Change of Heart

By S. Faith, © 2011

Words: 59,705 (11 chapters in all) / 4,228 (this chapter)
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Style Note, etc.: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 8: Blindsided

"That was really fun."

Most of the luncheon guests had gone, Sebastian included, and after helping to tidy up the kitchen while Aidan and Marilyn helped to get Lizzie's phone fully set up, Mark was pleased to share a cup of tea with Bridget across the kitchen table, just like old times.

"It was," he said with a tender smile. "Thank you for having me."

"Of course I'd have you, Mark," she said. "She's your daughter and you belong here."

He looked down. "I'm not sure you would have said that a few months ago."

"That's not fair," she said quietly. "I've never done anything to keep you from—"

"You're right, and I'm sorry. It's not fair." He looked up and met her eyes.

"Apology accepted." She stirred her tea, kicking off her shoes and resting her stocking feet on the chair next to Mark. "I didn't get a chance before, but I wanted to ask about the lunch yesterday. Were Aidan and Lizzie on best behaviour as they claimed?"

"They were fine," he said; he didn't think their goofing around on Portia was worth mentioning. "Sorry about the doll she gave to Lizzie. I know it's awful."

"Ah, nothing to it. We had fun giving it a punk makeover during the sleepover." She laughed, then added on a more serious note, "And Aidan seems to… have warmed to you again."

"Yes. We seem to have come to some kind of détente."

"That really worried me, I have to admit." She smiled. "Glad to hear it."

He picked up his tea and took a long sip. "Speaking of Aidan… in fact, he confessed to me that he's thinking of having sex."

She coughed a little on her tea, then brought her hand to her mouth, blinking rapidly. "Blimey," she said.

"Well, he is coming up on seventeen; it's normal he's considering—"

"No, Mark," she said, then added with a laugh, surprising him, "I'm just a little shocked they haven't already! When I was his age—" She stopped short then began to chuckle, undoubtedly owing to his expression. "You don't have to look so scandalised."

He smiled too. "I really shouldn't be—I know everything about you, remember?"

She looked to her cup, then back to him with a wistful little smile. "Very true."

Hoping to turn the mood back he laughed a little. "Though Lizzie… well, she'll have to wait until she's forty or I'm dead before she can even think about having sex." At this she erupted with a laugh; she knew he was teasing. Feeling suddenly emboldened, he went on: "Listen, what are you doing tonight? I mean," he added hastily, "you and the children?"

She drew her brows together. "Sebastian's coming back 'round to take me to supper. Aidan and Marilyn are taking Lizzie to the pictures. Why?"

He tried not to let his disappointment show… nor his jealousy. "Just thought if you were free we might all… well, you're not, and I suppose I should brush up for court tomorrow."

She reached out and placed her hand on his upper arm. "I didn't think we could ever get to this place, you and I, but I'm glad we can still be friends. Truly."

"As am I," he said, and he was, but sadness washed over him all the same. He looked into his cup and saw there was so little left it was probably cold by now. He then stood from the table. "Ought to go." She rose too. He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. If he lingered too long she didn't say anything. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Okay," she said.

With they ascended the stairs together; Bridget called for the children to come and say goodbye. Mark gave Lizzie a long, tight hug—"Happy birthday again, my beautiful girl," he said to her—then spontaneously gave Aidan a hug too. "Let me know about that advice you needed," he said quietly.

He swore Aidan blushed crimson. "Right. Oh. And there's a copy of one of Sebastian's books on my nightstand."

Mark nodded. "Thanks."

He drove home, pondering the last twenty-four-plus hours, wondering if it would ever be possible for Bridget and him to regain the love and trust they'd had, worrying about the depth of feelings Bridget was evidently developing for Sebastian… and as he pulled in front of his house, those thoughts were interrupted by the presence of a familiar black car parked outside. As he emerged from his own vehicle, Portia rose to stand from hers with a smile.

"Mark, I came 'round to see if all was well," she said. "I wasn't able to get hold of you."

"As you see, all is just fine," he said.

"Was beginning to worry, since I didn't hear from you," she said solicitously, coming around to claim his elbow as they walked together to his door. "Did you have a good night with Aidan?"

He nodded. "And a good day today with Lizzie for the family party."

"Family party? What, over at your ex-wife's?"

"Yes," he said. "She was very pleased with her day."

As they stood in the foyer, after they each removed their respective overcoats, Portia ran her hand over his shoulder; so similar to Bridget's tender touch, yet so very different. She came around to face him. "Have the house to yourself, then?" she asked in a low voice, snaking her arm around his waist, then her fingers brushed down over his arse.

"I do," he said.

"I've missed you," she cooed, then lifted her chin in order to plant a kiss on his lips, then his throat. He closed his eyes, brought his arms up around her, placed his hands over her backside. "Oh," she said, evidently delighted. "I see you've missed me too."

She took his hand then led him up the stairs; he stopped her, though, before she could take him into the master suite.

"Mark," she said. "It's not a shrine, you know."

"I know," he said. "It's in need of tidying, and…" Truth be told he was not ready to have another woman in there, in the bed he'd shared with Bridget for so long. He was not sure he ever would. "…the condoms aren't in there."

She laughed throatily, approaching him, running her fingers down over the front of his trousers. "Well, I suppose you have a point."

He leaned down and kissed her. "It doesn't really matter," he said, breathing hotly into her ear, even though it did matter to him. When he closed his eyes, with judicious use of imagination, he could pretend she wasn't Portia at all.

…

Mark awoke from the slumber into which he'd drifted by an abrupt snoring sound; as Portia slept, Mark slipped back into the clothing he'd shed during their tryst and went to Aidan's room, thinking he could pass a little time reading and getting a little insight into the man who had captured Bridget's affection.

It was apparently a work of fiction, a speculation that postulated and extrapolated what the future might be like if the world continued on the course on which it was currently headed, very well crafted but peppered heavily (judging by the first two chapters alone) with what was obviously Sebastian's liberally biased opinion; the man had no great love of political conservatives, the Tory Party in particular, and, as expected, portrayed them not merely as the opposition but as an active enemy. One passage in particular nearly had him laughing aloud in its generalities; the main character rails on the conservatives—i.e. the Tories in code—for being such unrepentant hypocrites, touting family values while at the same time being more likely to be caught engaging in the same behaviour they championed against so vocally, with extramarital affairs at the top of the list—

At this Mark suddenly looked up from the page, around at his son's currently empty room, and felt acutely hollow inside. Could this be a reflection of how Bridget, how his son, thought of him: as a hypocrite? He looked to the book again, feeling slightly uneasy at the thought of reading more; to be fair, however, he decided to place a marker on the page on which he'd left off, and carried the book back to the room.

As he came in, Portia turned over and woke, smiling sleepily at him. "Hey," she said, her voice scratchy. "Where were you?"

"Had to get a book from Aidan's room." He set it down on the bureau, spine facing away from her. He saw the time was nearly seven. "Didn't mean to put off dinner so long. Shall we get takeaway?"

"No, let's go out. It's not too late to get seated." She pushed the sheets back. He turned away, not wanting to be reminded of her thinness. "Give me a moment, I'll freshen up."

They went and had their supper; it was hardly important where they went or whether he wanted to be there because Portia was in her element as the escort of one of the most prominent legal figures in town. It wasn't as if she didn't have feelings for Mark; he was sure that she did, even if those feelings weren't exactly what he'd define as love. He cared about her too in his way, did not want to hurt her; he hated to think that he might have to eventually.

…

"Sebastian Chamberlain? Why are you reading that pinko claptrap?"

This from one of the partners in chambers, Horatio, as Mark sat with the book open as he ate lunch at his desk. He and a few others were passing by.

"His ex-wife's seeing that fellow," commented Jeremy, not very helpfully.

"He's supposed to be very good," said Giles. "Winner of some sort of literary prize."

"Two, actually," said Mark. "It's a good read. Unbelievably biased, but well written."

Horatio mumbled, "Well, I suppose if you weren't persuaded by all those years with that ex of yours, one book surely isn't going to change things." Obviously pleased by what he thought was a snappy rejoinder, he snorted then walked away.

"I've wanted to read that. Care if I borrow it when you're done?" Giles asked.

"It's my son's. I'll ask."

"Right, thanks."

Mark began to read again when he sensed a figure approaching. "Hey, Mark." He looked up; it was Jeremy. "Have a question for you."

"Yes?"

Jeremy seemed unaccountably nervous. "Magda and I are throwing this sort-of… party thing at the cottage, and, well, you and Portia are de facto invited as partners, but Magda wants… well, she wants to invite Bridget, of course." He cleared his throat. "Is that okay with you?"

"Of course it's okay," he said, closing the book and setting it aside. "When is it?"

"Next month. For spring equinox."

He made a note in his diary.

"Kids?"

"No kids." Jeremy paused. "She wants all of them, you know."

"Pardon?"

"Sharon, Jude, Tom."

"That's fine," he said. "Maybe they can finally see that Bridget and I are getting on well, and we can find our own friendship again."

Jeremy cocked an eyebrow. "I suppose," he said. "Well, great, terrific. I'll let Magda know."

Mark was able to finish the book by the end of his break. It really was well written even if he didn't fully agree with the premise; it was the mark of a good book that kept one thinking long after the cover was closed. He did want to discuss it with his son, see what Aidan had gotten out of it; he did feel as if he understood its author a bit more, and by extension, why Bridget had found Sebastian so appealing after being married so long to someone who leaned more conservatively.

…

It was later that February that Aidan asked if he could stay with Mark on a night usually reserved for staying with his mother. "Of course," Mark said, surprised but pleased. When Aidan further enquired if they could just meet at the pub for supper first, he had a suspicion about what his son might have wanted to discuss.

"What's that?" Mark asked upon meeting his son at the door of the pub, indicating a pendant he was wearing, vaguely shaped like a reverse J.

Aidan looked down. "Oh, that. Uncle Daniel brought that back for me from New Zealand. It's a Maori fish hook. Symbolises strength, prosperity, determination, good health, and so on."

"And so on," Mark repeated with a chuckle. "Come on, let's order. I'm famished."

They found a seat and Mark ordered himself a pint of bitter, and his son a cider as before. "What's Marilyn doing this evening?" Mark asked.

"Probably reading," he said. "She's got an English Lit project due on Monday."

"And you don't?"

"We're not in the same grade, Dad," he said, sipping the cider. "She's a year ahead of me."

"An older woman?" Mark said with a smile.

"Only by about half a year in actuality." Aidan turned a little serious. "Dad, I'll be seventeen next month."

"I am fully aware of this, believe me," said Mark.

"I know we're in a city with an amazing public transport system," Aidan went on. "But I'd still… like to drive. Maybe have a car of my own."

Of the possible conversations he was expecting, this wasn't one of them. "Oh?"

He nodded. "Mum asked me to talk to you."

"And what did she say about the subject?"

"That it would depend on what you had to say."

"I'll have to give it some thought," Mark said. "Driving is a big responsibility, and owning a vehicle is quite an expense."

"I know."

He sipped at his beer, as their food arrived. "I'll think about it."

Aidan grinned. "All I'm asking."

Conversation moved towards school, Sebastian's book, what Aidan might want to do for his birthday, and other minor topics unrelated to Marilyn; Mark was curious how things were progressing for him on that front (since Aidan had brought it up in the first place) but he didn't want to be too nosy or overbearing, so he assumed that all was going well and if his son needed advice he'd ask for it.

As they walked back to the house Aidan stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Thanks, Dad," he said.

"For supper? My pleasure."

"Not just for that." Aidan looked over to Mark just as Mark looked over to him. "For not asking."

Mark chuckled, given his prior thoughts. "I'm here if you need me."

"I know." After a beat, he added, "I appreciate it."

Upon arrival to the house, Aidan excused himself for his room to check in to see how the English Lit project was going, and to do some homework of his own. Mark noticed, as he went into the kitchen to make some tea, that the answerphone light was blinking. Curious, he pushed to listen; most people reached him directly on his mobile.

"Hello, this is Alice…. It's been a while since we spoke but I just wanted to thank you again for spurring us to get the ball rolling. Give me a call and I'll bring you up to date." The woman rattled off a number in town, said thanks and disconnected.

Mark rewound and jotted the number down, though his confusion was great. Was this a client, past or future? He could not conjure the memory to indicate to what this might be related. He rang the number back as he cleared his throat.

"Remington residence, Alice speaking."

"Yes, hello," said Mark. "This is Mark Darcy. I've just come home to a message from you and—"

"Oh, Mr Darcy," said Alice in a great rush. "We are ever so grateful for your call."

His confusion was not lessened. "I am not sure I understand."

"Well, not this call," she explained. "The first one. From your wife. I just wanted to fill you in, now that I can, with what's happened."

Mark had no earthly idea what she meant, and realised in that moment that the message must have been intended for Bridget; since hardly no one reached him via the land line, he had never thought to change the outgoing answerphone message from Bridget's voice. However, continued curiosity got the better of him, so rather than give her Bridget's number, he encouraged, "By all means, fill me in."

"It's been a few months—since November at least, I think—but bringing that to our attention was the best thing your wife could have done. We confronted our son immediately and though initially he denied it, he finally admitted it was true. Pulled him out of Eton straightaway."

Mark felt a cold stab in his gut. "Your son."

"Yes, Arthur. He was an acquaintance of your son, Aidan."

"So…" Mark went on. "It was true that—"

"He was being bullied most fiercely, yes, sir!" she said, her dander clearly up. "And the high-ups at Eton were protecting that horrible Hawthorne child. But now it's all going to come out, particularly as other parents have come forward… and that bully Ethan will get his due. Not even his father can save him now—and in fact his father's likely to be pulled down into the morass." She snorted. "Couldn't have happened to a nicer fellow," she added with sarcasm. "And if your son hadn't stood up for him, your wife never would have called us, and we'd never have known, the way they pull ranks up around one another there." After a pause, Alice asked, "So is Bridget there?"

Mark's thoughts were in a whirl, trying to piece together what exactly must have happened; she must have rung up Arthur's parents after he'd gone, must have alerted them to the fight that had led to Aidan's expulsion… the bullying hadn't been an exaggeration, and he felt the world's biggest fool. "Um, no, I'm sorry," he managed at last. "She isn't. I'll be sure to relay this all to her."

"Thank you so much," Alice said. "Though I'm a little surprised she isn't doing this on her show."

"She likely can't remain objective about it," he said, his voice sounding automatic and flat to his own ears. "Thanks for calling, Alice. My best to your family."

"Thank you, Mr Darcy," she said. "And my best to yours. Arthur sure does miss Aidan; maybe now they're both in school in London they'll see each other sometime."

As he set the phone down, Mark sank to sit on one of the stools at the breakfast nook, cradling his head in his hand. He felt sick to his stomach. He felt in shock.

"—to Marilyn and everything's going all right, I guess—Dad? Are you all right?"

Mark did not hear Aidan's footsteps on the stairs, and didn't really register his presence until the tone of his voice changed upon laying eyes on his father. He felt his son's hand on his shoulder, and Mark turned around to face Aidan, rising to his feet and, without preamble, took his son in his arms and held him close to him.

Aidan returned the hug, silent for many moments, before Mark spoke, his voice uncharacteristically wavering: "I am so, so sorry."

"Dad," Aidan said, concern evident in his voice. "Who died?"

"For everything," Mark went on. "For doubting you, for fighting with your mother…"

"Dad," Aidan said again, drawing back. "What is this about?"

Mark sat down on the stool again, to steady himself more than anything. "I've just been talking to your friend Arthur's mother," he said. "Why didn't you tell me your mother called the Remingtons that night?"

Aidan looked so stunned that Mark knew instantly Aidan had no knowledge of such a call. "She what?"

Mark ran his hand over his face. "God, I've ruined everything… for nothing."

Aidan had his hand on Mark's upper arm again reassuringly.

"I should not have doubted you, shouldn't have doubted your mother, who knew you far better than I did, and I have no one to blame but myself for that, for any of it." He looked up then proceeded to brief Aidan on the phone conversation he'd just had, that Arthur had confessed the bullying to his parents, how his parents had rounded up support and were now planning on forcing Eton's hand to take action on Ethan Hawthorne. For his part, Aidan looked surprised.

"So your mother doesn't know anything about this?" Mark asked. "She's not planning a story on her show?"

Aidan shook his head. "If she is it's the biggest secret she's ever kept."

Mark had to chuckle at this, even as the shock continued to subside. He stood again, looking to the telephone. "I should call your mother," Mark said quietly. "This is not the sort of thing I could keep from her."

"Yeah," he said. "I'll go."

Mark nodded; he knew it was for the best that he be alone for this conversation.

The phone rang so many times he thought for sure it would go to voice mail, but at last she answered, "Yes, hello? Aidan, is that you?" She seemed breathless and giggly, and in the background he heard Sebastian's voice asking if everything was all right.

He felt himself tense over. "Actually, Bridget, it's me. I have a message for you from the answerphone. Someone called Alice rang up. I expect you have the number."

He could still hear her catching her breath. "I do, Mark, thanks," she said.

"Well. Goodnight."

He hung up, then hated himself for doing it.

…

When Mark next spoke with Bridget—he called her to discuss the automobile dilemma for Aidan's birthday—she was cooler than she had been towards him.

"I haven't thought about it any further," she said crisply.

"I didn't want to do anything without your input, but it is coming up fast," he said. "I mean, I'm happy to buy him a car—"

"I only asked to get your approval on the idea, not for you to buy it outright."

"I'm not suggesting you can't do so," he said.

"I don't want him motoring around in something brand new, ripe for stealing and—not to disparage his driving skills—likely to get dinged up."

With a frustrated exhalation, he asked, "Why don't we find something suitable—something new because I don't want him inheriting someone else's problems, but safe and low profile—and we can discuss splitting the cost?"

She seemed amenable to that: "I'll think about it."

"Don't think too long. His birthday's—"

"I know when his birthday is, Mark; I was there," she said, then sighed. "Sorry. I'll look and see what I can find; if you want to as well then we can compare notes."

"All right. Maybe we can meet for lunch on Friday." He hadn't forgotten his desire to apologise—had, quite truthfully, been obsessing about how to phrase it—but did not want to do so over the telephone. He wanted eye contact, wanted to read her body language. "There's something I'd really like to talk with you about, anyway."

There was a beat before she answered: "I suppose."

In the end she sent via email a list of vehicles she found acceptable rather than actually meeting him for lunch, thwarting his chance to apologise. Of those on the list, he agreed with three of them, and of the three, only one really seemed suited to Aidan's tastes. He rang her up, intent on arranging lunch or dinner to settle the matter and finally give his apology regarding Aidan's expulsion.

"I can arrange to get the car inspected and pay up front, just to expedite things," he said. "You can just pay me directly."

"Fine, whatever."

"Sorry, did I catch you at a bad time?" Mark asked, just as he felt fingernails graze along his shoulders; Portia, joining him at the table, seemed to like to hover over his conversations with Bridget.

"It's fine," Bridget said.

"Is something wrong?" he pressed. Portia continued to run her nails over his back. He wished she would stop; he pulled away from her.

"No," she said. After a pause, she added, "See you at Magda's. Bye."

"Bye."

He disconnected the call, feeling completely shut out; he turned his head to where Portia sat beside him and met her eye. "Everything all right?" she asked with great concern in her voice. "Doesn't like the one you picked?"

"No, not that. She seems a bit out of sorts," said Mark.

Portia smiled. "Bet I can guess why, same reason I've been grumpy lately," she said. "Bloody bureaucratic cogs holding up your divorce from being finalised." He glanced down to his plate and felt suddenly sad at the thought that Bridget might actually be looking forward to the divorce being final. He felt her hand cover his where it rested over his mobile on the table and heard her say, "I'm only teasing, Mark. I didn't mean to upset you. I'm sorry."

He looked to her, to the soft smile on her face, and offered one in return. At least she wasn't expecting him to go from one marriage into another. As for Bridget, he could just take her aside at Magda's and get everything as sorted out as soon as possible.