at all, like I'm being punished for trying as hard as I do.
*Hugs* came her response. Too bad they haven't yet made those Star Trek transporter things. I'd come take you out for a drink.
A smile found its way through his dark emotions. Very tempting, but I try to resist drinking when I'm feeling down. Not a good habit to form.
Probably right, she said. Though I kind of want one myself.
Well, he said. If all else fails, I will meet you for that drink, and for a game of chess. Name the place.
You bet. After a moment she added, Still love her after everything you've been through, don't you?
Yes, he replied. I still wholeheartedly love my wife… even if she doesn't love me.
And you know for a fact she doesn't love you?
I saw her with another man. On a date. Looking—he remembered Natasha's words—very chummy.
Quiet again. Oh. I'm sorry.
It's not your fault, he replied. In fact, between the failed marriage and the failed dates, you're the one bright spot in my days, these days.
=D, she replied. Glad to help in even some small way. And to be honest, though work is going well, life is generally crap. Always glad to see you too.
He glanced to his watch. Once again, it was getting late. Have to go, he said. Won't be around tomorrow. Have another date. Gotta keep trying, right?
Good luck, she said in response. And if you need, I'll probably be around.
………
He'd asked Amanda out for dinner because of all of the women he'd considered at one point or another, she'd seemed the least interested in accepting; he knew through word of mouth that she was a bright woman, and had bumped into her often enough in the courthouse to know she really knew her way around one. She was his own age, very attractive, though never seemed to be aware of the fact, which was a plus in Mark's book. When he'd asked, Amanda had looked puzzled, but had ultimately accepted after getting an answer to her question (with a pointed look to his left hand): "Aren't you married?"
He was currently in marriage limbo, he realised; he was, yet wasn't, married. He'd explained that he was in the process of a divorce.
She was ready promptly at seven; her long auburn hair, usually kept twisted up into a chignon, was loose around her shoulders and waved gently, and she wore a pretty dress of the palest lavender. They were off to their destination, an Italian place she had chosen, and with the wine, their appetizers and lots of professional-related conversation, Mark was having a fairly nice time. Amanda seemed very reserved and pleasant, even if she did seem a bit fastidious about using the correct silverware.
At the beginning of the main meal, she asked him, "So I hadn't heard you were splitting from your wife. I'm sorry. Can't be easy."
"It's very hard, but I'm getting through it."
"So, if you don't mind me asking… when is your divorce final?"
"Very soon now," he said, choosing not to add that the reason it wasn't already was because it all pretty much hinged on his signature, which he refused to give. He refused not to support her.
"I've never been married," she said. "I always wanted one of those perfect fairytale weddings with the man of my dreams. Just hadn't found him… yet." She smiled flirtatiously, took a bite of pasta then drew her fork out of her mouth. "I think every girl has a plan for her wedding. The kind of dress she wants, the number of bridesmaids, the colour of their dresses…"
"It's good to have a plan," said Mark. "It's good to know what you want."
"Oh, I definitely have a plan," she said. She had a really nice smile, sparkling green eyes. "You strike me as the sort of man who likes to plan too."
"I'm definitely a planner," Mark replied. "Though over the years, I've… managed to loosen up a little."
"There's always a room for a little spontaneity," she said, "but one cannot live from spontaneous moment to spontaneous moment."
"True," he said, though could not help thinking how close he'd managed to come with Bridget; he then added in jest, "It's too hard to plan anything else around spontaneous moments."
He expected a chuckle or at least a smile, but did not expect no reaction at all, just a slightly blank expression and a blink of disbelief. "Of course not," she said. "That would be contradictory."
Mark's lips pulled into a thin smile. "Yes, of course," he said, eating another bite of dinner.
"So what do you think of the food?" she asked, suddenly more animated.
"Oh, it's very good," he said, looking up to her. "Very authentic."
"I'm glad you think so," she said, pushing a piece of penne through the sauce. "It is authentic, which is to say it's not the common, mass-market, Pizza Hut misconception of Italian food." She raised her eyes to him and smiled, then said confidentially, "To be honest, this was sort of a test. I couldn't carry on with a man who can't appreciate authentic cuisine."
He wasn't sure if he was flattered or alarmed.
"Don't worry," she said with a light laugh, probably at the change in his expression. "You passed, and I'm really glad you did."
He smiled, feeling slightly more at ease. "That's reassuring," he said.
Within short order they were finished with dinner; he drank down the last of his wine then touched his table napkin to his mouth. "Very good. Where did you ever hear about this place?"
"A friend of a friend's husband owns the place. I love introducing people to it."
"I'll be sure to further recommend it."
"Oh, hey, are you up for some espresso and dessert?" she asked. "I can't eat a whole slice of their tiramisu, but I don't come here that frequently, and it is superb."
"Certainly."
Upon the arrival of dessert, he sunk his fork into it to take off the corner, then brought it up to eat. It was heavenly. The first thing he thought was how much Bridget would have loved it.
"What do you think?"
"Again, magnificent," he said. "My compliments to the chef."
Amanda was beaming with pride. "I'm so glad you approve." She picked up her demitasse and took a dainty sip. "If you like this place," she said, "you'll love the next one."
He froze bringing his own cup to his lips. "Next one?"
"The next restaurant," she said. "The night's gone exceedingly well and I think we should continue seeing each other. That means, hm, maybe dinner on Tuesday or Wednesday. Know of a little place specialising in the cuisine of the south of France. Absolutely to die for. And then maybe after that, Friday dinner or maybe Saturday brunch, depending—"
She carried on about meeting her parents, possible future mini-breaks, and so on, but he ceased hearing it, and hadn't interrupted her because he had been caught completely by surprise. She was a planner all right; from the first date down to that perfect, fairy-tale wedding day, he guessed. Suddenly before his eyes he could see every moment of every day spent with her arranged to the second; every deviation from that structure, every bending of a rule, every use of the wrong fork at the wrong time, would cause high drama.
He knew this because there was a time when he would have felt that way, himself.
"Amanda," he said as she concluded, in as gentle a tone as he could. "I've had a very nice time tonight, but I don't see this really working out. I'm sorry."
"Oh?" she asked, her eyes going slightly wide. "You… you don't?"
"No." Then to help further soften the blow, he added something that was not entirely untrue, "I'm not over my wife. I thought I was, but… I'm not. This was a… little more than I was ready for."
"Oh," she said again. "That's too bad."
He paid for the meal and brought her back to her place. After a polite though slightly awkward parting, he returned to his own home. His footsteps echoed in the empty, darkened foyer; he sighed as he slipped out of his jacket.
He should have gone upstairs, done his toilette, and gone to sleep, but the pull of that friendly virtual face was too much to resist, so instead he went to his computer. As promised, she was waiting in private chat.
Hey, she said. Didn't think I'd actually see you. Can't talk for long, have a friend over. How'd it go?
I had a good time, he replied, until she turned a little too 'Fatal Attraction' for my liking.
Her only response was O_O. Then after a pause she added, That's unmitigated surprise, by the way. Raw and utter shock. What'd she do, hand you a boiled pet rabbit?
He laughed aloud. No, he replied. Just had the rest of our lives planned out to the minute. Too much pressure for a first date. I don't want to feel like a greyhound in course training for the rest of my life.
I'm sure she didn't mean to be the control freak from hell, said BlueBelle18. They always say they mean well, you know? But I don't think they can help it.
His eyes lingered on that last line of text, scanning it over and over again as if his reading comprehension had suddenly abandoned him. He felt all colour drain from his skin. If someone had punched him hard in the stomach, he would have had an easier time getting his bearings, drawing in a breath.
He finally, finally understood Bridget's position.
Every accusatory word Bridget had ever shouted during the course of their rows echoed loudly in his head. He knew now the stifling discomfort she'd felt, that building urge to bolt; she'd only put up with it for as long as she had because she loved him; she must have.
In that instant, with the wisdom of hindsight, he knew: the more she'd shut him out, the harder he'd tried, thinking he'd done something wrong and wanting to make up for it. As it turned out, he had done something wrong, just not the wrong thing he thought it had been.
What a bloody fool he'd been not to see it sooner.
Numan? You still there?
He had apparently been quiet for far too long. Yes, sorry. I know exactly what you mean.
After a pause, she replied, Anyway… I'm sorry. I'm sure you'll find the perfect person someday.
He could only muse that he already had, and he'd blown it.
I mean, she added, besides your soon-to-be ex. =)
Yeah, Mark said, maybe.
And maybe he could yet make things right with her.
I have to go, added Mark. I'll see you around. Hopefully there'll be a happy ending.
Fingers crossed for you.
………
The walk over to Bridget's flat was interminable; with every step he deepened his resolve to express to her that he knew now exactly what he'd done wrong, how everything would be different in future, if she would only give him a chance to show her he was sincere. Even as he went over in his head what he was going to say to her, Mark knew it all seemed cliché, the desperate words of a man hanging on to every last thread of a relationship that seemed all but dead. He was confident that he could express to her that he'd really had an epiphany of sorts, that he wouldn't screw things up again.
He at least had to try.
He knew it was terribly late but he also knew he had to see her as soon as possible and that she was likely awake, as her natural schedule was more night owl than early bird. He approached the building only to see the main door being pushed open.
It was a man leaving. At the sound of Mark's approaching footsteps, the man looked to him; Mark stopped dead in his tracks, felt the colour drain from his face. It was Paul, the man that Bridget had been to lunch with all those weeks ago.
"Hello," Paul said, offering an uneasy smile. "Mike, right?"
Mark was too stunned to speak.
"We met at lunch—"
"I remember you, Paul," Mark said abruptly, his voice icy, his features fixed in stone. "And it's Mark."
"Right, sorry," Paul said in a way that made Mark think he was not at all sorry. He pulled the door closed behind him. "If you're here to see Bridget, she's gone off to sleep. It was a long night, and she was really tired when I left her. Maybe you should come back in the morning."
Mark felt his anger building at this man's audacity to say such things to her husband after leaving his wife's bed; it was enough to render him silent until he could quell the urge to punch Paul in the face. Mark felt his teeth clench working against that restraint.
Paul added, "I'm sure she'd appreciate that."
At that instant, at the thought of her gratitude for a night of undisturbed sleep, he came to the unavoidable conclusion that despite what he wanted, it was all about doing what it took to make her happy… and he was no longer the man to make her happy. He had to accept it. His fury dissipated in an instant, replaced with resignation.
"Paul," Mark said quietly. "A word of advice. Just—just take care of her, all right?"
Paul furrowed his brows. "Sorry?"
"I think you heard me."
Mark turned and headed back for his own home, feeling his complete defeat most acutely. He barely remembered the walk, was grateful that he knew the way without having to think consciously about it, and before long he was back at his house. He went straight upstairs, splashed water on his face, got undressed and went to bed, but sleep eluded him for some time.
This is what the absolute end feels like; this thought went through his head again and again as he watched the night-time shadows crawl across the ceiling. It didn't surprise him when all was said and done that Bridget would have rebounded quickly and moved on to someone new. She had the kind of personality that others were naturally attracted to, and she would have hated being alone for too long; he knew that about her.
Mark turned over, facing the empty side of the bed, and felt his jaw go very hard. It was painful to try to come to terms with the fact that just because he missed her didn't mean she was coming back. It was, however, reality. As much as he hated to admit it, he was only prolonging everyone's agony by refusing to sign. He knew now that it was time to make a clean break, to let her move on.
He thought bitterly about the old saying, how if you loved something, you set it free. He had no illusions, however, that it meant she would come back to him.
And what of himself? Had he really been doing all he could to ensure his own happiness? If he thought about it long enough, the one person who had piqued his interest the most was the one person he hadn't actually given serious thought to pursuing. It just all seemed so strange to want to meet someone for a drink, a date, sight unseen; he'd only ever talked online with her. He thought it seemed a little too much like setting himself up for a blind date when he'd figuratively cursed his mother for doing the same.
Not to mention, he told himself, that it was entirely possible she wasn't anything she claimed to be, not split from her husband, perhaps a young student after all, and maybe not even a woman. And she could have been anywhere in the world, which made the notion of a date together even more ludicrous. Crazily impulsive.
He stopped himself in this train of thought, realising all of a sudden that he was only trying to talk himself out of it. He'd done the same thing to himself when he'd first met Bridget, making excuses, inventing reasons to not go further with her… and she'd turned out to be the love of his life.
At least until he no longer was the love of hers.
………
Imperfect, but not unattractive.
That had been his first impression of her, her strange attire, her tendency to natter on with no filters on what she was saying, and her overall lack of awareness of how she appeared to others.
What really concerned him, though, was that he was beginning to feel an attraction to those things that had initially alarmed him, along with a growing awareness of her innate honesty and vulnerability.
Peripherally he was involved in a conversation with Natasha, Salman Rushdie and another woman to whom he hadn't been properly introduced, but felt himself looking to Bridget, recovering from her embarrassing stint in public speaking… and could not account logically for the need to go to her and make her feel better.
He didn't even know what he was going to say to her. He didn't want to say he was sorry for her embarrassment, which would have only made her feel worse, or try to flatter her meagre attempt, which would have been an obvious lie. He only knew he had to say something.
For months afterwards, he would wonder what might have happened if not for the sudden appearance of Daniel Cleaver at that book launch. Mark's own talents in public speaking were exceptional; private, however, was an entirely different story. He had been terribly eager to try, though.