Change of Heart
By S. Faith, © 2011
Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 6,282 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 4: Lapse in Judgment
The headmaster was not wrong regarding Aidan's ability to get into another school; this happened frightfully fast. As the days went by, Aidan, at home now for his studies, was clearly flourishing in his new educational environment. He had never been a poor student, but Mark had never seen (or in the case of Eton, heard about) such enthusiasm from Aidan for the academic challenges presented to him. His son especially seemed to enjoy the computer programming class he'd taken with far more interest than he'd ever had in the law, the field Mark had hoped he'd pursue.
It was difficult for Mark to let go of the bitterness. All of this had happened because Aidan had acted without thinking, without consulting with his father first. Mark still felt angry, disappointed and a little wounded that things had gone the way they had. Aidan would be the first Darcy in generations not to graduate from the esteemed Eton College at the top of the class. He knew that his son was more than capable and felt churlishly resentful that Aidan would never get a chance to prove himself or join the ranks of his ancestors. Aidan would not be following the track Mark had laid down for him, not following the rules Mark had followed; Aidan did not even seem to want to follow them.
However, Mark could not escape the fact that he rather enjoyed that his son was living at home; he liked when they had all breakfast together, liked hearing Aidan's day-to-day progress in classes, liked when Aidan offered (and correctly so) troubleshooting advice when Mark's laptop was acting up and unable to print. He especially liked seeing Bridget so happy. All of this family bonding obviously warred with his overriding desires for Aidan's schooling. Mark continued to work late in his office outside of the house, something he needed to do as the case required he work closely with his partners in chambers, but he also knew it helped him to avoid the conflict within himself.
His absences did not go unnoticed. About a month after the expulsion, with work to finish, Mark arrived home as late as had become his recent custom to find his wife waiting for him in the foyer, concern washed over her face.
"Mark," she said. "We need to talk and you haven't been around."
He became equally concerned. "Of course," he said. "What's the matter?"
"Not here," she said.
At this need for privacy—he presumed she did not want the children to hear—he became more worried still. "Well, I need to put this in my office," he said, indicating his attaché case. "Let's go in there."
She nodded.
Together they walked to Mark's home office; he went directly to his desk, set the attaché down, turned and immediately took Bridget into his arms. "What's this?"
"You look upset, is all," he said. "Figure I can't go wrong with a hug straightaway, especially if you're upset with me."
She chuckled a bit and returned the hug. "Mark, it's not you," she said. "It's Arthur."
He pulled back, confused. "Who's Arthur?"
"Arthur… he's Aidan's friend from Eton. I've gotten more out of Aidan, and I'm really worried for the boy."
As she spoke, he remembered that Arthur was the boy Aidan had defended against Ethan Hawthorne. Mark drew his brows together.
"I wonder, Mark, if we shouldn't have intervened, if we shouldn't still intervene," she went on. "Talk with the headmaster, Arthur's parents…" She trailed off a little. "What do you think?"
"I think we should stay out of it."
Her surprise was obvious. "What?"
"Frankly, I think Aidan exaggerated circumstances to minimise his own culpability," he said, surprising himself a little with his own candour. "He's gotten his way, and maybe now feels a little remorse for using such a thin pretext to get himself kicked out of Eton. I think we've been 'involved' enough."
Bridget sat for a full half minute with her mouth hanging slightly open. "You're still hanging on to the notion he somehow engineered this on purpose in order to simply get out of Eton? I think he's telling the truth, Mark," she said. "He's given specific instances, specific slurs, and fully admitted to throwing the first punch! He's distraught. How can you think he's lying?"
"I didn't say he was lying."
"You might as well have done," she said testily. "'Exaggerated circumstances to minimise—'"
At this Mark reached a boiling point he didn't even know he had, and exploded with, "You never think he's lying, Bridget! You are more willing to listen to him than to me, more willing to be on their side and not mine, like you'd rather be one of them than be a responsible parent with me."
Even as he said it, even he felt a sense of relief at airing his feelings, he felt guilty for lashing out. He could tell that it had hurt her, and she did not remain silent for long.
"So that's it, is it?" she shouted back. "Your true feelings at last, Mark? Your sub-standard wife is a terrible, irresponsible mother who's blind to their needs. Is that it?"
"Yes, Bridget," he said hotly. "Sometimes I think you are blind to what they need and give them what they want, instead. I feel at times I need to make up for lost ground and be as strict as they need a parent to be."
She had tears in her eyes; he had wounded her deeply.
"It doesn't prepare them for life, Bridget," he went on. "They need rules, they need a parent to prepare them for independence. Aidan isn't going to have someone to watch over him all of his life."
She stared at him, evidently speechless. "Oh, like you watch over me, you mean?"
All of the times he had rescued her from misunderstandings and from actual peril—"Yes, I suppose I do."
"Oh!" she said. She nodded slowly, looking away. "Now I see how it is."
This had all devolved into something it never should have. Something terrible. "Bridget," he said in a gentler tone, stepping forward. He reached for her, but she recoiled from his grasp.
"Don't touch me, Mark," she said. When he tried again, she slapped his hand away so hard it stung. "I said don't fucking touch me."
He stood upright, wounded by her harsh words. He reached out again, but this time it was to grab his attaché. "I have more work to do," he said with a simmering fury.
Before he knew it he was outside, sitting in his car and turning the key in the ignition, breathing heavily. Everything had gone so horribly wrong; he certainly did not mean to suggest he thought she was a terrible mother, but there certainly were times when he felt like he had to put his foot down and be the adult. He needed to get away, give her time to think, give himself time to think too. With nowhere else to go, he decided to return to the office.
He did not care to drive when he was angry, so he forced himself into a calmer state as he directed his vehicle. As his anger receded he felt even more remorseful, and as he went into his office, he debated calling home to offer apologies. Instead he glanced over to the minibar in his office, a holdover from past days where it was expected that a drink be offered at meetings, and often he still did, which was always very well received. The brand new bottle of scotch seemed all too appealing, and he rose to open it, splashing more than his customary two-fingers-high into a tumbler and tossing it all back. It burned a trail down his throat. He felt the tendrils of intoxication wend their way through his system as he poured and drank once more.
"Oh, you've come back."
He glanced up from the now-half-empty bottle, his vision a bit blurry. It was Portia; although close in age to Mark, she was relatively new to chambers and eager to make a good impression, evidenced by the long hours she had spent on their joint project. "Yes," he said, pouring more scotch, the stream unsteady.
"What's wrong?"
He snorted. "What isn't wrong?" he asked, looking into the glass, swirling it around before taking another drink. He poured a second tumbler. "Have some."
"Thank you, no," she said. He looked up to her, then took the second glass and drained it.
He sensed she was watching him with scrutiny. "Care to talk about it?" she asked, sitting on the leather sofa.
He looked at her, weaving a bit in his seat. Undoubtedly the scotch was affecting him, but he thought perhaps he did want to talk about it, perhaps a third party opinion of his actions was warranted. Although it felt harsh, perhaps he had been justified in saying what he need to say. He rose to his full height after a few false starts, taking the bottle with him—he thought, Why bother with a glass anymore?—and took a seat beside her.
As he let the whole story out, words fumbling on his uncooperative tongue, she claimed his free hand in hers and began to pat it reassuringly. "Of course you're right," she said cooingly, her words flitting in and out of his consciousness. He had no concept of the passage of time; what might have been seconds or minutes later, she reached around his shoulders. "You have to take a stand for what you believe in." She loosened his tie. "Can't have children be best pals with their parents." She pulled his head down to her shoulder, combing through his hair with her perfectly manicured nails. "They need structure and guidance."
Oddly, his words did not help, only made him feel more morose. He tilted his head back to drink from the bottle, felt her fingers lightly upon his neck. "Take it easy, Mark," she whispered close to his ear.
"I'll drink the whole damned bottle if I like," he grumbled.
He felt her loosening the top button on his shirt, pulling the halves of his collar apart. "You really don't want to overdo it."
"Maybe I do," he said, his head lolling back on the sofa, his eyes closing. He felt her take the bottle from his hand.
"Poor Mark," she said. He felt a loosening at his waist as well, which felt pretty good, as he was feeling warm, unsettled and dizzy.
"Mmm," he said.
"Better?" she said softly. Before he had a chance to answer he felt what seemed to be her lips on his cheek, her hand on his shoulder. He heard her speaking soothing words to him, felt her caressing the skin of his face, throat, collarbones… and after the events of the evening it felt good to have a measure of consolation. In the midst of this haze, he also heard what sounded very much like his son's voice shouting, but since she did not move, since she did not shout back, he could only assume that he was imagining it in his drunken state.
Then the blackness came and he remembered no more, not until the sun pounded on his eyelids and the reality of what had occurred the night before sent him to sitting bolt upright, opening his eyes to the brightness around him and fighting the thrumming in his temples.
He was alone. Relief washed over him; relief over what he was not sure. He ran his hand over his face, sitting up straight, which caused his head to throb even harder. He groaned. Bridget was going to be furious that he'd been out all night, and he was going to deserve it—
"Morning."
He turned to see Portia standing there, the same clothes he remembered seeing the night before draping from her skinny form, her dark hair unpinned and loose for the first time in his recollection, sweeping along her shoulders. She bore two cups of coffee from the shop around the corner, and she was smiling, something else he had never seen. This scene caused a dark foreboding to well deep in the pit of his stomach.
"Black as you like," she said, sitting beside him.
"Thank you," he said tentatively, sipping from the cup. He glanced up at her to find she was looking at him with intense regard.
"Sorry about what happened," she said; he was about to ask precisely what had happened exactly, but she continued. "With your son, I mean." A slow, sly smile spread across her face. "I am not sorry about anything else last night."
Mark felt all colour drain from his skin. He had not, in fact, imagined his son's appearance in the office last night. Mark did not know what Aidan could have seen, as Mark had not been in possession of his faculties and had no earthly idea what had actually occurred. From the way his clothes were in disarray—Oh God, he thought, really looking down at himself for the first time, my trousers are open—he could only assume the worst. "What happened?" he whispered hoarsely.
"Nothing you objected to," she said, sipping from her own cup.
He ran his hand over his face, through his hair. She reached to touch his knee, but he brushed her away. "Please," he said. "I've made a big enough mess of things."
She furrowed her brow. "I thought… well, it seemed pretty clear to me you had walked out on your wife."
"Not forever." He set the coffee down and stood, tucking his shirt into his trousers, all the while his head swirling. He had to get home.
"I don't think you're fit to drive just yet."
"I'm fine." Aside from the pain, he was thinking perfectly rationally and clearly. "I'm sorry. I feel terrible for taking advantage of your kindness and care last night. For giving you the wrong impression."
She blinked then smiled softly. "It's… fine. Really."
He buttoned his suit jacket, which was crumpled, and removed his loose tie. "I really do have to go."
"Don't forget your coffee." She held it up for him. He was, in his way, grateful for it, as it did help soothe his head, so he took it and drank from it again. "If you need anything more," she said, "don't hesitate to let me know."
He muttered a quiet thank you, then left the office.
Every mile closer to his home sent his apprehension levels even higher. Moreover, he was distraught to have done something so awful, so stupid, something for which he might never be forgiven. As he stepped into the foyer, he expected to hear or see Bridget standing and waiting for his return, but she was not there. He went to his office to return his attaché to the desk and only then did he sense someone's presence behind him.
He turned to find his son standing at the door. Aidan looked as angry as he had ever seen him.
"Aidan, I need to see your mother," he said. "Is she here?"
"I could punch you out right now," said Aidan between gritted teeth, obviously furious. "I can't believe you would do that to us."
"Aidan," Mark said again. "Your mother."
"She's here, but you have—"
"Aidan." A softer, female voice from behind Aidan spoke. Bridget. "It's all right. I can fight my own battles." As her gaze met his, his heart broke; she had clearly been crying for a good portion of the night.
"Bridget."
"Aidan, please leave us alone," she said quietly. Without another word, Aidan left, closing the door behind them. Only then did she draw in a great breath and let it out. "So, let's have it."
"What?" he asked, bewildered.
"Whatever it is you've got to say about last night," she said, her voice quavering. "Was it convenient for us to have the fight? Or would you have run off to her anyway?"
"Bridget," he said again, he did not know what else to say because he couldn't quite comprehend what she was asking. "It meant nothing."
She laughed an odd, hysterical laugh. "Nothing," she repeated. "Just like your opinion of my parenting skills, your opinion about our marriage."
"I said a lot of things last night that I didn't mean—"
"Don't lie to me, Mark," she said, her anger surfacing at last. "You don't say things you don't mean." Tears were flowing down her cheeks. "Do you know how much it killed Aidan to see you in your office with that… woman, her hand in your trousers? Do you have any idea how humiliating that is, Mark, to hear something like this from a son that loves and respects you, looks up to you?"
He looked down. "I can't express how sorry I am, Bridget," he said quietly. "I had more to drink than I should have. I—"
"I don't want to hear excuses," Bridget said curtly, interrupting him with the very words he'd said to Aidan; he was sure this was intentional. "I don't suppose it's something you normally need to think about, closing the door so your son doesn't see. You're used to privacy in there, aren't you?"
With a dawning horror he realised she thought this was something that was a habit for him, that this was something he did all the time. "Bridget," he said once more, then stopped. Once again he did not know what to say. Protestations died on his tongue, feeling like little more than excuses.
She sniffed, then wiped the tears from her face. "He came straight back, you know," she said, forcing brightness. "I could tell he was upset, but he wouldn't say why. And by the time I got it out of him, I…. Well. Couldn't very well leave them here alone in the middle of the night, especially with Aidan in that state, could I?"
When she stopped talking, the silence was resounding. Mark looked down. Obviously she needed time to think; she might then be more willing to hear what had really happened. He could tell she was angry and very hurt, and she honestly had every right in the world to be.
"Right," said Bridget; he could see out of the corner of his eye that she was pulling herself up to her full height, drying her cheeks again. When she spoke again, her voice was cool and business-like. "Give me a few days, Mark. I'll find a place for the kids and me."
At this he looked up, shocked.
"Then I'll consult with a divorce solicitor."
Leaving? Divorce? "Bridget, no."
"Yes, Mark. I don't know how you could possibly expect I'd stay, not after this." He saw her lower lip begin to tremble again, but she bit down on it to quell it.
"Bridget," he began again, starting to feel a bit angry. "How can you be so willing to throw this all away over one transgression?"
Her eyes lit with a new fire, yet her tone was icy when she retorted, "You apparently were, Mark."
He sighed, pressing his thumb and forefingers into the corners of his eyes. He did not want to think all hope was lost, had no intention of going down without a fight, but the least he could do right now was volunteer to be the one to leave. It had been his indiscretion, after all. "You stay. I'll go. It's all the children know—"
"No," she interrupted. "I think it's best that they have a familiar place to stay when they visit you."
He understood her reasoning: they should have some comfort in visiting the catalyst to the upheaval of their family life. "When you find something," he said quietly, "let me know the cost. I'll be happy to pay—"
"I don't need anyone to take care of me." It was undoubtedly a direct reference to the argument that had set this awful chain of events in motion, and he knew it. She took in a deep breath. "I would like to keep this as civilised as possible for the children's sake. Poor Lizzie doesn't understand what's going on or why. Aidan… I'm sure he didn't mean it when he said he didn't want to see you again. Whatever happens, he still needs his father." With that she sighed. "I'll talk to him, do what I can to get him to come around."
"Thank you," he said in a papery voice.
"And to Lizzie too, though, as I said—"
"She doesn't know what happened," he finished. "I appreciate your not telling her."
"Thank Aidan," she said. "He thought—I mean, we both did—that it was very important that she not know details."
He looked down again. "Yes, you're right."
She said nothing more for many moments. He was drawn to look up at her again. She looked so lost and forlorn; it broke his heart to gaze upon her, broke his heart even more that he could not take her into his arms, possibly wouldn't get the chance to do it again. "For what it's worth," he said quietly, "I really am sorry."
She bit down on her lip again, looked away. "I…" she began, then sniffed. "I should tend to the children." With that she turned around fully, opening the door and stepping through into the foyer, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. With that same forced brightness, he heard her call for Lizzie and Aidan for breakfast; her footsteps echoed on the parquet floor as she made her way to the staircase, silencing when she reached the stairs.
Despondent, Mark slumped into his seat, wishing fervently in that moment for the chance to turn the clock back twenty-four hours. Not that he wasn't reaping what he had himself sowed; he had no one to blame but himself, not for anything along the way leading to the fight and to this moment. He leaned forward, putting his head in his hands, taking in a deep breath, feeling tears building in his eyes though he refused to allow himself any further weakness.
"Dad?"
Mark's head snapped up at the sound of this tremulous voice, saw Lizzie standing there looking concerned and hesitant. "Hello, darling," he said quietly.
She didn't say anything more, just came near to him and gave him what he needed most in that moment: a heartfelt hug. "I know something bad happened," she said, "but I still love you."
He tightened his embrace on his little girl. It took all of his willpower not to break down further. "I love you, Lizzie," he said, closing his eyes. "No matter what happens, I always will; you must know that."
He heard a scoff at the door. He glanced in that direction and saw Aidan there, looking at him with unbridled disgust. "Haven't even changed or showered after… that," he said harshly, "and you're hugging your daughter. How vile." Changing to a kinder tone, he added, "Come on, Lizzie. Mum's got breakfast."
Lizzie drew away from her father, clearly torn between the two men closest to her, both of whom she loved dearly. At last she offered a small smile and kissed him on the head. "See you later, Dad."
He nodded, watched her leave, then stood from his desk. No time like the present to change, shower and shave.
…
As the days passed, Mark moved around the house like a ghost; he took up residence in one of the guest rooms to spare Bridget the awkwardness of having to share a bed with him, showering in the shared bath, passing in and out of rooms when he knew she wasn't there, lingering at framed photos to reflect upon happier days. Aidan left any room Mark entered, refusing to speak to him. As for Lizzie, Mark tried to be there for her, but she too seemed to sense that some great injustice had been done to her mother by him, and she grew cool and aloof towards him. Distant.
Perhaps it was that Lizzie had overheard the details he had been careful to keep from her. Perhaps it was that Aidan told her, after all, in broad terms enough to knock Mark crashing from his pedestal and into the realm of being only human.
Mark understood that Bridget was in no way venting her fury on the children. In fact, it was quite the opposite; he overheard her defending him, as their father, to Aidan and Lizzie. "What's happened between your father and I has nothing to do with you. He loves you and he's always been a good father to you."
Aidan made a dismissive sound. "Yes, Mum," he said sarcastically, "let's give him a Father of the Year medal—"
"Not a word, Aidan," she scolded, interrupting him. "I believe you know what it's like to make a mistake you regret more than anything in the world."
"Then why do you have to sleep apart?" asked Lizzie. "Everyone's so unhappy."
Bridget did not answer right away. Mark felt guilty for eavesdropping but was too curious to hear what she had to say. At last it came. "Sometimes the mistakes are like chasms, too great to fill," Bridget said sadly. "Things will never be the same." Bridget sniffed. "But that doesn't negate his love for you."
It didn't negate his love for her, either, but there was no point in speaking up, revealing his clandestine position. Instead, spirit-like, he moved out of earshot and into the office in which he had been spending an inordinate amount of time.
A quiet knock at the door brought him from his thoughts some time after this encounter, as he reviewed his papers for the next day. "Come in," he said.
When the door slid open, it surprised him that it was Bridget. "Can we talk?"
He set his papers down, his attention fully on her. He rose to his feet. "Yes, Bridget. Of course." His heart was pounding; could she possibly want to discuss reconciliation?
She closed the door and faced him again, moving closer, looking uncertain as she wrung her hands. "It's Lizzie," she said at last. "She keeps asking me what happened, and I don't know what to say to her."
Though the words were plain enough, he didn't quite comprehend what she was asking.
"She's at the age where she resents being treated as if she can't possibly understand what's going on," Bridget went on. "I know you and she have always had… a special bond, and I don't want that to change. But we can't keep avoiding her questions."
"You can't keep avoiding them," he corrected. "She hasn't asked me."
At this she looked crestfallen, and she sighed. "I'd hoped we could at least still talk civilly about our children." She then turned away.
Within a beat he was at her side, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Sorry," he said with equal gentleness. "Please don't leave."
She turned to face him, her tongue peeking out to wet her lips before looking up to meet his gaze. "Any suggestions are welcome."
He became suddenly conscious of the fact that his hand was still on her arm, and he drew it away. "I think it might be best if we speak to her together after dinner," he said at last. "I think it's important to demonstrate that no matter what happens between us, we will always be there for her."
For the first time since this had occurred, he saw the echo of a smile on her face. He was grateful to see it. "Yes, thank you."
"Obviously she doesn't need anything more than to know I… well, that sometimes good people, smart people, do foolish things."
Bridget nodded, her lower lip quivering again; after a moment of contemplation, to his surprise she launched forward and hugged him. He took solace in this consolation for the short time it lasted, hugged her tightly in return before she pushed him away, pulled the door open, and with tears in her eyes abruptly left the room.
Dinner was, as it had become in recent days, an uncomfortable, silent affair; no group effort at putting the meal together, no talking or laughing, no sense of teamwork. That particular evening no one said a thing until they were nearly finished, when Bridget cleared her throat gently and said, "Lizzie, your father and I would like to talk to you after dinner." She turned to Aidan. "If you would please clear the table I would really appreciate it."
Aidan, who seemed keen to let loose a verbal barb, held his tongue at his mother's request to clean up. "Yes, Mum."
Mark decided to allow Bridget to lead the way for their talk, and went to the sitting room rather than his office; it made sense to put Lizzie in a place of comfort, though it was not nearly as private as he would have liked. She indicated Lizzie should sit on the sofa, and asked Mark to have a seat beside her. She then pulled up a chair so that she was also next to her, but in front of her, so that she could see both of her parents at once.
"Lizzie," she said, reaching out her hand in an offer to take her daughter's. "I know the last few days have been very difficult, particularly for you since we haven't given you the information you've wanted, and for that we are sorry." She glanced to Mark, as if it were his cue to speak.
"Lizzie," he said, also reaching for her hand, though she was far more reluctant to accept it, and looked to their joined hands, not meeting his gaze. "I may be your father, but I am also just an ordinary man with faults like everyone else. I make mistakes just like everyone else. Though we all like our children to think their parents are infallible, I am not perfect. Do you understand what I mean?"
She nodded.
He continued. "Even if it comes to be that your mum and I… don't live together anymore—"
Lizzie looked up, interrupting with, "You mean divorce, don't you? I'm not a baby."
He closed his eyes briefly. "Of course you aren't, love. Whatever happens we will always be there for you and your brother. We will never love you less and will always work together for whatever is best for the both of you."
Lizzie began to tear up. "But what I want is for you and Mum to be happy again."
"Sometimes things change," said Bridget, sniffing, warding off tears of her own. "Things we may not wish for or like, but must accept. And if your dad is in love with another woman now, that has no bearing on how he feels about you or Aidan."
Mark heard the words but was too astonished to immediately respond to them. Did she truly believe this to be the case? He said nothing more, not when Bridget asked Lizzie not to avoid her father as he needed her love as much as he ever had, not when Lizzie rose to give him a hug (which he returned earnestly) and a kiss on the cheek.
As their daughter left, Mark looked to Bridget, who looked weary from holding herself together for that talk. "Bridget," he began, "I think there may be a—"
Misunderstanding, he was poised to say, except that Aidan came into the room suddenly, holding a red-splotched towel to his hand. "Cut myself," he said, his face ashen.
The two of them were at his side in an instant. "Let's see," said Mark, and for a moment it was like old times; Aidan complied without hesitation. He saw, they both did, that it was a only a shallow slice on his finger, but it was bleeding profusely as hand wounds always do. A trip to Accident and Emergency did not seem to be in their near future. Mark put the towel back into place and put pressure on the cut.
"You'll be fine," agreed Bridget. "Just keep your hand up."
"You're as much of a trouble magnet as your mum," Mark said in jest, for the moment lulled into feeling as things might be on the way to being all right again. Bridget actually chuckled, but when Aidan snatched his wounded hand back from Mark, gave him a fierce look, Mark realised he had made a misstep.
"You don't have to always be putting her down, you know," Aidan said.
"Aidan, he was teasing," said Bridget. "I was a trouble magnet. Well. In all honesty, I still am." She offered a little wink to Aidan to let him know she was not offended.
Since they were all together, Mark thought it was not a bad idea to try to have a talk with Aidan similar to the one they'd had with Lizzie. He began speaking those same words—that he wasn't perfect; that regrettably, he sometimes made mistakes—when Aidan made a scoffing sound.
"Spare me," said Aidan. "Your mistake was in not locking the door, right?" With that he directed his words to his mother. "Will you help me put a plaster on this?"
Bridget turned her eyes to Mark. "Um, yes, of course," she said, "but I do not appreciate the disrespect you're showing your dad. I think you owe him an apology."
Aidan did not apologise. He only met Mark's gaze for a moment more, then left for the bathroom.
With resignation in his voice, Mark said, "I thought you were going to try to talk to him."
"I have been," she said. "He's obviously been greatly affected. But I know deep down he still loves you, so I'm not going to stop trying." She offered a small smile, but he could tell her heart wasn't in it. Mark couldn't help thinking he loved her more than ever. "I'd better help with the plastering up."
Mark nodded, and with that she left to follow Aidan upstairs. He decided to occupy himself downstairs; if Aidan had cut himself he must have left behind a broken glass or plate.
By the sink he saw evidence of the accident; a plate had dropped and broken into long thin shards, and Aidan had obviously done his best to clean it up, nicking his finger in the process, blood smear on the edge of the sink a testament to that. However, the longer Mark looked at the remains of the plate—the way the shards were shaped, the distance over which they had travelled—the more it became obvious to Mark that the plate had not been casually dropped, but hurled down at high velocity. He pulled out a plastic sack, crouched down and gingerly began plucking the larger pieces up from the floor and putting them into the sack. He was just sweeping up the smaller pieces that remained when he heard footfalls on the stairs.
"I was just coming to clean that up." It was Bridget. "Thank you."
"The least I could do," he said, "all things considered."
"What do you mean?"
He paused to look at her. "I'm pretty sure Aidan threw this down on purpose in his frustration."
"Oh."
He set the broom aside; he'd get the bits into the dustpan in a moment. "Bridget," he asked quietly, "what makes you think I'm in love with Portia?"
"Is that her name?" Bridget asked, stiffening with defensiveness.
"Yes," he said. "My question."
He saw the line of her jaw go hard. "The great and noble Mark Darcy doesn't have meaningless drunken shags."
"There is no need for sarcasm," he said. "I have never lied to you, Bridget."
"How do I know that?" she retorted. "How can I be sure this hasn't been going on for some time? You have been spending a lot of time lately out of the house… at the office…. I can't trust anything I thought I knew about you anymore."
"If you can't trust anything you know about me," Mark returned, "how can you be so sure I'm not capable of making drunken mistakes?"
"Because if you were going to betray me," she said, her expression sad, "I'd prefer to think you did it for a better reason than a drunken mistake. I'd prefer the truth to your trying to be kind and spare my feelings—if it's the settlement you're worried about, I don't want anything from you. I can take care of myself and my children."
With that she walked away and up the stairs, leaving Mark feeling as if he had been slapped in the face; however, he knew it was pointless to pursue this conversation further. She was clearly in pain and would not hear anything beyond the framework of rationalisations she had constructed to protect herself from utter despair. It did trouble him, however, that she could think that the money, their possessions, was about all he was concerned; he would give it all to her if he could.
He thought about occupying his time with work, but even work—rather, being in the office—had been uncomfortable and awkward. He felt like a villain, leading Portia into a situation in which she had been drawn under false pretences. He did not know what to say to her when he saw her; he felt very guilty and very much unlike the gentleman he had always thought himself to be.
Mark could not remember the last time he had been so unhappy.