Into the Fire
6 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,406 in total, 7,315 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 6.
June passed by in the blink of an eye. He was looking forward to the short breather away from London again, to see Patrick again and to enjoy the northern Welsh town in the glory of true summer. He decided to drive up on the Saturday prior to the ceremony. The ride up was uneventful; he stopped again for curry in Birmingham before making the rest of the trip. Patrick seemed surprised at his arrival; he was dressed in a crisp dress shirt and trousers as if he were getting ready to go out, was in fact fixing the knot on his tie as the door swung open.
"Mark!"
"Sorry," Mark said. "I thought I told you I was coming up today."
"No, I'm sorry," he said. "You probably told me and I forgot."
"It's not a problem, is it?"
"No, no," he said. "I just… well, I have a date tonight."
Mark offered a smile, but could only think of the prospect of trying to find a free room the weekend before graduation ceremonies were to begin. "That's great," Mark said.
His expression must have betrayed his thoughts, however, because Patrick laughed. "I'm not going to make you sleep in your car," he said. "Come on in."
Mark grinned, then brought his bag into the house.
"I'm surprised," said Patrick as he led Mark to the spare room.
"About what?"
"When my colleagues heard I had a date, they immediately asked me who I was taking out."
"I figured you'd tell me if you wanted to," he said. "I know how much I hate it when I get nagged about my personal life like that."
Patrick told him about the woman he'd met while running errands in town the previous week. "I was walking and looking at a to-do list, not watching where I was going, when I ran directly into her. She was, unfortunately, carrying an armload of tulips at the time."
"Oh no."
"Oh yes. After picking up the scattered remains of that bundle of flowers I helped her to take the still-useful ones back to her shop."
"Her shop?"
"Yes," he said. "She owns a little flower shop. We got to talking and she agreed to have dinner with me."
"And does this woman have a name?" Mark prompted.
"That's the funny thing," Patrick said. "Her name is Lily. Talk about your determinative nomenclature."
Mark chuckled, but then his smile faded. "You know," he said, "I never told you what drove me to take the job in Bangor."
"I thought it was that you couldn't pass up the opportunity of a lifetime," joked Patrick.
Mark chuckled. "But you never asked, and I'm grateful that you didn't."
"So now that you have my interest all piqued…"
Mark had already decided to tell him. "I was married for two weeks," he explained, then went into the entire history with his ex and his former best friend, and the year-long-plus aftermath. He tried to keep it brief, knowing that the man had a date to keep. At the end Patrick just looked a little dazed.
"That's… wow. I don't know what to say," Patrick burbled. "I can see why you would want to get away from that."
"Yes." Mark felt a lot better for having told his friend.
"I'm surprised you didn't find someone to have some fun with here."
He pushed down traitorous thoughts about his former student and said, "That's another reason why I'm glad I came here when I did. In London I narrowly escaped the clutches of another woman of almost exactly the same type."
"Glad you did too," said Patrick. "Well, I'm supposed to pick up Lily at seven, so I'd better find my jacket. You know where things are. Make yourself comfortable. Watch a film, make microwave popcorn, have a blast. I just picked up a copy of Rashomon."
After unpacking his overnight bag and hanging up his suit for Monday, Mark went into the kitchen. He wasn't much in the mood for popcorn, but thought some wine would be nice after the drive. He had an already-open red in the pantry. After pouring a glass he went into the sitting room and saw the film that Patrick had mentioned. He switched on the television then the DVD player. Instead of a 'no disc' warning, however, something began to play.
It was clearly something that had been recorded in Patrick's classroom. Mark went to switch it off in order to eject the disc, but Patrick's voice sounded just then, announcing that it was the final oral presentations for a class for the term that had just ended. "We'll go in order of surname. Boxer, Davies, Edwards, George, Jones, Owen, Powell, Upjohn then Williams." The mention of the name 'Jones' piqued his interest. It was by no means an uncommon name, but if it were Bridget, he was curious to see her presentation.
He forwarded through the first four. The presentations seemed to be between two and four minutes in length. He pressed Play at the end of the fourth. As the young woman exited to the left of the screen, after a moment, Bridget entered from the right.
She had her hands clasped in front of her, her hair neat and brushed out on her shoulders, dressed in a freshly ironed blouse and skirt; he recalled the day at the end of term on which she'd worn it. She began to speak, but it was too quiet for the microphone to pick up. "Volume, Bridget," said Patrick, amusement in his voice. "I know you're capable of it."
With a smile, she softly cleared her throat and began again. "My presentation is about the metaphorical significance of the presence of rhododendrons in D. H. Lawrence's 1915 novel, The Rainbow and its 1920 sequel, Women in Love." With that introduction under her belt she began to speak and as she did, her voice grew in confidence and volume, as well as an elevation of passion for the subject. Her presentation went a little longer than the four minute mark, but he hardly noticed. When she finished she smiled brightly, looked over to her right where Patrick must have been, and said, "That's all. Do I just leave?"
"Yes. Thank you, Bridget."
She delivered a small smile to the camera, then, like her predecessors, exited to the left of the screen.
He pressed Stop on the front of the DVD player, then ejected the disc, placing it in the empty case from which it had clearly come. He looked one more time at the Rashomon DVD sitting there, and realised how not in the mood he was to watch it now. In fact, he did not want to stay inside, but since he did not have a key to Patrick's place, he could not really leave, either.
Mark opted to sit outside on the upper floor balcony. Patrick's house was on higher ground which went downhill towards the easterly facing coast, affording quite a lovely view of the city and the water below. It was not yet twilight—the sun would not set until nearly ten in the evening this far north at this time in July—but the waning sun dipping to the west behind him cast a golden oblique light upon the landscape, the shadows very long indeed. He took in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly.
It was ridiculous, really, what that short video presentation had done to him. He had always thought her cute, even pretty. Now that their relationship as teacher and student was dissolved, he could no longer deny that he had been physically attracted to her, but that was a natural response, he had reasoned, for a healthy, straight man to have in the presence of a lovely young woman. However, seeing her again after almost a month, if only in the form of a recording, had had an unexpected effect on him to which he did not want to admit.
He knew deep down in his soul, though, that it was beyond just attraction. It had hit him only upon seeing her face again how much he had missed her, how he'd longed to hear her laughter again. How much he wanted just to be near her. The strength of these feelings was matched only by the strength of the voice in his head telling him that it was all simply a reaction, a rebound, triggered by his experience with his ex-wife.
He did not know how long he stood outside watching the clouds cross the sky and the shadows get longer still, but it surprised him when Patrick's car sidled up and into the drive. Mark glanced to his watch; it was not even nine in the evening. He watched as Patrick emerged alone and looking rather unhappy. Mark entered the house and went downstairs.
Before he even had a chance to ask, Patrick said, "I must have screwed something up," he said. "I thought it was going so well, and then after dinner she just asked to go home."
"I'm sorry," Mark said, trying to be supportive. "No signs at all?"
"I keep wracking my brain trying to remember. I mean, she talked about flowers a lot, and it was mostly very interesting, but…" He trailed off. "…I admit that there were times when my attention wandered. She's very pretty."
"Maybe that's it," said Mark. "Or maybe she's very busy because of graduation."
"But if she saw me sort of staring at her… maybe she thinks I'm creepy." He then exhaled loudly. "I think I need a drink. Want to join me?"
His only answer was to accompany Patrick to the kitchen. He had Patrick pour some wine into the glass he'd already used then his friend poured one for himself. Without words they each raised their glasses in a silent toast before drinking. To what they were toasting was not clear. Mark supposed a renewed friendship was good enough.
"Sometimes it feels like I'll never find someone," Patrick lamented after taking a big sip and they began to walk to the sitting room. "And even when you think you have…" He trailed off.
Mark considered what Patrick was about to say, and could not say that he had thought his ex-wife anything like a soul-mate. They had seemed well-matched for a long-term partnership. There had been no spark of romance or love involved, which made him question what he had been thinking in the first place, getting married.
"So, what were you doing out on the balcony?" Patrick asked, apparently to change the subject after Mark made no reply. "You didn't watch the film, then?"
"No," Mark replied. "Though I went to put it in but there was a disc in there already."
Patrick was clearly thinking hard on what could have been in there.
Mark supplied, "End of term oral presentations for one of your classes."
"Oh, right!" Patrick said. "I played them again at home for final grades. Did you watch?"
"I admit to curiosity at Bridget's. I hope that's all right."
Patrick chuckled. "It's fine. It's not like it was a closed classroom. I wouldn't say that public speaking is her forte, but her presentation was very good. Compelling and well-researched."
"I wouldn't know one way or another about the research, but I thought it was indeed engaging," Mark said.
"I know you know her penchant for tardiness and last-minute turning in of assignments, but you also know she turns in pretty high quality work," said Patrick. "She's very enthusiastic about literature. Actually," he said, pointing to a bookshelf, "you'd probably be interested in that photo over there. It's from a couple of semesters ago when we went to a Student Friday at the LIPA." Mark knew he meant the Liverpool Institute for Performing Arts, which he had heard referenced by Patrick in previous conversations. "Class outing. A performance of Les Liaisons Dangereuses, adapted from a novel that we had been discussing in class."
Mark strode over to the shelf he indicated and saw the photo Patrick was referencing. His eyes lit on Bridget immediately. Her hair was a little longer, and she was wearing glasses. He smiled.
"You should really read this essay that was a result of that outing." He went to an escritoire, upon which sat his laptop. He pulled open the top and sat down. "Had to keep a copy of it… let me bring it up."
"Bring it up?"
"Some of us are in the current century, Mark," joked Patrick as he tapped away at his computer keyboard, "and we have students turn in papers via email. Ah, here we are." He rose from the desk. "Have a read."
Mark sat down at the desk and began to read the essay that compared and contrasted Christopher Hampton's play to the original book by Pierre Choderlos de Laclos. As he read her astute commentary and observations peppered liberally with acerbic wit, he found himself alternately contemplative and amused. It was entirely representative of the woman he'd grown to know. As he finished, he stood, feeling a bit discomposed as, in his mind, he completed the thought:
…and love.
"Pretty good, hm?"
Mark glanced to Patrick, hoping his features weren't saying more than he wanted them to say. "Indeed," he said. "You'll have to tell me how spot on her essay was or wasn't. I'm afraid my familiarity is limited to the film."
"Films, plural," emphasised Patrick. "And it was very spot on."
Mark raised his glass and took a drink.
"And speaking of films, are you feeling up to one?"
"Hm?"
"Rashomon, or something else…"
Mark suddenly felt very much like being alone. "Mm, after the drive and the wine, I think I need to make it an early night."
"Understandable," he said. "Go on up, make yourself at home. I'll see you in the morning."
Mark trudged upstairs and into the room he was using. He fetched his overnight bag then went to the bathroom in order to prepare for the night. It was ridiculous; it was not even ten in the evening, he wasn't really all that tired, but he could not bear the thought of idle, light-hearted conversation after the bombshell that had just gone off in his mind.
It wasn't possible. It wasn't rational. It was so unlike him, particularly after so short a time and such a tenuous friendship, to feel for anyone what he felt for her. She would either laugh if she knew or would never speak to him again; he was practically an old man to her. He realised as these thoughts turned around and around in his head that he had been brushing his teeth for close to five minutes. Blinking suddenly at the realisation, he stopped, rinsed out his mouth, washed his face and ran a comb through his hair. He drew his fingers over his cheek and chin, contemplating shaving but ultimately deciding he was just trying to distract himself from being completely alone with his thoughts.
Once back in his room, he went to the window, saw that the day had at last begun to darken. He had the same view out of his room as he'd had from the balcony, and he stood for longer than he should have just watching the sky fade, the stars begin to emerge, the lights twinkling on in the houses below.
What exactly were his feelings? He stared out, not looking at anything in particular, trying to analyse them. He liked her. He liked her company. He thought she was attractive. He cared about her very much. Nothing wrong with any of these things, he thought. However, he also considered that he wanted her, wanted to know what it was like to press his lips to hers, take her in his arms and hold her close. He wanted to have her joy and spontaneity in his life, throwing light into his darkest corners, bringing warmth to the chilliest parts of his heart. He wanted to see that bright smile every morning and have it be the last thing he saw each night.
Even though she was wilful, lacked discipline, and not afraid to speak her mind to him, particularly if she disagreed.
He sighed heavily as he came the conclusion that these were some of the things he liked best about her… which brought him looping back to thoughts of why. Was it because she was so diametrically opposed to the women he'd known and had been involved with, even married to? In any other situation, had he never known his ex-wife, Natasha, or any number of other narrow escapes, would he still feel such attraction to Bridget? He pressed the thumb and forefinger of his right hand into the corners of his eyes. He honestly did not know. He liked to think he would have.
But there was her age. Not that she was too young; she was just too young for him.
And there was her parents—
Bloody hell, he thought. He had to stop this. He would be seeing her in two days at her graduation. He had to get a hold of himself, put this silly infatuation behind him, treat her like the capable and charming young woman that she was, wish her all the best in London, and accept her friendship should she offer it. It occurred to him with no small amount of irony that at least he was no longer obsessing on Daniel and his ex-wife any longer. Be careful what you wish for, he thought darkly. Out of the frying pan and into the fire.
He slipped out of his clothing then beneath the sheets before the sun had even fully set. He drifted off to sleep watching the sunlight grow even dimmer until it finally disappeared completely.
…
As late as sunset was, sunrise was early, and Mark found himself awakened by the full brilliance of morning far too early thanks to the unadorned windows in his borrowed room. Once awake he could not fall back asleep, so decided to rise, shower, shave and dress. He also decided to step out for a walk, nicking Patrick's house key and leaving a note advising he was going to get some sea air. He then walked down towards the water and found a little place there in which to have fried breakfast and coffee.
To his surprise, while walking back from the coffee shop, Mark encountered a familiar face: strolling with apparent purpose towards Mark was Colin Jones, Bridget's father. He gaped in slight surprise. "Mark?" he said squinting a little. "Mark Darcy?"
"Mr Jones," said Mark with a grin, holding his hand out, which Colin accepted with a smile and shook enthusiastically.
"What are you doing in Bangor?"
"I came up for the graduation. Your daughter had invited me, and I decided to make a long weekend of it with a friend here."
"Ah," Colin said.
"Where are you staying?" Mark asked. They were not exactly nearby the campus.
"Oh," said Colin. "Well, Bridget dropped the ball a bit on getting us a space in the residence hall, so we're staying just down the road at a bed and breakfast." He turned and pointed down the road.
"That's great," said Mark, though was not all that sure how he felt knowing she was so close. "I'm just back from breakfast myself," he went on. "Woke up early and didn't want to make noise in the kitchen."
Colin perked. "Oh, just down that way?"
Mark nodded.
"Was hoping to find some coffee and a newspaper," Colin said brightly. "Jolly good. See you tomorrow, I imagine."
Mark nodded. "See you then."
Arriving home, he found Patrick had awakened, had found the note, and was in the process of making himself breakfast. He offered some to Mark, who declined except for the coffee. Patrick advised he had some preparations to make, presumably for the ceremony the next day, so Mark pretty much stayed out of his way, pulling a book out of Patrick's shelf, taking up a side of the sofa and reading.
He spent the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon in this quiet fashion, at least until Patrick poked his head into the sitting room. "Hey, Mark, do me a favour?"
"Mm?" he asked, looking up from the printed page.
"Can I beg you to run down to Tesco for a couple of bottles of red for tonight? I thought I had a few more than I do."
Mark folded a slip of paper into the book to mark his place, then set the book down. "Absolutely," he said. "What's tonight?
Patrick looked at him as if he had begun spouting Urdu. "The drinks party…?"
He realised that Patrick had likely mentioned it earlier but he had been so distracted he just had not heard. "Oh, yes. Sorry. Give me a moment and I'll be off."
The trip did not take long at all; he found rather good quality wine on sale and was back at Patrick's in fewer than forty-five minutes. "I swear it took me longer to navigate through that store than to drive there," Mark said, setting the carrier bag down on the kitchen counter and pulling the wine out.
"Thanks," he said, not looking up from pulling something from the oven.
Mark had not been in the kitchen since having coffee earlier, and was amazed at the transformation; there were all manner of canapés and other finger foods—Indian, Italian and English traditional—on trays all over the place. The kitchen windows were all thrown wide, which explained why he had failed to notice the delectable scent. "Patrick, you should have asked me to help," Mark said. "I feel like a thoughtless clod not realising what was going on in here, reading obliviously while you were slaving away in here."
"Ah, but you're a guest," he replied dismissively. "Plus, cooking like this is something I enjoy very much and never get to do."
Mark felt somewhat mollified. "You're sure?"
"Yes."
"Will you let me at least buy us some supper?"
"Too late," he said. "I fixed us a lasagne." He indicated the pan he had just taken out.
After supper Mark insisted on doing the washing up, during which Patrick began taking items out of the kitchen and setting them on the dining room table along with the wine and some glasses. Patrick then went to freshen up.
"If anyone shows up before I'm down, just let them in."
"Anyone I know?" Mark thought, thinking perhaps Danny, Rob or the other faculty members he'd known while on staff.
"Very funny," said Patrick with a grin as he wandered away.
Mark checked his own appearance in the sitting room mirror, and, deciding he passed muster, returned to the sofa to continue reading. It was not more than twenty minutes later that the doorbell sounded, so he put the book down again, stood, tugged down the bottom of his shirt, then went to the door.
To his surprise, standing there was Alan, the boy that Bridget had sent off drunk as a skunk from the pub in a taxi some months back, dressed in crisp trousers and a short-sleeved knit shirt. Was this more than just a faculty gathering? "Hi," Alan said, equally confused, stepping back to take a second look at the house number. "This is Professor Baldwin's house, right?"
Mark nodded. "Yes, sorry. He asked me to watch the door while he finished up."
He came in. "Thanks. God, I'm so glad I'm not the first to arrive."
Mark smiled, allowing the misapprehension. "Professor Baldwin should be down very soon."
"Fancy spread," said Alan, craning his head to look at the table in the next room.
"Go on, help yourself," said Mark, then added with a smirk, "within reason."
Alan smiled back. "Think I'll have a bit of the red."
A few minutes later the bell rang again, so Mark went for it. It was another sharply dressed man, clearly another student who looked vaguely familiar, and a young woman in a pretty summery dress; he realised it was the same girl who had appeared immediately before Bridget on the recording. They too looked confused.
"Are we—"
"This is the right address," said Mark with a smile. "Come in. Make yourself at home."
Patrick was down shortly after that, after a few more students had arrived, and he greeted them all with a smile. It was starting to dawn on Mark exactly who the invited guests were, and his heart started pounding considering who else was likely to show. "I'm so glad you guys could come. Have some wine, have some food; this is our little blowout."
"Do we have to talk about literature?" joked the girl from the video. They all laughed.
"Course not," said Patrick. "Unless you want to, I mean. You're graduated now."
The door was standing open now with the frequency of new arrivals and the warmth of the summer night. Mark made his way towards it, towards the porch, and as he went outside he took in a deep breath. His eyes went down the street, in one direction then the other. Stupid, he thought. Her parents were here. She wasn't going to leave them on their own.
Movement caught the periphery of his vision and he turned, then froze. Walking down the street in a lovely black knee-length dress with rosettes along the collar was Bridget. Her hair was pulled away from her face and into a little bun; her head was turned to look at the houses, presumably for the address. As she got closer, her head turned and her eyes fixed on Patrick's house. When she saw Mark she stopped in her tracks, raising her hand to her mouth, obviously shocked. But then her hand dropped and a huge smile overtook her face. Adrenaline surged through him as she broke into a run (as best she could in the heeled shoes she was wearing) until she got to Patrick's walk, then dashed up to the porch. "Oh my God!" she said, throwing her arms around him for a hug. She smelled wonderful, like vanilla and roses. "My dad wasn't kidding. You really did come!"
He raised his arms and returned the hug, but as he did his fingers brushed against her bare shoulders; it was a sleeveless dress. Instead he awkwardly patted her on the back, also bare between her shoulder blades, before she released him. "Hi," he said sheepishly.
"I thought you said you'd come to graduation just to be nice," she said, still smiling. She then furrowed her brow. "So why are you at the drinks party?"
"I'm staying with Patrick for the weekend," Mark said, trying hard to keep his eyes from straying from her face down to the utterly tempting broad scoop of her collar. "Where are your parents?"
"Oh, they decided to go out for dinner and dancing," she said, still breathless from her little jaunt. "I think it's really sweet, really romantic."
Mark smiled, trying to otherwise keep rein on his features. "Well, are you hungry? Why don't you come inside for something to eat?"
"Famished," she said. "And I could really use a glass of wine after today. I love my mother but she can drive me mental at times."
"Red or white?" he asked.
"White."
She preceded him into the house. The dress came down lower than he expected in the back, and his eyes followed the valley of her spine down to the hem before he blinked and looked away. "Professor Baldwin!" she said upon seeing Patrick.
She then went up to him and gave him a hug. Mark felt himself deflate a little—the hug she'd given him was nothing special, after all—and turned to get them each a glass of wine, white for her as she'd requested, and red for himself. He could hear Patrick chiding her for calling him 'Professor': "I think you should feel free to call me Patrick now, Bridget," he said. "We're equals now."
She smiled and looked down demurely. "It'll take a lot longer than a month for me to think of myself as your equal," she said.
"Here you are," Mark spoke up, offering her glass to her. She looked up and with another winning smile she accepted the glass.
"Aw, thanks," she said. "Have been dying for this—oh my God!" With that, holding her glass carefully, she bounced off to give a hug to one of her former classmates, then another.
Mark felt very out of place. After his first glass of wine, he went for a top up and to pick at the canapés, though he was not particularly hungry after the lasagne. He surveyed the room. There were probably twenty-five to thirty young people there, and apart from Bridget and Patrick, he did not know any of them except in a very tangential way, such as Alan and a few familiar faces from the video. The chatter of their conversation, the occasional raised, raucous laugh, then the music that someone put on (something modern and pop-ish with a very infectious beat; some had even started to dance) was starting to wear on him; he decided after a time to wander out into Patrick's lawn for some air and some quiet.
A few of smokers had congregated there too, and with a stiff smile in their direction, he breezed past them for the end of the walk. He put his free hand into his trouser pocket, sipped at the wine, and looked out over the city again. Time must have gotten away from him in the party, because even though it had not yet hit twilight, the moon was already visible in the sky.
"Hey."
Startled from his thoughts he turned to see Bridget with a lit cigarette between her fingers. She was smiling though.
"What are you doing out here all on your own? I barely got to see you in there."
It had been his observation that she had indeed been quite the social butterfly, catching up with all of the classmates she hadn't seen since classes had concluded.
"It was getting a bit close in there," he admitted, shifting his weight on to the other foot. "I didn't realise you still smoked."
"Yeah," she admitted, bringing the fag up to her lips and drawing breath in, then exhaling. "Pretty sporadically until getting to London. I'm trying to give up again." He looked pretty pointedly at the glowing end. She chuckled. "I need to try harder, I know. If it helps my case, this is the first I've had all day. Can't with Mum and Dad 'round."
"How is London?" Mark asked, feeling bad that he hadn't done so sooner.
"Oh, I love it." She paused to take a drag, looking out over the city below as he had just been doing. "And I love my job, though it does get a bit boring at times. And I adore Tom, but I hope the flat works out, because he's… challenging to live with."
"Flat?"
She nodded. "Tom knows someone who knows someone who just bought a bigger flat but is locked into a rental agreement on her current one, so she'd have to pay rent and a mortgage." Another puff. "We're meeting on Friday for lunch after I get back. Of all things, she's a investment banker."
He smiled. "Glad to hear it."
She turned to him, looking unexpectedly melancholy. "I'm afraid though that I'll get lonely in my own flat. Even though there are so many people around, it's hard to make friends or meet anyone. I hardly know anyone aside from Tom or the people at work."
He cleared his throat. "And me."
She looked more like her usual self again, even laughed lightly in amusement. "That's true." She took another long draw, then exhaled. "So how about you? How have you been?" She took a drink from a replenished wineglass.
"Busy," he offered, which was not untrue. "Long hours defending the weak and downtrodden."
"Never boring, if I recall." Her features softened. "What about—oh, never mind."
"What?" he asked, his pulse speeding a little at the sight of the crimsoning of her skin.
"I said never mind," she supplied. "It's none of my business."
"No," he said.
"No it's not my business, or no it is?"
"No, I haven't found a girlfriend."
Her mouth dropped slightly. "How did you know I—?" she stammered.
"I read people in my line of work," he said, which was also not untrue, but with her prior mention of fear of loneliness and boredom, coupled with the change in her expression and the blush flooding her cheeks, the conclusion had not been hard to draw.
"You're scary," she said, a slight smile touching her lips.
"I did have Natasha try to reel me in," he said in what he hoped was a light-hearted tone, though reel was not the best phrase to describe what she'd done.
"Ugh," she said, sticking out her tongue. "Good for you for fending her off—have this vision of you doing so in the manner of a lion tamer. Chair, whip and all."
At that he laughed out loud, feeling more at ease. To draw attention away from himself, though, he said, "You know, Patrick had a date on Friday night."
"You're joking."
"I'm not," he said.
At this she dropped the fag end, stepped on it, then insisted they go inside to find Patrick so that Bridget could ask about this date. Upon her approach and demand for information, Patrick laughed. "Boy, you go from 'Professor Baldwin' to prying into my private life during the course of one party."
"Bah! How did your date go?" Bridget asked again.
"I thought it was going well, but… well, at the end of it, she just wanted me to take her back to her shop."
"She went back to work?" Bridget asked incredulously.
"Well, she lives over her shop. A flower shop."
"What, did she not have a good time?"
"I don't know," Patrick lamented. "I thought she did. Maybe she was just tired. Maybe she just didn't like me."
Bridget put her hands on her hips. "Doesn't like you, bah! Who doesn't like you? If I were you," she said in a slightly stern tone, "I wouldn't give up the potential on mere 'maybe's. Call her again, or better yet, visit her shop, say hello."
Patrick looked understandably confused.
"If you drop in unannounced," she said teasingly, "her reaction will tell you all you need to know."
At this, Patrick laughed. "Good point, Bridget. Good point." He sighed. "Particularly as I do quite like Lily."
"Lily! That's fantastic!" She giggled. "Too bad for the misunderstanding. I would have liked to have met her tonight."
"If we get married, you're invited," Patrick joked.
At that moment, the song changed and Bridget let out a squeal. "Oh, love this song!" she said, setting her nearly empty glass down on a table. "Come on, let's dance!" She and some other students around began to move in a sort of informal up-tempo freeform dance style. Patrick started moving too in a jerky way that made Mark chuckle.
He felt a hand grab and tug his. He looked and found that Bridget had taken it. She was smiling. "Come on, you dance too."
"I can't dance to this," he managed.
"Oh, bollocks. The only people who can't dance to this lack a pulse!" She reached and took the other hand, raising then swinging his hands around in time to the music. He felt his head bob up and down a little and he smiled. Her enthusiasm was infectious. "That's it, you've got it," she said. "Can't dance, my arse!"
This song slid into another that did not sound too much different to him, and she did not let up or release his hands; he continued to move in what was probably a stiff, uncoordinated way, and in fact, he was convinced that her laughter was directed at his appalling dance moves. After the song changed again he had to beg off despite liking that she had given him so much attention.
"That's okay," she said with a wink. "I could use a little more wine." She reached for her discarded glass, then held it out to him. "If you don't mind."
"Not at all," he said, slightly bewildered. "Be right back."
He went over to where the wine was with his own glass as well, pouring white again for her and red for him. When he returned she had already engaged in conversation with the girl from the video. It didn't surprise him; she was so much more extroverted than he was. "Thank you, Mark," she said as she accepted the glass. "Kate, have you met Mark Darcy?"
"Not formally," said Kate. "He let me in earlier tonight."
"Mark's from the same town I'm from," Bridget said, reaching and placing her hand on his shoulder. "He's a big lawyer in London." She was leaning into him a little, probably just unsteady on her feet from the wine. "And he taught one of my classes, History of Human Rights Law."
"Oh, right, I remember you mentioning that—er, class." Kate flushed a bit pink. "Oof, no more wine for me."
"And Mark, this is Katey George. We've known each other since first term and have had all manner of literature classes together."
"It's a pleasure to meet you," said Mark politely. He raised his glass and sipped, nearly choking on the burgundy when he felt Bridget slide her arm through his. He looked to her; she was taking in nearly half the glass in that one swallow before lowering it. He wondered exactly how much she'd had.
"Let's dance again," she said. "I love this song too."
"I think I've embarrassed myself enough—"
"Chuh," she said. "You dance just fine." She set down the glass, grasped his wrist again and swung his hand back and forth. Kate clapped her hands with a giggle of delight—she was obviously tipsy, too—then began to move, along with most of the students in the room.
He gave in and started moving too. Truth was, he didn't mind dancing with her that much. She didn't have perfect natural rhythm, but she moved well enough, and looked great doing so in the dress she was wearing.
The song switched again, and this time, it was a slow song. From the way most of the students were pairing off, had even formed groups of three or four, he realised the song was meaningful to them in some sentimental, end-of-university lamentation-type way. She didn't let go of his hand, only stepped in closer and took the other.
It was all he could do not to put his arms around her and hold her tightly to him. He did, however, slip into a more formal dance posture, putting one hand on her waist, holding the other slightly aloft as it cradled hers. She apparently was having none of formality, though; she let go of his hand and put her arms around his shoulders, resting her temple against his collarbone as they swayed in place.
He raised his hands up, his fingers flitting for a moment on her skin before he remembered how low the back of the dress went; he then just put his arms safely around her waist.
"Can't dance, my arse," she murmured, her eyes closed.
He chuckled at the repetition of her earlier words, though could hear warning sirens going off in his head. She was obviously tipsy, and was touchy-feely at that.
"I didn't say you could stop dancing," she said.
He hadn't realised he'd done so. The tune was still going; in fact, Mark was beginning to think it was the longest song in the history of music. "Sorry."
"Mm, don't let it happen again."
It was too lovely a moment not to enjoy, even though he knew it was dangerous to do so. He closed his eyes, exhaling slowly, his hands spanning on her back, low-cut back be damned; he was living in a moment where the only thing he could feel was her hair tickling his chin and the warmth of her against him, the only thing he could smell was her perfume, the only thing that existed was the music and the way they swayed together—
"May I cut in?"
Mark opened his eyes and saw Patrick with a strange look on his face, an attempt at a smile that was failing and a look of cool steel at his friend before turning his visage, much softened, to Bridget.
"Of course, Profe—I mean Patrick," she said, giggling, then unsteadily stepped into his arms for what was more of a ballroom dance than anything. Mark pushed his fingers into the corners of his eyes. Feebly he heard Kate ask if he wanted to carry on the dance with her. He politely declined and went for some coffee, his eyes staying on Bridget as she playfully danced with Patrick.
It was not until well after sunset that people started leaving for home, probably because they knew they had a long day ahead of them tomorrow. It appeared that most people had walked from accommodations on campus, or had designated drivers in advance. At least he sincerely hoped they had.
He could hear Bridget's voice carry over the others as she said goodnight and goodbye to their host. During the process of sobering up from his modest wine consumption, he had resolved to keep his distance lest he be foolish enough to be persuaded into something like a dance again, but when he went to say goodbye to her, he could not bear to think of her walking back to her room alone.
"I'll walk with you," he said.
He expected protestations, but it seemed her experience with her ex was still too fresh. She nodded. "Thanks."
Patrick gave him that steely glare again. "See you tomorrow, Bridget."
"See you," she said.
The walk down to the bed and breakfast was quiet; Bangor was not much of a late night town and it seemed the house lights had all but gone out. The sky was clear and the stars shone bright in the sky. The moon was full and cast a silver glow upon the entire scene.
"That was so much fun," she said. "I had a nice time."
"So did I," he said. He put his hands in his pockets.
"I'm really glad you came up," she said. "I mean, I'm glad my parents are here too, but it means a lot that you c—" She stopped short and didn't seem inclined to finish.
"That I what?" he prompted.
"Came. Took the time out of your schedule," she finished in a slightly odd tone. He suspected that it wasn't what she was originally going to say, but he wasn't going to press the matter.
When they got to the bed and breakfast, she got up onto the step, fished out the key, opened the lock and twisted the knob to let herself in. She then turned to him. "Thanks again."
"Of course," he said. "It was my pleasure."
Instead of saying anything more, she just looked up at him with wide eyes that seemed to be searching his. Then as quick as lightning she took his face in her hands and pressed her lips to his for a light, fleeting kiss, then another that lingered a little longer.
He placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently away. This could not be allowed to occur when she was not in possession of her senses. "Goodnight," he said at seeing her slightly stunned expression, stepping back a pace.
"Goodnight," she whispered.