Change of Heart

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 5,309 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Thanks to those of you who've left nice reviews/feedback, but particularly those to whom I can't reply directly. :)

Chapter 5: Disintegration

"I refuse to believe this can be true."

To say Mark's mother Elaine was in shock to learn of the split was an understatement. The tone of her voice was one of hollowness, of disbelief, as she spoke these words to her son.

"If this is a joke," Elaine went on, "it's not a very funny one."

"I would never joke about something like this," said Mark. "It isn't something I'm proud of, a terrible mistake—"

"You're bloody well right it is," Elaine interrupted in the harshest tone he had heard her take in many years. "Mark, you're my son and I will always love you. But this… I cannot tell you how angry and disappointed I am in you."

To hear her speak this way only added to his misery, mostly because she had not spoken in such terms in longer than he could recall, but in part because he knew he deserved such scorn. He had hurt his wife in the worst possible way, and he knew this by having been hurt that way himself by a woman he did not love a quarter as much as he loved Bridget. With a sigh, he said, "It has not been an on-going affair." The words were cold comfort; he was still just as alone, and of his own doing.

"If you say so," she said; her doubtful tone spoke volumes more than her words did. If his own mother didn't believe him, he was sure no one else would. She exhaled sharply. "To have heard of this from Pam Jones and not you…"

He had resisted telling her of the split because he held out hope for them. Instead he only said, "I'm sorry."

When Bridget secured a house and moved herself and the children into it, there were no further expressions of disbelief, only confusion, sadness, and on the part of his mother, anger. He had admitted to his indiscretion, had owned it fully, and had expressed the greatest remorse possible, but also insisted that Bridget not be treated as if she were cruel and heartless for not accepting it.

Christmas morning had been difficult to face. It was the first he'd spent alone since the children had come along, the first time it felt to him like they were not really a family anymore. Bridget had brought them by for lunch and gift exchange. Aidan had been as cool towards him as he'd been during their regular visits, which was alienating enough. It had also been particularly difficult for him; it was no longer suitable to give Bridget the Christmas gift he'd picked out for her over the summer: a ring for their eighteenth wedding anniversary, which they would have been celebrating that twenty-sixth of December.

That anniversary day had been a very rough day, indeed. He had not gone out at all, had seen no one, had talked to no one, least of all his children. If Bridget was equally affected, he wanted them to be there for her. He indulged in a shot of scotch and looked through their wedding album, lingering on her bright smile, the portrait of their heartfelt kiss. It was a bit sentimental of him, but he figured he was allowed to be.

Equally difficult was seeing his son with a pretty young woman who was obviously his girlfriend; it had made him feel utterly disconnected from their lives. It was just before the new year that he'd seen them, having breakfast in a little café near Holland Park that they used to frequent as a family. Mark, feeling unexpectedly nostalgic, observed the pair of them sitting there; Aidan was very clearly smitten with the girl with whom he was sitting, and she seemed to return the attention equally, squeezing the hand that he held across the table. Though he could only see her mostly in profile, she was very pretty, with delicate features and a pert nose, trendy specs that suited her well, and a head of strawberry blonde hair styled messily into a perky bob. He smiled then took a few steps towards the table, intending on saying hello and introducing himself to her. The closer he'd gotten, however, the more obvious it had become that Aidan had seen him, was aware of his presence, but was ignoring him; this was confirmed when Aidan glanced to him briefly then turned his back on him slightly, saying without words or overt actions not to come any closer. He respected his son's wishes and said nothing, just kept walking past.

Bridget, Aidan, Lizzie; they were moving forward. Mark was not.

The irony was that his closest confidant during this most trying of times was Portia. He did not have the support system of Bridget's friends, who understandably took her side, and Portia always seemed to be there to offer an ear when he needed it. It was odd to him, took some getting used to, because for the better part of two decades, his closest confidante had been Bridget.

Now that January had arrived, Mark felt lonelier than ever; it was difficult to return each day to the reality of an empty house, one that was once filled with sound, with laughter, with love. Mark had not even attended the Turkey Curry Buffet; he had felt it best to stay away. In his own way he missed that too.

…

Despite the fact that divorce proceedings had already begun, Mark's relationship with Bridget, their very marriage, seemed to irrevocably turn a corner in mid-January and onto a dead-end street. He'd often had supper with Portia simply because it was better than eating alone in his empty house, and that night was no different. Their meals were always business-related and despite that single scotch-soaked night, they had continued on in a professional capacity only.

The same could not be said for another couple having dinner.

Over the din of the crowd Mark's attention was piqued by the sound of a very familiar laugh. He looked around the restaurant and in a moment spotted her. Bridget. With the way her hair was done in soft curls and pinned up and off of her neck, with the low neckline of the red dress she wore, he almost didn't believe it was her, but then she laughed again, and he knew without a doubt. She was seated at a table with a man with a head of unruly, dark curly hair and a pleasant, open and earnest smile, one that Bridget was reciprocating. In fact, it seemed very clear that he was flirting with her… and she was clearly not only appreciative of the attention, but was flirting in return. At least until she saw Mark.

"Mark," came a voice from beside him. "Everything all right?"

He saw Bridget's gaze flick to his companion and back, her brow creasing.

"Yes," he said, his voice sounding quite hollow. "Pardon me for a moment."

He rose and strode the short distance to their table. Bridget met his gaze until he looked to the stranger, who regarded Mark querulously.

"Hello, Bridget," Mark said crisply.

The man with Bridget asked, "May we help you?"

"Sebastian, this is Mark Darcy," Bridget supplied. Sebastian stood to his full height; Mark realised they were pretty much eye to eye.

"Ah, Aidan's father." He stuck his hand out and chuckled. "And Lizzie too, of course. Delightful girl. Pleasure to meet you," he said as Mark accepted his handshake. Mark was stunned that the man was already acquainted with his children. "I'm Sebastian Chamberlain." The name rang distant bells in its familiarity. "We met on the set of her show, Bridget and I, I mean." That was when it struck Mark; the man was an author. "I understand you're a barrister? Human rights?"

"Yes," said Mark, then looked to Bridget again. "May I speak with you in private?"

Sebastian looked a bit taken aback, but took his seat as Bridget rose from hers. "Yes," she said with a crispness to match his own of earlier. She walked away towards where the toilets were, and as they reached the little corridor just prior to the doors for the gents and ladies, she turned and faced him.

"What are you doing here with that man?" he asked in a hushed though insistent tone.

"And you're here alone, are you?" she volleyed back tersely, looking pointedly towards his table. "I didn't think so. Is that Portia?"

"We're talking business over dinner."

"Yes, just like you were working late in the office, I'm sure." She was far less prone to tears than she was when this had all begun; in recent days when they spoke there was more of an edge of anger in her voice than anything.

"You didn't answer my question," he said.

"Frankly, Mark, you surrendered the right to ask me that question," she said sharply in return, "but I don't mind answering because I have nothing to be ashamed of. Sebastian happens to be one of your son's favourite authors. He appeared on my show and I asked if he would be amenable to meeting Aidan. He agreed." After a pause, she added, her tone softening, "We hit it off quite well and he asked me to dinner. I didn't see any reason not to accept. He's very witty, very friendly. I like him. And—" Just like that she snapped back to the harder tone. "—I would really like to return to my dinner with him. We were just dissecting the fatally flawed logic of modern conservatives; very enlightening."

Mark was not about to take the bait. "Enjoy your dinner," he said.

"Mark? Is everything all right?" Out of nowhere, Portia was at his side, placing her hand on his upper arm out of concern, then looking to Bridget. "Oh, hello." She extended a hand to Bridget. "I'm Portia Fawkes. I work with Mark."

"Bridget Jones," she replied with a cloyingly sweet smile, accepting and shaking cordially. "I've heard a lot about you—nice to meet you at last. Love your suit, very flattering, and just the right colour. Well." She turned her gaze from Portia to Mark, then back again. "Have a lovely evening. I should return to my table. Sebastian will worry."

As Bridget strode away, the silky fabric of her dress swaying with every step, Mark was reeling inside; the nicest thing he'd ever heard Bridget say about the way his female colleagues dressed was that at least they coordinated well with the furniture in chambers. She must have been taking the piss out of Portia. Her behaviour was so like the Bridget he'd first met and grown to love, the verbal parrying in which they'd engaged when she was still dating Daniel Cleaver, that it made him as annoyed as he was wistfully nostalgic.

Portia said, interrupting his thoughts, "She seems very nice, and you've told her about me? I just love her dress! How do you know her? She seems vaguely familiar." He realised he hadn't spoken yet when Portia further prompted, "Who is she?"

Through clenched teeth, Mark responded, "My wife."

Portia could not hide her shock and gracefully recovered from an unseemly jaw-dropping by saying, "I didn't know. She seemed far too young to have a son Aidan's age."

"You couldn't have known," said Mark. "Let's go back to our table."

They returned shortly before their food arrived, stowing work while they ate, which was just as well, because all Mark could think of was that Bridget was there with another man. On a date with another man. This hurt him as much as the fact that she'd introduced herself to Portia with her maiden name only.

"I'm going to guess you'll want to skip coffee and dessert."

"Pardon?" he asked, snapping back to the present.

Portia looked sympathetic. "I can understand why you're upset," she said. "Being confronted with proof that your ex has moved on is always difficult. First time she's dating?"

He blinked; he didn't actually know for sure. "I think so."

Portia reached and patted his hand. "Must be very difficult," she said. "Especially to see another man benefit from your investment…."

Mark knit his brow. "What do you mean?"

She winked. "The appearance of youth that convincing surely came with a very steep price tag."

Mark was stunned. "Bridget has never had any cosmetic procedures," he said gruffly. "She has never needed them, and I wouldn't have allowed her to."

Portia had the good grace to look mortified. "I am sorry," she said. "I did not mean to offend. It's just… well, that's usually the case and… I made a foolish assumption."

He felt his metaphorical feathers smooth again. "Apology accepted," he said. "Though you're right. I think I'd prefer to skip dessert."

He hailed the server who came by and took his card for payment. He tried his best to avoid looking at Bridget and Sebastian's table as they left, but it could not be avoided as it sat between where they were and the exit. He need not have worried; Bridget did not look at them as they passed.

Mark was not usually a talkative man, but he was especially quiet that night as he drove back towards the office, the point from which they'd departed earlier that evening, and to which they had intended on returning to continue working.

He felt her hand upon his own as it rested on the gearshift. "Mark. I think perhaps you've worked enough today. You need to relax."

As he pulled into a spot along the kerb, he sighed and closed his eyes. She was completely correct. He did need to relax. "Yes," he said. "I should. Give me a moment and I'll walk you to your car."

The soft skin of her fingers retreated from his hand, only to touch his knee a moment later, squeezing gently. He looked to her; she was certainly attractive in her way, though did not compare to Bridget in his estimation. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"Just want you to know that if you need a friend, I'm here," she said quietly, watching her fingers moving in small circles. She then turned her gaze to meet his, hazel eyes glinting like amber in the lamplight. His thoughts were in a whirl; in his mind, in his heart, he was still bound to Bridget, though the reality was that the bond had been shattered. Deep down he knew it, even if he chose not to acknowledge it. Seeing Bridget with another man had churned up the absurdity of his denial; it was over, she had moved on, so why shouldn't he? Though he was not in love with Portia, he did feel a fondness for her; she had been there for him during this trying time when almost no one else had been.

As she closed her eyes, as she leaned forward in what obviously a prelude to a kiss, he said, "Portia, wait, no."

She opened her eyes again, big and soulful. "What is it, Mark?" she asked.

"Tonight has been too much for me," he said. "My thoughts are scattered and that isn't fair to you."

"Mark, I'm happy to be there in whatever capacity you need," she said. "As for… intimacy, well, as much as it pains me to dredge up those events for you, it isn't as if we haven't already gone there."

He blinked rapidly, looking away.

"So if I can comfort you in that way," she continued, sliding her hand up his thigh a few inches, "I'd love to do so."

She leaned forward again and brought her lips to his; they were soft, gentle, not at all greedy, and despite everything he found himself returning the kiss, found himself not wanting to be alone. She drew back, smiling softly.

With nothing further said, he pulled way from the kerb and drove them to his house.

…

Mark awoke that next morning to a rush of memories from the evening before, and upon seeing the dark head of hair on the pillow beside him, he felt empty, felt a sense of loss; to have woken up with a woman who was not Bridget underscored that the intimacy he'd had with his almost-ex-wife was rare, indeed. The night with Portia was nothing compared to even the clumsiest, most disaster-ridden evenings with Bridget, because he at least felt as if he could laugh with her. Portia had seemed too focused on maintaining her composure.

Mark was, however, determined to move forward.

He rose from the bed, slipped into his robe, and went down to the kitchen. As he put together a pot of coffee, he thanked his lucky stars that the children were not slated to visit until the following day.

Portia was just rousing when he returned with the coffee. She saw him bearing the mugs and smiled. "I guess it's only fair," she said drowsily as she sat up; she modestly covered up with the sheet, but for that flash just prior when he caught a glimpse of her thin body, small breasts, he realised how much he had taken Bridget's curvy form for granted.

Determined.

"I guess," he replied, knowing she was referring obliquely to the coffee she'd brought that morning the first time they'd spent the night together. He handed one to her. "Hope it's to your liking."

"I'm sure it's fine," she said, accepting it, then sipping the mug. As she did, he saw her gaze flit about the room. "It's very sparse in here, Mark. I would have expected the master suite to have a bit more décor, and to be a bit larger, actually."

He sat, not sure how to broach the subject that this was the room he had taken to staying in since Bridget had gone, that he could not yet bring himself to sleep in their former bedroom. "It's not the master suite," he said at last.

She looked very querulous, but did not press the matter, only sipped the coffee and smiled fondly at him.

…

Their liaisons became habit, though not a nightly one; she seemed eager to respect his wishes that she not stay when the children were due to visit at the same time, but Mark knew in short order that Portia would need to formally meet the children. She suggested perhaps dinner the weekend following, two weeks since their affair had really commenced, but Mark didn't think Lizzie's birthday weekend was the best occasion for it.

"Oh, I disagree," she said. "I think she would like very much to know I care that it's her birthday." Portia furrowed her brow. "She does know about me, doesn't she?"

The fact was that Aidan and Lizzie were only slowly warming back to him; their visits were spent mostly in silence, and when they did speak to him it seemed only out of a sense of duty. Aidan had made it perfectly plain that he believed his father had been having an affair for some time, and his opinion seemed to have infected his sister to a degree.

"I haven't really explained in detail," said Mark, "though I will talk to them and to Bridget about this."

As he said Bridget's name, he saw a slight look of… well, he wasn't sure what it was on Portia's face, only that it was not a pleasant look. "I only ask that you give it thought," she said. "I'd really like to meet them. If they're like you only by half…" She smiled winningly. "I'm sure we'll get along fine."

That same night he phoned Bridget to discuss the children meeting Portia, only to hear a man's voice pick up the line on the other end.

"Hello?"

"Yes, sorry, I must have dialled the wrong number," he said absently, though rationally he knew he couldn't have misdialled a number programmed into memory.

"If you're looking for Bridge, hold on. She's here."

As the phone was passed to her, Mark realised who it was who must have answered, and it incensed him to think she had not had the same consideration he was about to show.

"Yes?" asked Bridget.

"Is that Sebastian?" Mark asked.

"Mark?"

"Yes."

"Yes, it is," she said. "We're making supper."

"For the children?"

"No," she said. "They went out to the pictures together."

He was not sure he liked it better thinking Aidan and Lizzie were there with her new boyfriend, or were not there and out at the cinema, unsupervised by adults. He decided to drop it for the moment. "I needed to talk to you about them."

"What is it?"

He took in a deep breath, feeling hypocritical after so many prior denials of a relationship, and sad at the thought she might think even less of him. "They haven't met Portia yet, and… I thought they should."

Bridget was very quiet. "Oh," she said at last. "What did you have in mind?"

"Supper on Friday, or lunch on Saturday," said Mark. "Just the four of us."

"Oh," she said again. "But it's Lizzie's birthday."

"On Sunday," he said. "I know. Nothing has changed for that. Plans are still on. I promise." Bridget had planned a small family party on Sunday afternoon that he had been invited to attend.

After many moments she said, "I don't really see why not," she said at last.

"I just wanted to run it by you first," he said. "I didn't want to catch you by surprise."

"I… appreciate it," she said. "I'll let them know, if you like, so they're not caught by surprise, either."

"Sure," he said.

They arranged that the children would stay over on Friday, have lunch at the house on Saturday then Lizzie would return to Bridget's for a sleepover with her friends while Aidan stayed with him. Then on Sunday, Mark and Aidan would return to spend Lizzie's birthday lunch with family.

"I should go. The pasta's beeping." Her tone seemed suddenly different; he knew the sound of emotion in her voice when he heard it.

"I'll see you then," he said, just as she disconnected.

As he lowered the phone from his ear, he sighed. The concept of arranging his time with his children between two homes still seemed so strange, so abstract to him. It was, however, his reality now.

…

Bridget's new place in Notting Hill—a coat of pastel blue adorned the outside, very like her—was not terribly far from the house in Holland Park, which made getting the children back and forth between the two much easier. When they arrived on Friday night to the house, to Mark's, they came alone, which Mark had mentioned on more than one occasion he wished she wouldn't encourage, and to which she would always reply that they weren't babies, and that Aidan would take care of his sister if it came down to it.

"We know he can land a punch," she had said with a surprising hint of humour in her voice. "Like father, like son."

He greeted them in the foyer with a smile. Lizzie went up to him and gave him a hug immediately, which he took as a good sign. "Can't believe you're going to be twelve," he murmured as he kissed her on the top of the head. It seemed to him she was taller than she had been, even still. "Remember so vividly the day you were born," he continued wistfully.

"Oh, Dad," she said sheepishly, giggling, and as she drew away he saw the pink tinge on her skin.

Then he looked to Aidan, and the hardness of his son's gaze broke his heart. "Aidan," he said. "How are you? How's school?"

He shrugged. "All right, I guess," he said.

"Still doing computer programming? Enjoying it?"

He nodded, then looked up the stairs. "Is it okay if I go up to my room? I have some homework to do."

Mark knew the reason was not homework so much as not to be near his father. "Just a moment. I need to talk to you both." He watched as the two of them drew near to each other, how Aidan took an almost protective stance beside his sister. "I know you've both had to go through a lot of changes lately, and it means more than I can say that you're here." Aidan made a scoffing sound. "There's someone I would like you to meet."

"Her, right?" said Aidan. "That woman. Mum said." He tensed his jaw.

"Aidan," Mark said curtly. "Yes. I would like to you meet Portia."

Lizzie looked confused. "Is she your girlfriend, Dad?"

It wasn't as simple as that, but trying to explain the nuances to Lizzie would be next to impossible. "We're friends," said Mark. "It's not as serious as girlfriend."

"But it's serious enough to—"

"Aidan," he said again sharply, interrupting his son. "She's coming to have lunch with us here tomorrow. I ask that you be nice to her. Nothing that's happened has been her fault."

Aidan said, "Yeah. We know who was at fault."

Mark couldn't disagree. "Will you promise me that?" He looked from Aidan to Lizzie. "Both of you?"

Slowly, Lizzie nodded and gave him a little smile.

"We promised Mum we'd act like human beings," said Aidan, looking at Mark levelly. "We will. Now can I go upstairs?"

Mark closed his eyes briefly, feeling exasperated. "Yes. Go on."

Aidan dashed upstairs, but to his surprise, Lizzie stayed in place.

"You can go to your room if you like. I'll call you for supper."

"If it's all the same," she said with a smirk, "I'd like to make you my famed pasta."

He smiled, walked over to her and gave her a hug. "I would love nothing more."

Making dinner with Lizzie allowed Mark to forget for just a little while that this was not his everyday routine anymore, and not for the first time he realised how much he had taken such things for granted when he'd had them. The meal itself was not unpleasant, though interaction with Aidan was minimal for most of the meal.

"I'm having trouble with my notebook computer," Mark said between bites, hoping to find a common point for conversation with his son. "To the point where I can hardly use it. Do you think you might have a look at it for me?"

Aidan raised his gaze to his father. "Me?"

"Unless your sister is suddenly a computer expert."

"It could happen," she teased.

"Uh, yeah, I guess," Aidan said, shoving another forkful of pasta into his mouth. "What's it doing?"

"Just slows down doing the simplest of things."

"Mm, and have you defragged lately?"

"Have I what?"

Mark was pleased to see Aidan actually smile a little at that as he speared more pasta. "Yeah, I'll have a look."

"I appreciate it," Mark said. He decided to sally forth. "So, you have a girlfriend?"

"Mm-hmm," said Aidan.

"She's pretty," said Lizzie.

"I don't doubt it," said Mark. "What's her name?"

Aidan set his fork down, clinking it against the plate. "I'm done," he said, rising to his feet. "Notebook's in your office?"

"Yes, but the password—" began Mark.

"I know the password," said Aidan as he headed for the stairs to the main floor.

A few quiet moments after Aidan's departure, during which Mark finished his dinner, Lizzie spoke up. "It's Marilyn."

"Pardon?"

"His girlfriend."

"Oh," he said, then offered her a smile. "Is she nice?"

Lizzie nodded. "She's really nice to me."

"I'm glad to hear it," he said, feeling unexpectedly emotional. He rose to his feet. "I'm going to see how things are with Aidan and my computer."

"Okay." Lizzie looked to her empty plate.

"If you want, we can watch a film together."

"With Aidan?"

"He's welcome to, but whether he'll want to…" said Mark, then broke off; no need to remind her that her brother was currently less than friendly towards him. "Why don't you go pick something out we all would like?"

She smiled brightly to him. "I'll load up the dishwasher first."

When Mark got to the office, he found Aidan at work on his notebook, a curious expression on his face as he looked at the screen. Mark had no idea what could account for it. "How's the patient?" Mark asked in what he hoped was a light tone.

The expression changed, became more neutral; without looking up he said, "Ran the disk clean-up routine, and there's a huge amount of fragmentation, Dad. Really ought to do this more often, so I set it up as a task for you. It'll run once a week on Friday night. And your virus scanner didn't have anything scheduled, so that'll go on Saturday night." He met Mark's gaze at last. "What are you using to back this up?"

"Back what up?"

Aidan rolled his eyes, but in a more playful way, more like his old self. "Dad, if this thing ever failed catastrophically, if it ever got pinched, you would be up—well, you'd lose everything. You should have a back-up program installed and have it do nightly backups."

"What would I need for that?" asked Mark.

Aidan went on to explain he'd need a large external hard drive and some software to achieve this end. "Possibly some encryption software if there's sensitive stuff on here… or at least a stronger password," he said with a hint of disappointment. "Do you use this computer a lot?"

"Every day," Mark said. "It goes where I do. Why do you ask?"

Aidan's gaze dropped to the computer again. "No reason in particular." He stood from the seat. "Just let it finish what it's doing and it should be fine."

"Thanks, Aidan," said Mark.

He nodded.

"You know, we would like it very much if you joined us in watching a film," Mark said.

He seemed to consider it for a moment. "Sure," said Aidan, then added, "'cause it's Lizzie's birthday."

Mark smiled; despite being glad Aidan was joining them, it was disappointing to hear that he was doing it only for his sister. "I'll meet you there."

After Aidan departed, Mark went around his desk and found that every program had been closed or minimised, revealing his desktop wallpaper: a picture from years ago of Bridget, standing in partial profile with her giant pregnant belly and an equally giant smile on her face. There was no progress window for a utility program as he'd expected, which made Mark very curious; at what exactly had Aidan been looking? The desktop image itself?

Lizzie's film was something that she had seen a dozen times before, a smart comedy that happened to have a slight romantic bend to it; Mark was more than a bit grateful it was not The Wizard of Oz given the circumstances under which he'd last seen that film. Mark gave Aidan credit for staying and watching, and for a ninety minute stretch it was a little like old times; in fact, Mark twice caught himself glancing over and expecting Bridget to be sitting there.

As the credits rolled at the end, she switched off the player with a moony smile on her face. "Love that film," she said. "Always makes me warm inside."

"Just so long as you realise that endings aren't always happy," remarked Aidan, looking pointedly but sadly at his father. "Night, Lizzie. Night, Dad."

"Night, Aidan," said Lizzie, then looked to her father. "I'm gonna go to bed too. Tired." She leaned over and kissed his cheek. "See you in the morning."

Mark watched her retreat, still not having said a word. Mark was still considering Aidan's words, particularly as Mark had had his happy ending, and had ruined it.