Into the Fire
3 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,402 in total, 6,273 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 3.
"So how's everything up north?"
It was his mother, with whom he spoke weekly by phone. She had been quite surprised to hear of the coincidence of Pam and Colin's daughter being one of his students. Elaine had told him she had heard that Bridget was attending uni there but had quite forgotten.
"Very busy," he said. Patrick had not been kidding when he said things would get busier as the semester went on. He was already hard at work compiling the midterm exam. He couldn't imagine how busy he'd be if he'd had more than one class (subject-wise) with which to contend.
"You always say that," she joked.
"It's always true."
"Things are calmer than they were in London though, aren't they?"
"Yes," he said after a moment's thought.
"You do sound better," she said. "Happier. Maybe you should think about staying on if they ask you."
"This has been a nice breather," he said. "But my heart lies in practising the law itself."
He heard her chuckle. "I suppose I should not be surprised to hear you say that, considering you've been expressing that opinion for nearly fifteen years. So are you coming back for Easter?"
Easter break was two weeks away, at the end of the month of March, and was three weeks in duration; he had not given thought to his plans for that time, and told his mother so.
"You should come and stay with us. Plenty of peace and quiet."
"I should spend time in town, too," he said. "Check in on the house and such."
In the end he decided he would drive down to Grafton Underwood and spend the first week of his break with his parents, spend Easter Sunday with them, then head further south to London. His mother proclaimed it a very fine idea, and wished him a good week. "Until we speak next weekend," she said.
As he hung up the phone, he realised how the teaching and everything associated with it had thus far had accomplished exactly what he'd wanted it to do: take his mind off of what he had been so obsessed with over the previous year's time. It was not as if he had no right to have his thoughts so occupied, but to continue to hang on to such negative thoughts was not good for him or his psyche. A change of scenery and the company he'd kept was, he thought, helping him to move on.
The time up through the impending break went more quickly than he thought it could. His students took their midterms; he would be grading them over the holiday. That final Wednesday before the break, as Bridget was packing up her things to leave the classroom, he wondered suddenly what her plans were and if she had secured transportation back to Grafton Underwood. "Bridget," he said abruptly. "May I see you a moment?"
She looked up, somewhat perplexed and alarmed, though came closer to him. "Yes?"
Quietly he asked, "What are your plans for the Easter break?"
She seemed a little surprised that he would ask, but answered with a sigh. "I don't know. I was going to take the train down but I… don't have enough money for a ticket, and I hate asking Dad to buy one for me again."
"Ah," he said, slipping his papers into his attaché. "I'm driving down Thursday after class. You could ride with me if you want."
She regarded him sceptically. "Are you going to shout at me if I listen to music?"
"No," he said. "In fact, you can play your music on the car stereo. It will make for a more interesting drive."
She smiled, evidently warming a little. "That's awfully nice of you. Thanks."
She was, to no one's surprise, late to the appointed meeting place on Thursday, but not by much. She was full of apologies as he emerged from the car to put two of her bags in the boot. "I brought some snacks," she said, indicating her third bag. "And a couple of books, in case you want me to shut up."
He laughed. "Surely you have some revising to do," he said. "In fact, I recall a certain reading assignment specifically for the break."
The four hour trip was very pleasant; she was unbelievably easy to talk to, or rather, unsurprisingly easy to talk to. They talked about a wide range of subjects, from the trivial (upcoming campus events) to the more serious (veering closely into topics best left for the classroom, regarding conflicts in Asia and Africa). It was clear to him however that although this subject was not one she intended on making her life's work, she had a very keen interest in and a deep caring for her fellow human beings.
As she offered him a biscuit, he thought she could probably pretty easily skip the reading assignment and still be far ahead of her classmates. "Thank you," he said.
He could see in the periphery of his vision as he accepted the chocolate biscuit that the corner of her mouth turned up in a sly smile. "So, what do you think of this?"
She had put one of her compact discs, and it was light, poppy and not at all unpleasant. "It isn't bad at all. Who is it?"
He heard her laugh abruptly. "You're joking, right?"
He turned to fix his gaze on her.
"It's Madonna," she said in disbelief. "Like, the biggest female artist of the whole of the eighties. Were you living under a rock?"
"I don't have much use for popular music," he said, slightly offended, turning away and focusing on the road again.
"Oh, I didn't mean anything by it," she said. "I just haven't met anyone who hadn't heard of Madonna before."
"I've heard of her," he said. "I just was unfamiliar with her music."
He could hear her giggling softly, muttering under her breath, "Doesn't know Madonna. Unbelievable!"
"You don't have to sound like I'm some kind of ancient artefact," he said.
"What about—" she began, then rattled off a list of names he did not at all recognise.
"Probably," he answered noncommittally. Surely he had heard their music without knowing who they were.
"You were probably more into, I dunno, Frank Sinatra, Perry Como—"
"I'm not that old," he retorted.
She laughed and turned away to look out the window, then sighed. "I think we're almost there," she said.
"Yes."
She looked back to him. "So what have you planned for the break? Besides scheming more torture for us?"
He grinned. "Perhaps not the best word to use given the nature of the class," he said. "Among other things, I have to grade your midterm exams."
"Oh, so you have them with you?" she asked. "So if they were to mysteriously disappear, what would happen? Would we all get highest marks by default?"
He chuckled. "Do you intend on hijacking my briefcase?"
"Is that where they are? I mean, ohhh, of course not," she said with an overly dramatic tone. He glanced to the side to see she was grinning too.
"So what sort of thing has your mother planned for Easter," he began, "given her track record for other major holidays?"
"No idea," she said, "but she can't seem to let go of the idea of Easter the way it was when I was a little girl. She wants to do the eggs and the candy baskets and everything. Though I will be honest: I do like all the chocolate."
He chuckled again.
"Did I tell you what she did for Easter last year?" she asked unexpectedly.
"I don't think so."
"I'm not sure where she got the idea, perhaps Una's trip to Greece, I don't know," she said, "but instead of the usual, we got…" She paused dramatically. "Lamb kebabs."
"You're joking," he said through his laughter.
"I wish that I were," she said. "I have to admit, though, they were pretty good."
"Perhaps this year you'll be treated to lamb curry," he said drolly, recalling his mother mentioning a recent trip to India by Una and Geoffrey.
"Don't give my mother any ideas," she said. "I'm rather partial to the usual lamb with mint. And Heaven forbid an Easter should pass without hot cross buns."
"Heaven forbid, indeed," he said with a smile. "Did you know in America they have ham for Easter?"
"Ugh," she said. "Unnatural and wrong."
At that he laughed aloud again.
"You'll have to come over and have some of Mum's hot cross buns."
"Are they miniature sized?" he asked.
"What?"
"Well, at New Year's, everything was miniaturised versions—"
She interrupted with a laugh. He liked how easily she laughed, how easily she was able to make him laugh. "No. Normal sized."
The junction for Grafton Underwood was within sight now, so he indicated and turned off appropriately. She directed him to her parents' house, though in a town that small he hardly needed it. He popped open the boot then got out of the car to bring her bags to the door for her.
"Well. Thanks again for the ride," she said, "and thanks for bringing those up for me."
"It was my pleasure." It truly had been.
As soon as she opened the door, she went over to her father and offered him a big hug; it was endearing to see such unbridled affection. He said a brief hello to both her father and her mother—who were very grateful for his bringing her home—before climbing back into the car to head to his own family's home. He realised as he pulled away from her house that she had not taken her book out of her bag the entire time. He was glad. The long drive really had seemed to go by in the blink of an eye with her there.
"Mark!" It was his mother, who so happened to be in the foyer of the house as he came in with his own bags. He followed Bridget's lead and gave her a hug. "What's that for?" she asked, clearly surprised.
"I'm just glad to see you, that's all."
She pulled away to regard her son, scrutinising his features. "You're looking awfully refreshed."
"It was a very smooth drive," he said. "Plus I had company."
"Who?"
He really thought he'd mentioned it to his mother. "I brought Bridget back to Grafton Underwood. Didn't seem sensible not to."
"Oh, that was quite thoughtful of you," she said. "How's she doing in your class?"
"Frankly, she's my best student," he said, "and that's saying something considering the rest of them are allegedly in the law course."
Elaine chuckled.
"I can't say anything, though," Mark added. "It would make her head swell and she'd be even later than usual to class."
"That sounds like Bridget," said Elaine. "Never was a punctual sort."
…
He was initially grateful for the silence and solitude in which to grade his midterms as well as plan out essay assignments, quizzes and ultimately the final exam, but as the week progressed he was starting to go a little stir-crazy. He took a walk around his parents' property; it was nice to be out of the persistent icy cold of north-western Wales and into burgeoning springtime. He also drove into nearby Kettering for some last minute Easter gifts. On the spur of the moment, he bought a small chocolate bunny for his best student.
Easter Sunday meant their traditional dinner of lamb. Mark decided to take a drive over in the morning, both for the promised hot cross bun and chocolate delivery. Mrs Jones was surprised to see him, but naturally let him in.
"Your daughter mentioned there would be hot cross buns for the offering," he said.
Pamela smiled. "Oh, of course you're welcome, plenty to go around… hot tea?"
"Yes, thank you."
Pam led him to the kitchen, fixed him a bun on a plate and made him a cup of tea. It was in serving him this that she noticed then that Mark had set the foil-wrapped rabbit on the table beside him. "What's that?"
"Oh, a little Easter treat for Bridget. She mentioned liking Easter chocolates. Where is she, by the way?"
"Still sleeping," confided Pam. "Wants the Easter candy but can't be bothered to get up early for it. She's sort of a night owl, don't know where she gets it from. Certainly not me."
"Oh. Well, be sure I said hello."
"I heard the tea kettle—" Entering the kitchen at that moment was none other than Bridget herself. Clearly she had not been expecting him to be there, judging from her abrupt cessation of speech, and the fact that she was dressed only in a cotton nightshirt that came to mid-thigh. She folded her arms over her chest as her skin flushed bright red. "Uh. Hi."
He quickly looked back to his plate to spare her modesty, feeling heat creep up over his own neck and face. Her attire wasn't revealing or in any way transparent, but it did serve to highlight her attractive, youthful figure and shapely legs. "Good morning," he said. "Happy Easter."
"Bridget, care for some tea, a bun?"
"Yes, please." She sat down at the table, and only then did he dare to look up again. "Happy Easter," she said to Mark in reply at last.
He pushed the chocolate bunny in her direction. "This is for you."
"Oh," she said, smiling unsurely. "That's nice of you. Thanks." She pulled a face. "I don't have anything for you."
"I have a hot cross bun," he said. "That'll do."
Her mother brought her some tea and a hot cross bun, which she dove into with great relish, her discomfort apparently forgotten. Pam then excused herself and left the kitchen.
"I'd ask you what your plans are for the day," he said, "but it does not look like you have had time yet to ponder that."
She smiled. "Well, I'll get to raid my basket. Mum did up some eggs. I only hope she hasn't hidden them. I don't want to have to go on an Easter egg hunt." After another bite she said, "Got some Easter money from my Gran, so I'm taking the train down to London to stay with friends."
"Oh?" He thought about the last time he dropped her off to London, the enthusiastic greeting by that young man at the door of the building at which he'd dropped her off. "Visiting your boyfriend?"
"What?" she asked perhaps a little too loudly, as she then spun to ensure her mother had not heard. "What?" she asked again in a quieter voice. "I don't have a boyfriend."
He drew his brows together. "Then who…" He drifted off. Perhaps he had made an erroneous assumption.
"Who what?" she asked.
He lowered his voice. "The man who greeted you. When I gave you a lift to London."
She stared for a moment until her lips formed a broad grin. "Oh, Christ," she said, starting to laugh. "You mean Tom?"
"I guess," he said.
"Tom's as gay as the day is long," she said.
Her laughter was infectious, and he began laughing as well. "Sorry," he said. "You have to admit it was a logical conclusion, though."
"Perhaps," she said, "if you assume all men to be heterosexual."
"Quite true," he said, focusing on his bun, of which about a quarter remained. He was slightly disturbed, though was determined not to show it; why had he felt such a sense of relief at her explanation? "When are you going? Do you want a lift?"
She laughed suddenly.
"What?"
"You're more like a chauffeur than a professor," she said. "But if you don't mind taking me to Tom's again, I'd appreciate it. I can, I don't know, pitch in for money for petrol."
"Not necessary," he said. "I'd be making the drive anyway tonight."
"Sure. When tonight?" she asked.
He grinned. "After supper?"
"Sounds great."
Mark was just considering how nice his drive to London would be with company—particularly her company—when his thoughts were interrupted. "Good morning, pumpkin… oh! Hello, Mark." It was Colin Jones. "Happy Easter to the both of you."
Bridget rose from her chair, apparently forgetting for the moment that she was dressed only in her nightgown, to hug her father then kiss him on the cheek. As she raised her arms for that hug, as the hem of her nightshirt lifted, he directed his gaze away. "Happy Easter, Dad," she said, sitting again and sipping her tea.
"So Mark," said Colin, putting the kettle on for himself, "how's Bridget doing in class? Not driving you mad, is she?"
He glanced to Bridget, then up to Colin. "Not at all," he said rather neutrally.
"Not too much, I think you mean," said Colin with a grin.
"Dad," she said with a modicum of offence.
"Oh, my dear, you know I love you," said her father, "but you are anything but a shrinking violet, particularly when making your opinions known." To Mark he said confidentially, "Gets it from her mother."
"Dad," she said again. She was bright pink in colour.
"She's not driving me mad," Mark said. "She's a very good student, even if her punctuality leaves something to be desired." He dared to look at her once more, offering her a small smile, which coaxed one out of her in return.
His food and tea were gone, so he thought it best to leave; at that moment he rose and pulled himself to his full height. "Well, glad to have experienced for myself Mrs Jones' excellent hot cross buns. Thank you very much, and Happy Easter again." As she went to stand, he turned to her and said, "Please, don't get up. I'll see myself out. And I'll see you tonight?"
"Yes."
Belatedly he realised it almost sounded like they had arranged a date, so he hastily explained for her father's benefit, "She's going to ride down to London with me, save the train ticket fare."
"Oh, awfully nice of you Mark," said Colin. "Awfully nice indeed. A very Happy Easter to your parents from the lot of us."
He nodded, and with that, he excused himself.
At supper that night, it was a comment by his own father that put him squarely into a contemplative state. He noticed the man regarding him very thoughtfully.
"What is it?" asked Mark.
"Being up there has done you a world of good, Mark. You look very well, very healthy, very happy. Much more relaxed than you were before you left."
He brought his brows together. "I wager it's the break that's relaxed me, not the job at Bangor."
"Mark, you've spent time away from London with us before," Malcolm went on. "Besides, you've been like this since you got here."
"Have I?" Teaching was certainly stressful, just in a different sort of way than his work.
"Be honest, my boy," he said, setting his silverware down. "Is there someone you're not telling us about?"
"What?"
"You know, a special lady you've met in Bangor."
It took a moment or two for the meaning to filter through: his father thought he had a girlfriend. "What? No!" he said abruptly.
"Goodness, Mark," said his mother. "No need to be snappish."
"Sorry," he said. "I just mean, why does it have to be that I've met a woman? I haven't met anyone." Traitorously, his best student, his road-trip companion, popped up unbidden into his mind. "Perhaps it's just that I'm feeling less overwhelmed in general."
Elaine pursed her lips. "Perhaps," she said, "but I don't understand why you're so defensive."
He looked down to his plate. "I'm sorry," he said again. "I guess I'm a little sensitive to everyone suggesting I should be ready to have a new girlfriend."
"No, son, I'm sorry," said his father. "I did not mean to offend. You just seemed to be that kind of happy."
He raised his eyes to meet his father's. "Of course you didn't mean to offend," Mark said in a gentler tone. "It's all right. Let's just drop it."
"Let's," said Malcolm, his cheery demeanour returned. "Dinner's getting cold."
No lasting damage was done; the rest of dinner was very pleasant, and he bade a warm farewell to his parents before driving off to the Joneses for Bridget.
That kind of happy, he thought, considering his father's words. His father had clearly been seeing things that weren't there. Mark was simply more relaxed after being away from the sorts of enquiries he had been subjected to over supper. It had nothing to do with Bridget or any other woman. Nothing at all.
He realised he had not set a specific time nor had phoned in advance to let her know he was on his way, so in knocking on the door he understood when no one answered promptly.
"Mark, oh goodness." Pam Jones pulled the door open. "I don't think she's quite ready."
"That's okay."
"Come in, you can have something to drink if you like."
He came in, took off his jacket then sat down on the sofa. Colin was in his recliner, reading the newspaper. He accepted a glass of water from Pam then sat back. "We meet again," said Colin, who then looked up with a smirk.
"Indeed, sir."
"Really do appreciate your taking her to London," he said, as he carried on reading. "One less thing to worry about. I know I can trust you with her."
"Thank you," said Mark, feeling guilty for reasons he could not quite articulate.
Within ten minutes she was down the stairs with her bags in hand and a smile on her face. "Sorry to keep you waiting," she said.
He set the glass down then got to his feet. "It's quite all right. It's not like I specified a time for you."
"True," she said. "Well, we should be off." She turned and gave her mum a hug and a peck on the cheek, then did the same for her dad as he rose to accept it. "Bye."
"Bye, moppet," said Colin, giving her a tight hug. "Have a nice time in town."
Pam narrowed her eyes. "Nothing funny's going on with that friend of yours?"
"Mum, I told you: he likes men."
"I don't know," she said. Oddly, it almost seemed to Mark that Pam both did and did not want something 'funny' going on with her friend. She turned to Mark. "You see her at school, Mark. She doesn't have a boyfriend, does she?"
"Mother, really!" interjected Bridget, flushing red.
"I don't know, but even if she had," Mark said, trying to allay her embarrassment, "I would hardly expect her to confide in me."
"Let's go," Bridget said, rushing towards the door. He followed quickly behind her, muttering quiet goodnights.
Once they were driving, she spoke again. "I'm sorry for that," she said. "My mother is the queen of inappropriate questions."
"It's okay," he said, then glanced to her. She was looking out of the window. "I suppose she just wants to know if you're happy."
"She just wants to know my business," she said. "Like I can't have secrets if I want."
"It must be difficult not to think of one's daughter or son as anything but a child, even given the evidence to the contrary," he said.
"I'm staying in London," she said, "I mean, after I graduate. I don't care if I have to sleep on Tom's sofa, I'm not going back to live with them again."
"They love you," he said.
"I know they do," she said. "But… ugh. Living for three years on my own… I can't give up that independence."
He chuckled under his breath. "I'd be surprised if you did." Glancing to her again, he saw a smile cross her lips. "What are your plans after graduation?"
"I'm job hunting over the break," she said. "Newspapers, publishing houses, so on. Get my foot in the door…"
"And take over the place in no time."
She laughed. "Something like that." He was glad to see her in better spirits. "Oh," she said, reaching for her bag. "I brought something for you listen to."
"Oh?"
"Mm-hmm," she said, digging out a compact disc. "I made it."
"You what?"
"Burned you a CD of the biggest songs of the last ten years. Kind of a… pop culture review."
He smiled. "Coaxing me out from under my rock?"
"If you want to put it like that," she said with a grin. She popped the disc in.
To his credit, he did recognise about a third of the songs on the disc she'd made; he just had not known the artist or the song title. She seemed proud, though coached him to memorise the rest. By the third iteration of playing the disc, she was prompting him to sing along. To his surprise, he did.
Next to a four hour drive, two hours seemed like nothing at all, particularly when they had such fun talking about the music, then movies and other trivial things. She was so lively, so engaging, that he wondered how anyone like her could be insecure about her talents or herself.
She had to prompt him with Tom's address upon reaching London, but once she did, he found he'd remembered the way.
"Good luck with the job search," he said as the car slid up to the kerb.
"Thanks."
He turned to look at her. "Want a hand with your bags?"
"Oh, no, I'll be fine," she said. She had thrown then in the back seat instead of the boot.
"You know, I'll be driving up on the Saturday morning before classes resume," he said. "If you find yourself in need of a lift back."
She laughed, undoubtedly recalling what she'd said about his being more chauffeur than professor. "I'd like that a lot," she said. "For all my previous protests, it really does beat the train, which is… smelly, noisy, and filled with weirdoes."
This prompted another chuckle from him. "And it probably takes a lot longer," he said. "Well. See you next Saturday at… ten, then?"
"See you then. Right here." Taking him completely by surprise, she leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his cheek. As she drew back, she furrowed her brows, tinting pink. "Oh."
"What?"
"I'm sorry," she said, flushing a deeper crimson. "That was… hm. Probably not appropriate."
He smiled a little, still feeling a bit shocked. "Don't worry about it."
She nodded, forcing a little smile of her own. "Well. Thanks again. Bye."
He was still too stunned to rise from the car to help with her bags or to walk her to Tom's door. He was sure she meant nothing by it except for a friendly goodbye; the teacher/student wall had been so sufficiently eroded during their drives that he reasoned she just hadn't thought before acting.
Ultimately, he pushed it from his thoughts. There was no point in reading anything more into it.
…
His colleagues in chambers were glad to see him. Universally they declared that the break to teach up in Bangor was just the thing he needed to recover himself. Wisely, none of them asked anything divorce-related, nor did they ask if his improved outlook and demeanour meant that he had a girlfriend. He was far more sociable than usual, dining with friends and acquaintances more frequently than was the norm.
It was during one of those excursions out, having lunch with one of the family law experts in chambers, that he actually spied Bridget out and about. She was with a man whose back was to Mark; he clearly was comfortable, financially speaking, to bring her to a place such as this one. She raised her eyes and met Mark's. Obviously surprised to see him, she smiled and waved.
That's when her luncheon date turned to see to whom she was waving. To Mark's utter shock, it was Daniel Cleaver, the man who had betrayed him with his own wife.
Mark could not sit back and let such a train wreck happen. "Excuse me," he said to his companion, then got to his feet and approached the table.
As he got nearer to the pair of them, he realised she had papers fanned on the table off to her side. It might well have been a job interview, but knowing Daniel as he did, knowing the unabashed womaniser that he was, Mark suspected Daniel's agenda went beyond hiring someone for an entry-level position.
"Hello, Professor Darcy," she said. He looked from Bridget to Daniel as Bridget did the same. By way of introduction, she said to Daniel, "He teaches my History of Human Rights Law class. And this is Mr Cleaver. He's with Pemberley Press."
"We are already acquainted," Mark said coolly.
"Oh!" said Bridget. "What a small world."
"Indeed," said Mark, not looking away from Daniel.
"I have a position she'd be perfect for," said Daniel, smirking slightly. The innuendo was not lost on Mark.
"I'll bet you have," Mark replied. "Bridget, gather your things and come with me."
"What?" said Bridget. "Why?"
"Trust me."
She gaped. "You're mad!"
"Don't make a scene," he snipped, glowering at her, reaching for her papers and her jacket since she had made no move to do so. "Come on." As she got to her feet, he reached for her, grabbed her upper arm just over her elbow and tugged it, evidently shocking her into silence.
Daniel stood as well. "It's a shame I won't be able to have Miss Jones at Pemberley," he said.
"She doesn't need what you're prepared to offer her," Mark said darkly. "Goodbye."
He strode back to his own table with her in tow. "Can't you at least tell me why you ruined my job interview?" she hissed.
He stopped short; she practically walked into him. He turned his most serious gaze to her. "No." He began walking again. She said nothing more.
His companion, a dark-haired woman called Natasha, looked both confused and peeved at the appearance of a third party at their table. "Have a seat," Mark said.
Petulantly Bridget stood there, folding her arms over her chest. Her eyes were very glossy.
"Have you ordered yet?" he asked of Bridget.
"What does it matter?" she said, voice laden with spite. "I can't afford this place."
"Who is this, Mark?" asked Natasha haughtily.
"Daughter of family friends," he said in a clipped tone, "and one of my students. And don't be ridiculous, Bridget. You'll join us to have your food."
Resigned, she took her seat.
The waiter came to the table looking quite concerned. Mark explained that he should bring Bridget's meal to their table, and that he would be taking care of her bill. She looked unexpectedly annoyed to hear it.
Natasha's attitude improved slightly. "Student, hm? You must be looking forward to graduating in a few years."
"I graduate at the end of the term," said Bridget, shooting a fierce glare in her direction.
"Oh, well, I am sorry," she said without a trace of sincerity. "It's so hard to pinpoint children's ages sometimes."
Bridget's plate was placed before her, a chicken dish of some variety. She turned to the waiter. "I'd like a glass of Chardonnay, please."
"Any particular vintage?" he asked.
"Um, whichever you recommend."
He cleared his throat gently. "May I see some identification?"
He watched Bridget's face flush red. "Of course," she said, fishing out her driving licence and handing it to him.
"I'll have that right out for you, miss." He bowed respectfully at the waist, then left the table. He heard Natasha laugh in a muffled way that told Mark that she had no intention of trying to hide her amusement at Bridget's embarrassment.
Natasha then launched into a long and winding story, barely stopping for breath, talking to Mark and completely ignoring Bridget, who ate in sullen silence. Mark was suddenly tired of his colleague's company. She was self-centred and rude… and he did not know how he had noticed it before.
Without waiting to see if either woman wanted coffee or a light dessert, he asked for the bill to pay for lunch.
"Mark," said Natasha in a cloyingly sweet voice. "Perhaps we could do this again sometime soon… alone."
Mark said nothing, did not even smile. "Goodbye."
As Natasha left, he turned to Bridget, who was slipping into her jacket and scooping her papers into her bag. She then gave him an angry look before turning and walking away.
Hurriedly he followed her out of the restaurant and onto the street. "I'll bring you back to your friend's place."
"I got here on my own," she seethed, "and I can get back on my own, thank you."
"Look, Bridget, I'm sorry about your interview. Believe me, it was for your own good."
She stopped and spun around. "Don't patronise me," she said, fire in her eyes. "I am not some child in need of protection."
"As you astutely observed, Mr Cleaver and I were previously acquainted," he said in hushed tones, feeling his own anger build. "The terms by which we dissolved our friendship had everything to do with my interrupting your interview."
"And yet you are not going to tell me what those terms were," she said. "Like I'm supposed to just take your word for it that you were doing me a favour. Like you know what's better for me than I do."
"I was not about to tell you anything in the middle of the restaurant with all of those people hanging on our every word," he said. "It's called 'discretion', Bridget, something that you at times fail to grasp."
She made a show of looking around herself to point out that no one was around, at least no one that was paying attention to their conversation. "So what's stopping you now?"
It was not something he liked to talk about, something he had been doing his best to forget for the better part of sixteen months, but he sallied forth anyway, because he thought she deserved to know after ruining her chance for a job. As he gave her the barest details, he watched her face transform from indignant anger to sympathetic sadness.
"I took the job at Bangor to get away from everything that reminded me of it," he concluded. "Of him and of her, and away from all of the constant questions about it."
She did not respond immediately, just studied his face with her hand over her open mouth, until she launched herself forward and threw her arms around him for a comforting hug. "Oh, Mark," she said softly. "You were right. I'm so sorry."
It was the first time he could ever recall hearing her address him by his first name. The tenderness and genuineness of her response, coupled with her spontaneous comfort, touched him very deeply. He brought his arms up to return the hug.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"Oh, Christ," she said, pulling back suddenly. "Too much wine. I'm sorry. Talk about inappropriate."
He smiled. "It's all right. Your intentions were good."
She smiled too, looking relieved. "I would have hated for your girlfriend to see."
"Girlfriend?" he said. "She's not my girlfriend."
"Oh," said Bridget. "Well, with the way she was all over you, I just assumed maybe you and she… you know… sometimes…"
He blinked in disbelief. "All over me?"
She looked at him with equal disbelief, then started to laugh. "You mean you didn't notice?"
He laughed too. "I guess not," he said sheepishly. Natasha was too unpleasant a person to be anyone's girlfriend; he wondered what had possessed him to lunch with her, anyway. "In any case, she isn't my girlfriend."
"Oh," she repeated.
"Come on, you're a long way from Tom's place. Let me take you there."
Fences suitably mended, she agreed.
"I do have another interview tomorrow," she admitted as they cut through the streets of London. "With a newspaper. With a woman."
"That's all well and good," he said, "if you assume all women to be heterosexual."
At that she laughed out loud at this echo of her own words. "Very true."
"Well, I wish you the best, of course," he said. "I think you'll do great."
"Thanks." After a thoughtful moment, she added, "Perhaps it was fate that brought you and me to that same restaurant today. Maybe taking that job would have been the worst idea ever."
"Maybe," he said. "See you on Saturday."
"Ten a.m. See you then."
She rose from the car and let herself into Tom's building, but not before turning and waving to let him know she was okay. Clearly her friend had made a key for her. He waved in return, then departed for home. During the drive to Holland Park, his head was filled with thoughts of lunch, considering again his poor choice of lunch partner. How had he never noticed what a shrill harpy Natasha was? His thoughts went beyond her, though, straight back to his ex-wife, and how similar in personality and temperament both women were. He wondered if he had blinders on when it came to the women in his social circle. He had, in the past, seemed all too willing to forgive them their abrupt, shallow nature because he assumed it was what had to be done to have someone in one's life.
That was going to change, he thought. Well, should the right woman come along.