Change of Heart

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 6,421 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 6: Best Behaviour

"Are they excited to meet me?"

This came in hushed tones from Portia the moment she came into the house, looking around almost furtively. In her hand she carried a wrapped gift, undoubtedly something for Lizzie, which was very thoughtful of her. She thrust the present at Mark while she slipped out of her overcoat.

Mark smiled. He took her coat as she took back the gift she'd brought. "They're already downstairs," he said. "Come and find out."

As he fixed her coat upon a peg on the coat tree, Portia strode forward and headed down the stairs. Mark trailed close behind her but she was on the lower level before he was halfway down the staircase. Before he could speak up and do proper introductions, she spoke for herself.

"Aidan," she said. "Lovely to meet you again." Mark watched his son for signs of response at the vague reference to the one and only other time they'd met; only the tensing of his jaw gave anything away. "You're such a handsome young man, take after your father. And you must be Lizzie," she went on, turning an incandescent smile towards his daughter. "Such a little lady! How adorable you are!" she cooed, then held out the wrapped gift. "This is for you, sweetie. Happy birthday!"

Lizzie looked at her father and reached with the tentativeness of a suspicious mouse faced with a bit of cheese in a trap. He nodded, letting her know it was okay; at this she accepted with a polite, "Thank you."

"Oh, go ahead and open now!" Portia said, clasping her hands together over her chest. "It's really all right."

Lizzie looked to Mark again, who nodded once more. She then tore the paper off of the box, which was about as long as Lizzie's forearm and a hand-width wide. As the paper fell to the ground, Mark had words of reminder poised on his tongue for her to pick them up, at least until he saw the writing on the box, saw what the present was through the clear cellophane of the box.

It was a fashion dress-up doll with long blonde hair and an improbably proportioned body, shiny satin clothing and arms that were pre-formed into a bent position. Lizzie had not had a baby doll since she was five, and had never in her life been interested in this sort of doll. She looked to her father with wide, aghast eyes.

"Thank you, Miss Fawkes," supplied Mark.

"Thank you," echoed Lizzie, looking to the bright pink box in her hand as if it were an unexploded land mine. "That was very thoughtful of you, Miss Fawkes."

"Oh, dear one, you must call me Portia," she said.

"Thank you," repeated Lizzie, "Portia."

"Oh, you are very welcome, darling," she said, then reached and gave Lizzie a hug. She made a face that only her father could see, and Mark felt her discomfort acutely. Like her father, Lizzie was not physically affectionate with people with whom she was not close. Portia pulled back, and Mark watched Lizzie's face transform back into one of placid friendliness. Portia looked to Mark. "So what are we having?"

"Lizzie made it," said Mark with a smile. "You'll have to ask her."

He was thankful that Portia's expression was not visible to the children, because she could not hide the surprise or faint disgust that passed over her features. "Oh, well, that's fun," she said in an over-compensatory fashion. "What did you make, Lizzie?"

"Pasta salad," she said. "Mozzarella, tomato, basil, some chicken, black olives…" She drifted off, looking slightly overwhelmed.

"I am sure it will be lovely," Portia said cloyingly, then swept over towards the sideboard table. She picked up a framed photo there, one Mark vividly remembered taking of Bridget playfully but menacingly lunging towards him with a heaping spoonful of cake batter, then appeared to inspect it before setting it back down facing the wall. "Aidan, bring the bowl on over for your sister and some plates too, will you? There's a dear."

Aidan stared at her, then at Mark, as if to say, Is this woman for real?

"Aidan," said Mark quietly. "If you'd please bring the bowl, I'll get some plates."

Aidan nodded, then turned for the kitchen countertop as Mark did as he said he would. When he returned with the place, he restored Bridget's cake batter photo to its rightful place, and as he did he glanced up to see Aidan observing him do so. Aidan gave him a little smile.

Upon seeing the shaped pasta that Lizzie had chosen for the occasion, Portia looked condescendingly amused. "How adorable," she said. "Cute little bowties."

Lizzie knit her brows. "It's real Italian pasta, and that's called farfalle."

Portia glanced to Mark; for the first time he could tell she sensed her ship was sinking.

"I'll serve," Mark said, in lieu of anything else coming to mind. "Lizzie is very talented in the kitchen. She is always making tasty things for us, and I'm sure this will be no exception."

"I'm sure it will be lovely," said Portia again as Mark scooped out a generous portion for her, then some for Lizzie, for Aidan, and finally some for himself. After taking up a speared forkful and having a taste, she said, "Quite delightful! Aren't you a little talent, Lizzie? Take after your mum in the kitchen, then?"

Mark found himself chuckling before he could think better of it. He was the only one who did; he felt the scrutiny of both his children's gaze upon him and he at once knew his mistake. Under normal circumstances—that is, prior to the split—they would have all chuckled. Not now. Now this was an attack on their mother.

"I only meant," Mark said hastily, "that Lizzie takes more after me in that respect."

There was a silence that stretched on for far too long; Mark struggled to think of something to fill in the gap, when suddenly, he did not need to.

"Father, might I be excused get Elisabeth and myself something to drink?" Aidan's expression was open and inquisitive, though he had bizarrely affected a strange, posh accent. He turned then to his sister. "Some sparkling water, Elisabeth?"

He saw Lizzie fighting back a laugh. Lizzie, with all due solemnity, replied, "I would love some sparkling water, thank you. With a dash of lemon juice, please."

"Anything for you, dear sister. Father? Perhaps I could get some wine for you and your lady friend?"

Mark opened his mouth to request that his son join him in the kitchen for a chat when Portia cooed, "Such a polite young man. I would love some wine."

Deferentially Aidan bowed his head then rose to his feet. "Pardon me." Aidan walked away, and Mark watched as he reached for the bottle of sparkling water, pouring two glasses and putting in a dash of lemon for Lizzie. He did not quite understand what was going on, why the show of exaggerated manners, but then Portia began talking to Lizzie.

"How are you liking school? If you're like your father you must be the smartest one in the class. What do you think you'll want to be when you grow up?"

Lizzie appeared to think about it for a few moments; she was a very good student, good enough that she'd certainly have her choice of universities when the time came, but she had never really been one of those children who had rattled off a procession of future dream jobs: astronaut, veterinarian, ballerina, and so forth. Mark had always considered she was privately mulling over her future choices but never wanted to share what those choices would be.

However, in the present moment her face got very bright with a full smile. "Oh, without a doubt I want to work in forensics," she said with a level of avidness usually reserved for a really good book she'd read. "You know, crime scene analysis. Like on the telly. Blood spatter and bullet hole trajectories. It's really cool stuff."

He saw Portia's face drain of all colour even as a shaky smile found her lips. "How charming," she managed. "You must be very bright to want to do that."

For a moment Mark was really convinced Lizzie might actually be serious, but he saw the tell-tale curl of the corner of her mouth just as she raised a forkful of pasta up for a bite.

That was when he understood: she was making fun. They both were; the posh accent was mocking Portia's. Rather than be upset, however, Mark felt a mixture of sadness and amusement, both stemming from the fact that Portia didn't seem to understand she was being played. In all honesty, Mark felt a bit like Portia deserved it for acting like she was the mistress of his house.

Before Mark knew it Aidan was back with a tray full of drinks. He presented a glass of chilled white wine to Portia first, which she accepted with a smile, then the sparking water to his sister; to his father, Aidan gave his preferred red before setting his own drink down. As he did this he offered a smile that seemed wholly sincere.

"Oh, this is an excellent vintage!" said Portia after drawing some of the wine out of her glass. "Then again, I should expect no less in this house," she added, looking towards Mark and giving him a little wink. He saw Aidan smile a little bit more widely, caught him winking at Lizzie, who winked back.

Mark suddenly couldn't wait for the lunch to be over.

Portia asked Aidan in turn what he wanted to be when he grew up—as if he wasn't already as tall as his father and shaving daily—and Aidan too looked thoughtful. "I'm quite skilled with computers," he said coolly. "Thought I might go to uni for programming then get into freelancing for some of the former Russian states. Very lucrative work."

He felt his jaw tense; the woman might have had a sharp legal mind but she clearly had no idea that he was referring to some of grey-area programming typically referred to as 'malware', and that he too was not being serious. At least Mark hoped he wasn't being serious. "Aidan," he said coolly.

"What, Father? It's a great field to get into," Aidan said. "Practically recession-proof." The gaze he gave his son stopped the conversation from continuing; Portia did not notice.

After they made short work of the pasta, all the while Portia singing its praises, Mark put on some coffee and brought out the small decorated cake he had purchased at a local patisserie.

"Do you have candles?" said Portia. "I would love to sing you 'Happy Birthday'."

"I believe we do," said Aidan, rising from his seat once more. "Let me go and find them, and grab a pack of matches or a lighter."

"Oh, they're above the sink," said Portia brightly.

Aidan turned. "Yes, I know," he said with all due politeness. "I do still live here at times."

Portia did seem a bit embarrassed, though they both smiled and she brushed it off. It was unmistakeably a dig at Mark. He chose not to respond.

When Portia sang Mark was sure there must have been dogs howling on the street in response; he had not thought anyone could carry a tune less successfully than Bridget, but he'd been wrong. They ate the cake, vanilla with strawberry icing, had a little vanilla ice cream and something more to drink. Portia demurred on more wine, opting for the sparkling water instead, seeing as she had to drive home, and that happened sooner rather than later to Mark's unexpected relief.

"This has been so much fun," Portia said beamingly. "It has been wonderful, absolutely wonderful to meet you, and I so look forward to seeing you again!"

Aidan and Lizzie both wore bright smiles as they accepted quick, friendly hugs from her. "It was very nice meeting you too, ma'am," said Aidan with no hint of sarcasm in his voice. "I'm sure we'll see you again soon."

"I'll walk you upstairs," said Mark.

"Will I see you later, Mark?" she asked as they walked away. "Isn't Lizzie going to your ex-wife's?"

Mark still could not reconcile the concept of ex-wife with Bridget; though the divorce was not yet final it would be very soon. "She is, but Aidan's staying with me since Lizzie's having a sleep-over party with her friends."

Now at the top of the stairs, she turned to face him and pouted a little. "He's a big boy. Surely he'll go out with his friends or something."

"I don't know what our plans are," he said vaguely.

"Okay then." She leaned forward and pecked him on the lips. "Well. Until then."

As he descended back into the lower level he heard the tell-tale sound of table-clearing. Both children were grinning and Aidan was speaking. "—can't even believe she thought that stupid, cheap box wine of Mum's was quality vintage!" Then the two of them began to laugh, at least until they spotted that their father had returned.

Mark's instincts had been correct, but instead of feeling angry at them, he felt oddly embarrassed; his children obviously thought she was an idiot, which in turn made him feel like one, too.

"Sorry," said Lizzie, looking remorseful. "We were just having a bit of fun."

"So you don't want to study forensics," said Mark.

"Well, I don't know," she said. "It is kind of cool."

"She did make it sort of easy for us," said Aidan, referring to Portia.

"She was only trying to be nice," Mark said. "Did you perhaps consider she was just nervous to meet you?"

"She bought me a doll, Dad," she said in an exasperated tone, pouting. "Even if I ever liked that sort of thing, I'm going to be twelve. I'm a bit too old for it."

"She doesn't have children, so she might not know," he said, though realised it sounded like he was flailing for an excuse even as he spoke. "Just try to be more… normal in future."

They looked to one another, then back to him. "Sorry," they said again.

He sighed. "It's all right," he said. "I appreciate your forbearance, and that you were at least civil." He appreciated it too that they didn't seem to be overtly angry at him, at least not at the moment.

"Civil, Dad?" asked Aidan in his affected posh accent. "I was a perfect gentleman." He cracked a smile which caused Mark to smile too. Perhaps not all hope was lost with the boy.

Lizzie, understandably excited about her sleepover, wanted to return to Bridget's Notting Hill house as soon as possible to help prepare for the arrival of her friends, so they all got in the car for the short ride. They all went to the door and Aidan dug into his pocket for his key; as he looked up at the pale blue pastel façade, Mark felt as nervous waiting to enter as he had when he used to visit her flat years ago when they were dating and things had gotten rocky, partly because he had no idea how she would receive him, and partly because he didn't know how he'd react if Sebastian were there.

"Who's there? Lizzie?" Bridget came down from the upper floor and as she came into view and saw the three of them there, she smiled. "Oh, hi," she said. Fixing her gaze upon Mark, she said, "You know, you'll have to leave."

Mark's heart began to race. "What?"

"No boys allowed," she said, looking next to Aidan. "It's an all-pink sort of night."

"Mum," said Lizzie, though she seemed pleased at the thought. Mark only felt relief that Sebastian wouldn't be there.

Bridget held out her arms for her daughter; the two were now of equal height, though Lizzie with her long blonde locks and willowy limbs still folded easily into her mother's embrace. "Did you all have a nice lunch?"

"Oh, yes, it was fine," Lizzie said neutrally, then changed the subject with a bounce. "They'll be here soon! Did you make the punch?"

"I'll do it right now," she said with an air of mock weariness. "Go on, meet me in the kitchen."

"Okay," Lizzie said, stepping up and kissing her father on the cheek before dashing away, calling, "Bye, Dad!"

Aidan stepped forward to peck his mother's cheek. As he retreated, Bridget kept her gaze on him before turning it to Mark. "You two have a nice night together," she said softly. "See you for lunch tomorrow."

Mark nodded, suddenly feeling too emotional to speak.

"Bye, Mum."

With that they were once more on the front porch, heading for the car again.

"How about you and I have supper at the pub down the street from the house?" Mark asked suddenly as he stepped to the driver's side door.

Aidan gave him querulous glance over the roof of the car. "The pub? Sure."

As they drove, Aidan said, "You know, Dad, if you want to have Portia over I can make myself scarce."

"No," he said, surprising himself with the strength and curtness of his reply; the fact was, he did not want to have Portia over. "I just mean I'd rather spend time with you." He glanced to Aidan. "I'm… grateful that you're speaking to me again."

Aidan looked down, then out the window. "I was already feeling a bit whiplashed at the whole situation with Ethan—I mean, I was just following the advice you'd given me—"

"Advice?" interrupted Mark, bewildered. "What advice?"

"What I'd asked in the car," Aidan said. "You said that the right thing is not the easy thing to do. To fight for what's right."

Mark felt the pit of his stomach drop down; he'd had no idea the injustice of which Aidan had spoken had anything to do with Arthur, and he felt yet one more wave of guilt wash over him. In response he murmured a quiet, "Oh."

Aidan kept speaking. "Then there you were, with another woman. It was hard, Dad, to think you could do that to Mum." He then added hastily: "I mean, despite having really different opinions, you and Mum always seemed so happy, though I do realise I was probably being a bit idealistic, because people do fall out of love, get divorced…" He paused and sniffed. "Everyone makes mistakes, and I think in not telling Mum sooner, well, I know that would be a difficult conversation to have… I'm pretty sure you're sorry."

More than I can ever say, thought Mark, even as his heart lurched at the thought that his son believed him to be out of love with Bridget; nothing was further from the truth.

Aidan went on, although reluctantly. "And… if Portia makes you happy then I'll do my best to try to like her."

Mark cleared his throat; what would truly make him happy seemed impossible. "That means a lot to me, hearing you say that." He drew up in front of the house and parked the car; the two of them then began walking to the pub down the street and around the corner. "Aidan?"

"Hmm?"

"Sebastian. He's nice?"

"Yeah," Aidan said. "Really nice. Brilliant, really. You should read his books."

"I will." Mark paused before proceeding, because he wasn't sure how to ask what he wanted to ask, and wasn't sure if he really wanted to know. "Does… does your mother have him over?"

There was nothing but the sound of the city, of the scuffing of their shoes against concrete as they walked, for many minutes. "I'm not sure I should say."

Not saying anything had given Mark answer enough. "I'm not going to shout at you," he said. "I just want to know if she's happy."

"If Mum's happy?"

"Mm-mm."

More footfalls on the walk. "I guess," Aidan said at last. "She seems happy, anyway." He yanked the door of the pub open, then offered his father a smile. "Will you order me a beer?"

Mark laughed. "A cider. But only one."

They found a seat and Mark placed their order at the bar. As he returned with their drinks, he found himself in contemplation once again regarding his son, no longer a child, almost a fully grown adult. Mark had taken so much for granted: that his children would always be children; that the marriage he'd thought solid as a rock, now ruined by his own stupidity, would always last.

"What?"

Mark smiled wistfully; he hadn't realised he'd gotten to staring. "Something I could never explain to you," he said, "and something you may someday understand, too."

Aidan sipped his cider. "Ah, one of those 'when you're older and have children' things."

"Exactly," he said.

With the arrival of their fish and chips and Mark's second beer, Mark said to his son, "I assume that was a joke, earlier. About working freelance as a software designer for the former Soviet states."

Aidan laughed. "Well, yes," he said. "I mean, not about the programming part. I really think I could go into that field and never be bored."

Mark considered his son, considered how different he'd seemed since leaving Eton. How much happier he appeared to be. "I'm glad you're excited about it."

Aidan grinned crookedly. "You don't wish I were going into law?"

"Law isn't for everyone," he said. "As pegs we don't all fit into the same holes. Plus I enjoy having free in-house technical support."

Aidan laughed.

"On a serious note, I don't think I ever pressured you into a specific vocational track, did I?" asked Mark.

"No, not really," he said, though it didn't really sound convincing. "I just… so many times my mates at Eton would lament being pressured into medicine, or law, or into the financial field or whatever, just because their dads did. Or even their mums."

"Less of that where you are now?"

"Less, sure, but still too much of it."

Mark took another draw of beer but nearly choked on it when Aidan carried on speaking.

"Dad, I have a question," he began, then lowered his voice. "About sex."

He recovered himself nicely, swallowing the beer and setting it down, casually picking up a chip to eat. He'd known this day might come but he still felt as if he'd been caught flat-footed. "What about it?"

Aidan only laughed, slapping his hand over his mouth. "Oh, you should have seen yourself just now," he said, helpless with mirth. "I'm sorry. Maybe I should have asked Uncle Daniel instead. He's just back from Australia, you know."

"No, no," Mark said quickly, throwing the chip down. Daniel Cleaver and he had rediscovered their old friendship, patched up all the old hurts, after Daniel had given up trying to bed Bridget, had accepted that they were married and that Bridget was to bear Mark's child. Despite mended fences—always proper with Bridget and civil with himself, to the point where the children thought of him as the goofy uncle they'd never had—Daniel was the last person from whom he wanted his son taking sex advice. "I will live through this mortification. Ask away."

"Well." Now it was Aidan's turn to blush. "Marilyn and I, we've been seeing each other since November. I really like her, we get along really well—and I am so, so sorry, by the way, that day in the café. I should have introduced you."

"It's all right," said Mark; the wound from that had long since healed.

"I can do that tomorrow. She's coming over for Lizzie's birthday," he said in a great rush. "Anyway. She's just brilliant, and so pretty and…" He gripped his pint glass. "I think I'm ready for more."

"And… you want to know more?" Mark asked tentatively.

Aidan pursed his lips, repressing a smile. "Well, I know the basics in theory," he said. "Though I do want to be responsible and that's something else altogether. No. My question is that, while I think she's ready too, how do I bring it up without blowing everything up if she really isn't?"

Mark struggled to think of his past, his pre-marriage strategy with women, and realised the boldest move he'd ever made to let a woman know how he'd felt had been returning from New York for Bridget; most of his other experiences had been initiated by the woman herself. "I'll do my best, son," said Mark, "but might not your mother be better suited for this?"

Aidan sipped his cider, ate a chip, obvious ploys to hide his nervousness. "I tried, Dad, but I couldn't," he said at last. "I mean I tried to think how to put it. She can't know what it feels to be in a man's shoes and I need that perspective."

He nodded, though he was no closer to knowing what the best advice would be to give in this situation… but then the words just started to flow. "Just say how you feel," he said, remembering advice given so very long ago by his own mother. "I mean, you can also say that it isn't the end of the world or the end of your relationship if she isn't ready. You never know until you ask—perhaps she has been just as worried to broach the subject herself."

Aidan fixed his gaze down on his glass, but Mark saw the slight smile. "Perhaps," he said. He looked up at last. "It sounds so easy when you put it like that. Thanks."

Mark had certainly learned his lesson over the years regarding the perils of miscommunication. "Don't mention it," he said, then grinned a little himself; even as he did he could hardly believe he was having this talk with his son. "You know, I could make myself scarce—"

"Dad," Aidan said with abject embarrassment, turning bright red even as he laughed and hid his face behind his hand.

"We're never going to have the 'responsible' conversation as this rate," said Mark, finishing the last of his beer.

As they left the pub, Mark realised his spirits had not been so high in some time. He thought it likely had to do with forging this new bond with Aidan, one for which he was quite grateful.

After arriving home, Aidan scaled the stairs in heading for his room; this time there was no uneasiness in Mark's stomach, knowing truly that Aidan was not just avoiding him. Shortly after that, there was a knock on the front door. Dread washed over him; he did not want to see Portia and he was not sure he wanted to see her at all again in any personal capacity after that disastrous lunch.

However, it would not do to be a coward about facing her now. Surely she knew he was home with his son, and Mark was beyond hiding for avoidance's sake. Mark strode to the front door, pulled it open—

He did not expect to see Daniel Cleaver standing there. He was browned and wore a very serious expression on his face. "Mark," he said.

"Daniel," he said with a slightly surprised tone of voice. "I just heard tonight you were back. How was your holiday?"

"Actually, went for work, stayed for Jacinta. Not a bad way to spend three months, not at all." Turning more serious, he said, "Would have come to see you sooner, but I've had some god-awful jet lag." He pointed inside. "Are you going to ask me in? Freezing out here with this sunburn."

"Yes, sorry." He stepped back to allow Daniel passage. "What brings you here rather than ring me up?"

"Too important," Daniel said in return. "Are you alone?"

"No, Aidan's upstairs in his room."

"Ah. Yes, I suppose he would be. Can we speak in private? This… concerns him."

They went to Mark's office and Daniel closed the door behind them. It didn't latch, though Mark was not concerned it needed to. "I didn't want to just… call," said Daniel without prompting. "I saw Bridge and the children at the studio on Wednesday. Saw Aidan. I'm really worried, Mark."

The way Daniel said it made Mark concerned tenfold. "Worried?"

"About your son. I… saw some things in him I found to be all too familiar."

"What do you mean?"

"He's angry. Really angry. Not the sort of anger that roils up and expresses itself via broken windows and hurled pottery, but a sort of… deep, simmering rage. Sullen, quiet until he's not. Snaps at slightest provocation. That's not like Aidan at all."

Daniel was right. Mark had observed and worried about those very same things too; it however had seemed that the rage, at least as directed towards himself, had evaporated or at the least had become much reduced with little explanation since yesterday.

Daniel went on. "I must urge you to do whatever you can to make things right. Fix things for their sake, not that I think that's the only reason you'd do so. I've been in his shoes and though I know things were hopeless for my mum and dad, I know things can't possibly be hopeless for you and Bridge."

"She's seeing someone else."

Dismissively, Daniel blew air through his lips. "That isn't what she really wants. I know her too well. And I know you, and how you feel about Bridge."

Mark did not respond right away. He knew of Daniel's childhood, suspected that most of Daniel's personality flaws, defence mechanisms and other problems stemmed from the traumatic divorce of his parents. When Mark did speak, his voice was quiet. "She won't have me back, Daniel. God knows I'd take her back in a heartbeat, but what I've done has broken things beyond repair."

Daniel's steady blue gaze was slightly unnerving. "So what actually happened?"

It occurred to Mark that in all of the time that had passed, no one had actually asked him for his side of the story. They had all assumed—even his mother—that he'd been sleeping with Portia all along, that going to the office was a pre-planned tryst, that Aidan's appearance had shed light on an on-going infidelity. "Bridget and I had a fight about Aidan, about why he'd been expelled from Eton, punching out someone he disliked over a younger boy being bullied. She wanted to take it up with the younger boy's parents, while I felt it was just a flimsy excuse to cover the fact that thanks to his temper, he conveniently got himself kicked out of a school he disliked. You know he can have a temper at times."

"Like someone else I know," said Daniel wryly, running his hand over a jaw Mark had himself punched once upon a time.

"I said some things that I regret—that I regretted almost immediately—about her skills as a parent, about wanting to coddle him instead of making him responsible for his own actions because he wouldn't always have someone to look after him… the way I've looked after her."

Daniel grimaced. Mark felt the same way.

"In my anger I decided I would head back to my office to calm down, to get some work done, but instead I indulged in some scotch I'd stocked in the office. Then Portia showed up and… well, I'm afraid I don't remember much after that. But in the middle of… something, Aidan showed up and… caught us."

"Oh, fuck me," Daniel blurted breathlessly.

"Yeah," Mark said. "But I have to say: we hadn't been having an affair. I admit I had been spending a lot of time at the office working on a really rough case. Unfortunately, in retrospect, all of my prior late-night absences were thought of in the worst possible light. And I felt so badly for what I'd done I thought there was nothing I could say to excuse it, so I didn't even try."

"So you didn't," he said, "even though you bloody well should have."

"Hindsight is twenty-twenty," he said. "Then divorce proceedings began, she moved out…. If I could do things differently, believe me, I would."

"The question is," said Daniel, "how can you make things right, now?"

"I don't know," Mark admitted, then laughed hollowly. "I do know I don't much want to spend the rest of my life with someone like Portia."

"Wait," said Daniel. "I thought you weren't seeing her."

"She was a friend to me through all of this." He felt ashamed to admit that they had begun sleeping together.

"But then you heard about… oh. Or maybe even saw Bridget with that author fellow?"

Incredibly perceptive of him, Mark thought. "Yes."

"Still. I know that regardless of what's happened, you still love each other. Just a matter of finding your way back to the path."

Mark couldn't stop the chuckle that bubbled forth. "How very Zen of you to say."

"I've known you both a long time," he said. "And I know, despite my initial attempts to thwart you, that some things are meant to be. You and Bridge… you were. You are."

Mark looked down to his desk. "I'll do whatever I can," he said. "I'm just not sure there's anything that can be done."

"You're a clever man," said Daniel. "You'll think of something." He turned towards the door, the way out, a signal the conversation was over. "Well, I should go. Just wanted to talk to you alone before tomorrow."

"Tomorrow?"

"Your daughter's birthday party. Bridge asked me over. Hmm, as for a gift… I suppose she's too young for condoms yet?"

Mark laughed. "A bit. However, your godson…"

Daniel grinned. "Well, well! Do I have to have a talk with him about the birds and the bees?"

"Not necessary," he said, "and you would, no offence, be the last one with whom I'd shoulder that responsibility."

Daniel laughed too. "Probably wise. Well. See you tomorrow."

He walked Daniel to the door; not strictly necessary, he knew, but it gave him something automatic to do while he went over the conversation he'd just had with his friend and former romantic rival. He had a little hope, more than he'd allowed himself since this whole thing had begun; he had to wonder if Daniel had been privy to information, something Bridget had said or done in his proximity…

Don't get your hopes up, Darcy, he thought, wandering down to the kitchen, suddenly in the mood for something warm to drink and recalling that he still had some Horlicks in the house for Lizzie. His eyes were met with a curious sight: Aidan sat at the breakfast nook, hunched down over a mug of something that was sending up curls of steam. He raised his gaze as his father came closer, and there was such an odd expression on his face that for a moment Mark wondered if all of the good will hammered out between them over the last day had dissolved.

"Hey," said Mark. "Everything all right?"

Aidan blinked, then shook his head a little. "Yeah, fine. Just in a mood for a bit of, well, Lizzie's Horlicks."

Mark smiled, feeling relieved. "As was I. Suspect we'll need to just own up to the fact that we like it too, and just buy more."

Aidan chuckled. "Yeah." He sipped again. "By the way, was that… did I hear Uncle Daniel's voice?"

"As a matter of fact, yes," said Mark, putting on some milk to simmer; his son always used the microwave but Mark swore it tasted better if heated in a saucepan. "He came by to say hello." It sounded weak, but he really didn't want to get into the subject with Aidan regarding their conversation. "You'll get to see him tomorrow. He'll be at Lizzie's party."

"Oh good," Aidan said, then chuckled a little. "Suppose I'll have to warn Marilyn that he's a bit of an old letch."

Mark grinned. Daniel may have been an old letch but Mark knew even he had his boundaries, and sixteen-year-old girls went well beyond that limit. Within a few minutes the milk was warm enough to drink and he mixed himself his own mug, then sat himself next to his son. "How is she?"

"What?"

"Surely you've given her a call since you've been home."

Aidan laughed. "We had a quick text exchange. She's out with her parents for supper."

"Ah," said Mark. "I have to agree with your assessment, by the way. I thought she was very cute."

Aidan smiled.

"And she's bright?"

"Yeah," he said. "I think she's smarter than I am."

"I always thought the same of your mother," Mark said.

"You never really kept that much of a secret, Dad," quipped Aidan in return.

Something had definitely changed, Mark considered. He was seeing nothing of the rage, the anger, the frustration that had been so prevalent since their split, not even a flinch at the mention of his mother. Whatever that catalyst had been, Mark was grateful.

"Well, I look forward to meeting her," Mark said.

Aidan drained his mug. "I'm looking forward to it too." He rose. "Better go to bed soon. I think Mum's expecting us at ten."

"Ah," he said. "I'll set my alarm accordingly."

As he passed his father, Aidan placed his hand on his upper arm and squeezed it affectionately. "Night, Dad."

"Night, son."

Long after Aidan's footfalls on the staircase had stopped echoing in his ear, Mark sat there with his hands cradled around his mug, occasionally raising it to sip, and thinking about his situation as it stood. Despite facing his divorce being nearly final, he felt oddly optimistic.

Just before retiring to bed, he checked his mobile; there he found several missed calls from Portia and three voice mails left; he needed only to listen to one to know what she wanted.

"Mark, hiiii, it's me. Portia. Just wondering how things were going with your son… if you find yourself unexpectedly free, I'm free too. Let me know."

He sighed, deleting it and the other two without even listening, then sending a quick text to advise he was not free, even though technically he now was. He just did not want her over, possibly ever again. He did not want her. He wanted Bridget back.