Into the Fire
7 of 12
By S. Faith, © 2010
Words: 75,406 in total, 6,589 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.
Chapter 7.
As he walked back to Patrick's, her ambushing him with a kiss was all he could think about, even though he knew he should not read anything into it than her being a little physically over-friendly while she was intoxicated. The sensation of her lips upon his, though, was not one that was going to leave any time soon.
When he came in only three people and Patrick remained. Patrick seemed grateful for the assistance in getting the rest of them out so that they could do some perfunctory cleaning before heading off to sleep.
Patrick switched the music off and began piling all of the wine glasses onto a tray. Mark was picking up paper plates and other finger food detritus. They both ended up in the kitchen at the same time and that's when Patrick spoke at last. The question was not completely unexpected.
"Mark," he said, setting down his tray. "What was going on tonight with Bridget?"
He was not going to play disingenuous with Patrick, particularly with that all too memorable kiss as she'd stood on the stoop of the bed and breakfast. "Nothing was going on," he said. "I think she just had a bit too much wine and was friendlier than usual."
"I mean with you."
Mark furrowed his brow. "Me?"
"I saw your expression all through the evening when you were looking at her, and hell, I thought you might start snogging there while you were dancing. Why do you think I cut in?" He exhaled. "Be honest with me. Do you have feelings for her?"
"Of course I do. She's the daughter of my parents' friends—"
"That's not what I mean," Patrick interrupted, "and you know it."
Mark said nothing in response, but the silence said volumes. Patrick was striking uncomfortably close to a truth he barely wanted to admit to himself.
"Did it start during school?" Patrick went on.
"Did what start?"
"Whatever is going on between you two."
"There's nothing going on, then or now," he said. "I promise you. Yes, I'll admit I'm attracted to her, but nothing can ever come of it."
Patrick sighed, then looked away. "I've known her since the start of uni—she was in my first-year classes the first semester I taught. I feel a bit protective, Mark. And need I remind you that that girl was not even yet born when you and I met at Eton."
"I understand. I'd feel the same in your place." He thought briefly of Alan's advances in the pub, of the aborted attack. He already had felt that way.
Patrick looked a bit relieved. "Come on. Let's get this crap taken care of. I'm wrecked."
As they carried on gathering up all of the uneaten canapés into the kitchen and re-corked and stowed the rest of the wine, Mark's mind turned and turned over the events of that evening, on the past, and about future possibilities.
Crazier things have happened.
"Patrick?" he asked as his friend put the unopened bottles into the wine rack.
"Mm?"
"What if," Mark began tentatively, "something did come of it?"
Patrick stood and looked at Mark.
"What on earth are you talking about?"
"Bridget. Me. What if despite the fact that it should never happen… it does? Would that really be so bad?"
Patrick did not respond.
"If I were still her instructor, it would absolutely be inappropriate," Mark said.
"I agree," said Patrick.
"But I'm not. And yes, she's young, she's my parents' friends' daughter, but… are those good enough reasons to deprive myself of what could be true happiness? And you know me," he continued. "This is not something I would go into frivolously, or casually."
"Mark," said Patrick after several thoughtful minutes. "Are you trying to convince me… or yourself?"
"Maybe a little of both," he admitted. "But it's ridiculous to even speculate when she thinks I'm practically geriatric."
Patrick chuckled, which relieved Mark. "She seemed a little more flirtatious than she would have been with an octogenarian."
"She was half-pissed," he reminded. "And you never answered my question."
Patrick loaded the canapés that required refrigeration into a storage container, then snapped on the sealing lid. "In all honesty," he said, "I would be concerned that you were having a mid-life crisis."
At this Mark laughed out loud. "Don't think I haven't already thought of that myself. But it's more than a physical attraction. She's filled a hole in my life I didn't even know was there."
Patrick appeared to consider his words again. "I guess I don't have anything against it in principle," he eventually went on. "I think she is a great girl, not without her faults, but a great girl. And… well, there's a big blank spot in the middle of our friendship, but you're not so different from the kid I knew way back when. It's just… a bit odd to me. I guess because I've known her since she was seventeen. To me it's like she's a kid, herself."
"But she isn't."
"That isn't what you said before, when I first broached the subject with you," said Patrick. "Isn't it even odder for you than for me?"
"What do you mean?"
"Well, you've known her since she was a child."
He decided to come clean on exactly how well he'd known her prior to the classroom. "I remember her in nappies," he said, "then we met again for the first time last New Year's as adults."
"Oh," he said. "I assumed…"
"I know," he said, "and it's my fault for letting you think that."
Patrick ran his fingers over his face. "Still seems a bit odd," he said. "And how do you think will she fit into your world? Doesn't it concern you what your colleagues might think?" Mark realised his own expression must have changed, for he added quickly, "But surely you've considered this, too. I don't mean to offend you. Just thinking out loud, letting you know how the idea strikes me."
Mark nodded; he had been avoiding thinking of exactly how Bridget might fit into his world of barristers and high society. "Well," he said. "Not as if it will go anywhere, but it's good to know where you stand." He patted Patrick's shoulder. "Going to retire. It'll be a busy day."
He nodded. "Yeah. I'll be right behind you, I think."
As Mark slipped beneath the sheets, in the dark and the quiet of the room, his mind's eye was unsurprisingly filled with images from during the course of the evening. It was to this he drifted off to sleep. In his dreams, he stood with her again on the stoop of the bed and breakfast, which was also the stoop of Tom's place as well as her building on campus. In his dreams, when she kissed him, he did not push her away.
…
The graduation ceremony was held at three in the afternoon. He sat with Patrick with the faculty and staff but was able to easily spot Bridget's mother (wearing a bright lemon-coloured jacket, skirt and matching Jackie-O-style pillbox hat) and father peppered in amongst the guests. He waved, and Colin waved back. As the graduates came in, his eyes scanned the crowd for Bridget; he found her quickly, she found him, and they exchanged smiles before she took her seat.
Most of the ceremony was dry; someone gave what was essentially a pep speech about how the future was ahead of them like the open road, and how they had a multitude of choices laid out before them. He expected it was the same sort of speech given at every graduation ceremony, and though he should have, he didn't pay much attention, applauding politely when required. However, when they started calling the graduates up for their recognition, when Bridget's name was announced, he clapped very enthusiastically as she received her papers.
Afterwards he waded through the crowd, homing in on Pam's bright hat. Their daughter had not yet joined them.
"Mark!" said Pam. "I could hardly believe it when Colin said he'd seen you just down the street from where we're staying! And then Bridget said you were at her party last night. And here you are!"
"Mrs Jones," he said, bending to politely peck a kiss on Pam's cheek, then turning to shake Colin's hand. "Nice to see you. I'm glad I could make it."
"Very kind of you to come all this way," said Colin.
"She was a good student, and she asked if I would come. I didn't want to let her down."
Colin smiled. "Well, I can tell you she appreciates it. Have you met Jamie?"
Mark blinked very quickly as Colin indicated a good-looking man who was hovering on the periphery, not as young as Bridget but not as old as himself if he had to guess, with short dark blond hair and gleaming blue eyes. He was smiling and seemed eager to join the conversation. His thoughts were in a whirl; Bridget had not mentioned meeting someone already. Maybe she'd done so to spare his feelings. But how would she even know there were feelings to spare?
"He almost couldn't come," supplied Pam, "and Bridget was so disappointed, but we managed to get a ticket for him. It'll be such a surprise for her! Jamie, this is Mark Darcy."
"Hi," said Jamie, offering his hand for a shake. "It's nice to meet you. I've heard a lot about you."
"It's nice to meet you too," said Mark, accepting the handshake, wondering precisely what he'd heard.
"Jamie?"
It was Bridget's voice sounding out; they all turned to see her sprinting across the hall, her graduation robes flapping behind her, to where her family was before launching herself into a ferocious hug with Jamie.
"Hi, Bridge," said Jamie, chuckling as he returned the hug.
"I thought you couldn't come! Oh my God!"
"Got onto campus just before the ceremony," he said. "Wanted to surprise you."
"Today is perfect," she said, tears flowing down her cheeks as she squeezed her eyes closed.
When she pulled away at last, Mark asked, his spirits flagging at the sight he'd just witnessed, "So did you meet in London?"
Jamie looked stunned for a moment before laughing. Bridget looked confused as she brushed away her tears. "What?"
Pam and Colin chuckled too. "Mark," explained Pam, "sorry, my fault. This is our son. Bridget's brother."
Mark felt an uncharacteristic flood of heat creep up from the collar of his shirt to stain his face. "Oh," he said.
The light dawned. "Oh, you thought…" Bridget smiled, then laughed too. "I would have mentioned a boyfriend sooner," she said, her eyes meeting his, her smile softening.
Mark thought it must have been his imagination, but for a second he swore she was flirting with him again.
"Come now," said Colin. "We're expected at the departmental reception. Anyone know where it is?"
"I can show you the way."
It was a smiling Patrick.
"You must be Bridget's parents," he continued. "She was such a pleasure to have in class. You must be very proud."
Pam was beaming and Colin reached to shake his hand, introducing Jamie as well. "And you must be Professor Baldwin. Bridget's enjoyed your classes very much."
After giving Bridget a moment to shed the graduation robe, they headed off towards where the reception was being held. Bridget walked with her arm around her brother's waist and Jamie's arm around her shoulders; Mark was a few paces behind them. She was wearing a very pretty knee-length white dress and low heels. He looked away, realising he was focusing too much on the movement of her backside.
"Hear you have a job in the big city," Jamie said.
"Yup. And a line on a flat."
"Oooh," teased Jamie. "Movin' up in the world."
She laughed, tightening her embrace for a moment. "How's Manchester? How's Becca?"
"Everything's going great," Jamie said in reply. "In fact, we're moving in together."
"You are? Isn't it a bit soon?"
"We've been seeing each other for three years," he said. "It seems silly to have two separate places."
"But you're not a vegan."
Jamie laughed. "We can keep the foodstuffs separate," he said. "You find ways to make things like that work when you love someone."
Bridget went silent for the remainder of the walk, which admittedly was not much further; Mark tried not to read too much into it.
The department had put together a nice little wine and cheese reception, done up with pretty floral bouquets and paper streamers. As they grazed the table, Mark could not help but think with a wry smile that Patrick's party had had much better food.
Jamie and the Joneses wandered towards where the beverages were while Mark, Patrick and Bridget lingered at the table. He saw Bridget's brow furrow. "Oh my," she said with a smirk. "I hate to alarm you, Patrick, but there is a very pretty ginger woman with a very pervy look in her eyes heading straight for you."
"What?" He turned and saw the woman in question. His eyes went wide and his mouth transformed with a great big smile. "Lily! What are you doing here?"
"It's nice to see you too," she said with a smile. "Who do you think supplied all of these flowers?"
After introductions were made all around, Mark was pleased to see Lily slip her hand through the crook of Patrick's elbow. It would seem that the date had ended early for reasons unrelated to how she felt about his friend, after all.
"The flowers are beautiful," said Bridget. "You did a really great job with them."
"Yes," added Patrick. "They're magnificent."
"Thank you," Lily said with a smile.
"Mark, come on, let's get some wine," she said, reaching and taking his elbow too. "It was nice to meet you," she added as she pulled him away.
Mark was too discombobulated by her actions to speak, even through Bridget ordering wine for the pair of them.
As she handed him his glass of red, she said, "I thought they could use a moment alone."
"Alone? In a crowd of hundreds?" he said.
"You know what I mean," she said, smiling slyly, then sipped at her wine.
"I have something for you," he said suddenly. At her confused look, he reached into his inner jacket and pulled out a small square box and envelope.
"Oh, you really shouldn't have."
"I wanted to," he said. "It's a milestone to remember."
With a smile she reached to take them. "Oh, hold my drink for a moment?"
"Absolutely."
She opened the card; it was a blank card with an artistic photo of London at night on the front. On the inside he had written a very simple sentiment: Congratulations on your achievement—you must be as proud of yourself as we all are. With affection, Mark. He watched her smile broaden, then she raised her eyes up to him. "Thank you," she said quietly.
"Of course," he said, then pointed. "The box."
She giggled. "Right." She pulled the top off of the box, smiled as she raised it up its contents dangling from her finger.
"A key ring," he said.
"I can see that." The main part of it was in the shape of a four-leafed clover, and in the centre was her first name engraved in a tasteful script. "Oh, silver, my favourite. It's lovely."
"I thought for your flat key, when you get one," he said. "And for luck."
"Thank you," she said, stepping forward, pecking a kiss on his cheek, then giving him a big hug. With the wineglasses in his hands he could not really return it. "That was very thoughtful of you," she murmured near his ear, before pulling back with a cheery smile. She slipped the card and the key ring into her handbag, then offered to take her wine glass back. She took a big sip and smiled again.
They were interrupted at that time by two of her classmates who had not been at the party the night before, and within moments they were all off gabbling about what they had done since the end of the term. Mark politely excused himself and walked away, considering it might be best to leave for London sooner rather than later. He did not know quite what to make of her behaviour; it seemed very much like she was continuing to flirt with him, but was he just reading too much into it? Did he want her to be flirting with him?
Of course you don't, he scolded himself, even though the sensation of her breath on his cheek was still very vivid. Nonetheless, he thought it was probably a good idea to start the drive back to London in order to get home in time for a decent night's sleep.
He set down the glass of wine untouched, then went to find Patrick to say his goodbyes. His friend was still with Lily, which made him smile again.
"Mark! Having a nice time?"
"Fantastic," he said, "but I'm afraid I must be heading home."
"Already?"
"It's a long drive," he said.
"True, I suppose it is. Well, Mark, please don't be a stranger. Keep me up to date on your life, okay?" He said it in such a way that Mark knew exactly what he meant.
"I'll be sure to."
He found the Joneses and said goodbye to them as well. He left finding Bridget for last. She was still with her friends, right where he'd left her.
"Oh, you're leaving already?" she asked, clearly crestfallen.
"I'm afraid I must," he said. "I have to work tomorrow."
"Oh," she said again. "I thought you'd be staying another night."
"Unfortunately not."
"I'll, uh, walk to your car," she said, setting down her empty glass. "Okay?"
"Okay."
They left the room, then the building, heading to where he had parked, his overnight bag already in the boot. When they reached the car he turned to her.
She said, "It means a lot to me that you came."
"I was glad to do it."
"Too bad I can't hitch a ride back with you," she said half-heartedly.
"Like old times," he said in return. "Listen, I'd like to give you my number." Her brows shot up. "In case you need anything in London," he added. "Don't hesitate to call me." He reached into his jacket pocket for his pen; he was sure he did not have any business cards with him.
"O-okay," she replied unsurely. She opened her handbag and got out the card he'd given her. "You can write it on this."
He took the card from her, his fingers momentarily touching hers, before scrawling down his home and mobile numbers. "I mean it. If you need anything."
She nodded. "Drive safely."
"I will."
He stood there looking down at her and she up at him, holding the card in her hand and smiling ever so slightly. A quick hug would not be inappropriate, he decided, so held out his arms to offer one. She accepted, folding into his embrace, her arms coming up and around him. He gave her a light, friendly peck on the temple. "See you soon," he whispered.
He felt her hands press into him, felt her head tilt back ever so slightly, and was shocked to feel her lips press a delicate kiss against his jawline. "Okay," she responded quietly.
She then let go and stepped back. With another smile she turned away and walked back into the building. His mind was reeling; he was too overcome to say anything or to follow her. She was nowhere near to being intoxicated, and what she had just done was left open to very few interpretations.
The drive seemed to take an eternity. He could only think of her, and as a result, became increasingly angry at himself for allowing such a juvenile distraction. He drove directly home, not even stopping for curry in Birmingham, and upon arrival poured himself a stiff shot of scotch.
His telephone rang. He let it go to the answerphone. "Mark?" The last person he wanted to talk to. Natasha. "I was just wondering if you were back yet, if you wanted to get a late supper. Call me."
I'd rather eat dog food, he thought.
He decided to order a pizza for delivery. He did not feel like being around other people, and he did not want to risk running into Natasha or her ilk while out.
…
"Did you have a good weekend?"
Thankfully it was Jeremy and not Natasha who had hunted him down.
"It was very pleasant," he said. "I had a very nice time."
"Listen," Jeremy said, his voice dropping down into a confidential register. "Are you avoiding Natasha?"
"Natasha knows my feelings for her—or rather, lack of them. She just cannot take a hint."
Jeremy laughed. "Too much like ol' what's-er-name," he observed astutely.
Mark furrowed his brows. "Have a question for you."
"Hm?"
"How much of an age difference is too much?"
"What?"
"I mean in a potential girlfriend."
"Older or younger?"
"Younger."
"Hm," he said thoughtfully. "And the age of the man?"
Mark clarified, "Early to mid-thirties."
Jeremy regarded him suspiciously. "Is there something you're not telling me?"
"No, no," he said. "Just wondering."
"Hm. Well, as a rule, I don't go any younger than eight years my junior. Anything younger, and they just haven't got enough life experience."
He and Jeremy were roughly the same age. That meant twenty-five. "Okay," he said.
"Mark," he said in a dangerously curious tone. Mark was regretting ever bringing it up. "Did you have a shag with a girl up there in Bangor?"
"No," he said emphatically. "Of course not!"
"The lady doth protest too much," Jeremy said with a smirk. "Mark, you can tell me if you did, you know. It'd be nice to know you got a little now and then."
Mark sighed, deciding to relent a little. "I met a woman…"
"Ha! The truth is out!"
"Actually… she was in my class."
Jeremy's lecherous smirk fell. "Oh."
"Nothing happened then," he said proactively. "I just didn't know what people might think if… something did."
"How old?"
"Twenty. No, twenty-one." He recalled she'd had a birthday in March.
Jeremy whistled.
"But she seems older than that in some ways," he said, even as he considered how mad she'd driven him with fibs about her dead computer, and three-word essays.
The smile slowly returned. "I think you'd be my hero, frankly."
At that Mark chuckled. "I don't know how I'd feel about me being your hero in that regard," said Mark. "I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself."
He made a zipping motion across his lips. "Scout's honour."
Mark's mobile began to vibrate at that moment, skittering on the desktop until he palmed it. He looked at the incoming number; he did not recognise it. "If you'll excuse me, please."
"Sure thing."
Jeremy left, closing the door behind him until it latched. He opened the mobile.
"Mark Darcy speaking."
There was no one apparently on the line.
"Hello?"
"Hi." It was a quiet, timid, female voice. His mind shot into fifteen different directions at once: victim of cultural ritual or hate crime? Evading persecution by cruel dictatorship? Then the voice continued talking. "It's me. It's Bridget."
He blinked rapidly, glancing to the clock in the corner of his computer. It wasn't even five in the evening. "Hi," he said over the flush of adrenaline that raced through his system. "Everything all right?"
"Mm-hm," she said. "Just back in town."
"Ah," he said, his eyes flashing up to ensure the door had not opened again, that no one was listening. Nothing had changed. "I'm at work," he added.
"Oh!" she said. "You're not, like, in the middle of court, are you?"
He laughed lightly; it was sort of sweet how intimidated she seemed. "No, I'm in my office."
"Oh," she said. She said nothing else.
He smiled. "Was there something I could do for you?" he prompted.
"Sorry," she said. "Sorry. I… Tom's got a show Friday night."
"What?" he asked at this apparent non sequitur.
"I promised to take you to one of his shows when we were both in London again, and I was wondering…" She trailed off.
He had completely forgotten about their little pact. "Yes, of course," he said. "I'd love to go."
"Oh, great," she said with a great rush of breath.
"What time?" he asked.
"Ten."
"You want me to pick you up at ten?"
"No," she said with a laugh. "The show starts at ten."
"Okay… shall I pick you up at nine?"
"How about eight? We can have supper beforehand. They serve really good food."
He tried to ignore the pulse pounding out of control in his ears. It was becoming more and more like a date.
"Mark?" she asked, voice reverting to timidity. He realised he had not yet answered.
"Sorry, someone was trying to get my attention," he fibbed. "Yes, yes, that sounds great."
"Okay," she said. "See you then." After a pause, she said, "You remember where Tom's place is, right?"
"Yes," he said. "See you then."
…
He threw himself into work for the remainder of the week, believing wholeheartedly that if he distracted himself enough he could convince himself that Friday night would be no different than having dinner or an after-work drink with Jeremy, Natasha, or any other of his friends or colleagues, but as he rang the bell at Tom's place at 7:55 pm that Friday night, he knew from the nervous ball in his stomach, the trembling in his hands, that it was nothing like any of those things.
"Hello?" said a man's voice. It must have been Tom.
"Hello. I'm here for Bridget."
Silence, followed by a curt, "We'll be right down."
Mark said nothing in response. He was too surprised. Perhaps it was not a date of any kind whatsoever. Maybe he had made a string of foolish assumptions—
The front door swung open. Tom, immaculately groomed compared to the last time he'd met the man, gave Mark an inexplicably haughty look as he stepped out.
"Tom's going to ride down with us."
Bridget emerged from behind him. She looked radiant in a sleeveless dress made of a pale-coloured, thin, gauzy fabric, cotton or possibly linen; the skirt swept down to just above her knees, one layer over another over another and swinging with her every motion. It was perfect for a July night. His eyes drifted to her legs, which were shapely and, as best as he could tell, bare. She had open-toed shoes on her feet; the heels raised her height rather significantly.
"Okay," he said, snapping to his senses, leading them to his car. He noticed that Tom's expression did not improve.
"Haven't seen a drag show before, have you?" Tom asked once they were on their way.
"I admit I have not," he said. "I'm looking forward to it. Bridget says you're very good." She had not said so directly, but he thought she wouldn't mind a fib in order to smooth things over with Tom, who seemed very surly towards him. A quick glance in the rear view mirror revealed a quirked eyebrow from Tom as he looked towards Bridget, who had taken the front passenger seat beside him, and towards whom Mark dared not look; he was sure her dress had ridden up in taking the seat.
"You'll want to turn left at the next intersection," Tom said brusquely.
He was able to find a parking spot a couple of blocks away. In walking towards the club, Tom insinuated himself between Mark and Bridget. He did not quite understand the hostility, did not know what he had done (or what Bridget had said) to get him into such a state.
"So how old are you, Mark?" Tom asked, shooting a look towards Mark.
"Tom, honestly," said Bridget.
"I think I have a right to know," he said.
"Why do you have a right to know?" she asked playfully. "I can have friends of all ages. He could be seventy and it'd be no business of yours."
Mark barely heard Tom's reply expounding on his reasoning—"I know men, Bridget, and I know their motives," to which she made a dismissive sound—because all he could focus on was the way she'd phrased her retort to Tom.
Friends.
"Well," Tom said just inside the door of Loosey's. "I hope you enjoy the show. I'll see you later?" he asked, directing a very pointed stare at Bridget. She rolled her eyes.
"Yes, Mother," she said with a smile before pecking him on the cheek.
When Tom was out of earshot, Mark said quietly, "You look very nice."
"Thanks," she said with a chuckle. "Look pretty nice yourself." She reached and brushed her fingers along the shoulder of his suit jacket as if sweeping off lint. "Though possibly overdressed for this venue."
"Oh, do you think?" said Mark. "I wasn't sure."
She giggled. "Maybe lose the tie. Unbutton the top button of your shirt."
He swore she might have reached up and done it herself had a server not come along to bring them to a table. Eccentrically decorated in mismatched armchairs of varying upholsteries and tables of different architectural styles, erratically lit with light fixtures hung at different lengths from the ceiling, Mark had never been to a place quite like it. Probably in another life it had been a comedy club or dinner theatre; there was a stage on one side, and most of the tables sat two to four, but along the edges were larger booths and bench seating.
"White wine for me," he heard Bridget say. "Nothing too dry."
"And for you?"
"I'll, uh… red please."
"Be right back. Menus are on the table."
Before he sat he divested himself of his jacket, folded it in half, then laid it over the arm of one of two unused chairs at their table. He was garnering looks from other patrons, who, Mark realised, were dressed very informally indeed in tees, jeans, trainers, combat boots and the like. Uncomfortably he reached up and undid his tie, pulling it out from around his neck.
He heard her chuckle then say something too quietly to make out.
"I'm sorry?" he asked, stuffing it in his jacket pocket.
"Button," she said, miming her own throat.
"Oh, yes." He reached up and undid the top button. She surprised him by rising up out of her chair, reaching forward over the table, taking his shirt lapels by her fingertips, and flaring the collar outward to open up the front of his shirt.
"Better," she said with a crooked smile.
He glanced down, clearing his throat, looking at the menu. Beef, turkey and veggie burgers, chips, chilli, pasties, three kinds of curry… a very strange mixture of American and British comfort foods. He ordered a cheeseburger and thick cut chips. Bridget got a mini-pizza.
He looked across the table at her, noticed for the first time consciously that she had her hair down. He couldn't swear to it, but he thought her hair might be shorter, just sweeping along her collarbones.
"Something wrong?" she asked, noticing his scrutiny.
"Did you do something different to your hair?" he asked, then added hastily, "It looks nice, just different."
She grinned again. "Spent some of my hard-earned wages on a haircut. Wanted to make a nice impression with Jude today."
"Jude?"
"The investment banker. The sublet."
"Oh," he said. "Did that go well?"
"Oh, fantastic," she said, sipping at her wine. "We got on very well. In fact, we got on so well we're meeting for lunch again next week. She had to meet two other girls today but so far I'm the front runner."
"That's marvellous," he said. "And how's the flat?"
"It's really nice."
"I'm glad for you," he said, drinking his own wine.
"I can't wait to have my own place," she said. "Don't get me wrong. Love Tom, but I… need my space. I need more privacy."
It brought to mind Tom's standoffish behaviour. "Bridget, speaking of Tom… why does he seem to hate me so much?"
"Oh," she said, her high spirits crashing to earth. "Well, I only just told him about… Ben."
"I'm sorry." Instinctively he reached his hand out to cover the back of hers in comfort, squeezing gently. She squeezed his fingers back and did not let go. "But… what does that have to do with me?"
"He's distrustful of straight men at the moment." She lifted her eyes, then smiled, then began to laugh softly. Mark smiled too.
"So why did he ask about my age?"
"Here you are." It was the server with their meals.
"Thank you," said Mark, letting go of her hand as she sat upright to allow her pizza to be set down in front of her.
"Mmm, looks great," she said, picking up a slice and taking a bite. He looked down, picked up half of his cheeseburger and bit into it. She hadn't answered the question, but it was possible she hadn't heard it, either. He let it slide.
The rest of dinner passed with conversation about her job and his, about how she was adjusting to life in London, even about how she was coping after the attack by her ex… but all the while he could only think: Had she been flirting, or had he just been misinterpreting innocent actions and displays of friendly affection? For what exactly did she need space and privacy? Why was his age such a concern for Tom? Where exactly did he stand with her?
After dinner she decided she wanted dessert, but did not want to eat an entire fudge-drizzled brownie herself. He agreed to split it with her. Upon placing the order for dessert and coffee, she got up and sat in the chair next to him.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"It's harder to share a gooey brownie over a table, plus, the show starts in ten minutes and it's easier to see from this angle." She reached for her wine, picked it up, and drained the rest of it with a smile.
It was very hard for him to reconcile the girl beside him with the girl from New Year's Day. He felt the corner of his mouth tug into a smile.
"What?" she asked suspiciously.
"Nothing," he said. "I'm just glad to be here with you."
He was afraid he might have said the wrong thing until she smiled too. "Freshly minted uni graduate and everything."
Reminded again of her age, Mark looked down.
"Did I say something wrong?" she asked.
"No," he said. "Sorry. It's me."
"Don't apologise," she said. "I keep saying stupid things that make you uncomfortable." He looked up to her. Under the table, he felt her hand cover his where it rested on his knee. He froze. She withdrew her hand, sat back in her seat. "Oh God. I keep doing things that make you uncomfortable."
"No," he said quickly. "It isn't that what you say or do that makes me uncomfortable."
"But you just looked like you bit into a lemon."
Did he really have to come out and say it? He swallowed hard, looking at her intently. "The only problem with what you say or do is that I'm having trouble interpreting exactly what it means."
With impeccable timing yet again, their brownie and coffees arrived. She did not turn away from his gaze, at least not without effort. She reached for a fork, took off the corner of the brownie. The coffees had arrived as ordered: black house brew for him, a cappuccino for her.
She stared at the brownie corner she had cut off, resting in the cradle of the fork. "Mark," she said at last. "Would it help to know that Tom thinks you're too old for me… and that I don't agree?"
When he didn't say anything, she raised her eyes to him. Her expression seemed to want to will him to understand, as if he hadn't heard her, but he had. He could, however, barely believe his ears.
At last he found his voice. "Bridget…"
"Shh," she said. "Have some brownie."
She raised her fork. Without blinking, without breaking their gaze for a moment, he opened his mouth and she slipped the brownie-laden fork in. After curling his lips around the tines, with excruciating slowness she pulled her hand back.
"Do you like it?" she asked quietly. Quickly he chewed and swallowed.
"Yes," he said, his voice cracking.
He saw a smile flit on her lips again before her mouth opened ever so slightly. When he didn't move, she prompted, "My turn…?"
"Yes, of course."
He took his own fork in hand, sliced off the opposite corner, and raised it up and into her mouth. "Mmm," she said as he withdrew the utensil; he could feel her teeth graze the tines. She closed her eyes momentarily to savour the brownie as she chewed. Lifting her lids again, her tongue darting to the corner as if in habit, she declared, "Excellent."
"Bridget," he said again. It sounded desperate to his ears.
The house lights dimmed. The show was about to begin.
Tom was not the first to take the stage, but rather, a comedian who was not particularly funny, though she seemed to think he was. He picked at the brownie only because she prodded him to, and he barely touched his coffee. What had just occurred, what it seemed to mean, was looming far too large in his thoughts.
Tom's stage persona, Raven Lunatic, was a brunette bombshell with a slinky sequined evening gown, long marcel-waved hair and picture-perfect 40s-style makeup, reminding him of one of the silver screen goddesses of the age, one whose name escaped him at present. The illusion was so complete that if Mark had not known any better he never would have questioned that the performer was a woman who just happened to have an unusually deep voice and larger than average feet. Tom had chosen old standards for which he had made subtle but fresh changes to the arrangement. There was little wonder that the place was packed. Raven was really very good.
It was during the third song that Mark felt her hand on his again under the table. Rather than stiffen as he had before, he turned his hand a little to accept it, felt her smooth fingers slide along his knuckles in order to grasp it. He ventured a glance in her direction. She offered him a tentative smile.
There was something about the stage lights, the hue and tint of the glow of the stage, that made her eyes shimmer in a manner reminiscent of the sheen of a dragonfly's wings. She knit her brow ever so slightly, leaned in closer.
"Everything all right?" she asked into his ear.
He closed his eyes, the warmth of her breath almost intoxicating. "Fine."
He felt the velvety skin of her knee beneath his fingers. He didn't know if he had moved his hand there or if she had, but the sensation jolted through him. He heard her draw in a quick breath, felt her touch her lips to his cheek.
"We can leave if you want to."
She pulled back to meet his eyes. He swore he had only thought it.
Slowly, she nodded.