M. Darcy Takes a Wife

© 2006 S. Faith

Standard disclaimers apply: the whole toy chest belongs to Helen Fielding. I'm just playing with her dolls.

Note: Working with the movie canon and working with my previously-constructed timeline that Bridget's arrival home from Thailand probably occurred at the end of May (based on internal movie references, but mostly on the weather in Thailand).

This fills in the gap between Bridget and Mark's reunion, and her parents' renewal of vows at the end of the year. There have been liberties taken. wink

The title? All apologies to Linda Berdoll and her most entertaining Pride and Prejudice sequel. It was too perfect. And all the section titles are song titles.

Part 1: Pinch Me

Wednesday 30 May

"This surely is a dream." That was all Bridget Jones could think from the back seat of Mark Darcy's car as it wound its way through the streets of London, shuttling her back to her flat. From behind the tinted windows she watched the urban landscape race by, hardly believing she was really back in England. The fact that she was being chauffeured home surely lent a surreal quality to her day, considering where it had started.

She didn't realise she'd spoken the words aloud until the driver asked, "Pardon?"

She laughed nervously. "Nothing, nothing."

Nothing - except that she was not only no longer in a Thai prison, not only reconciled with Mark, but also now his fiancée. She was certain that she would wake at any moment, be back in her squalid Thai cell, and realise it was all an aftereffect of the hallucinogenic mushrooms… but it was no dream, and Mark had been no mirage.

The sleek silver car pulled to a stop in front of her building, and the driver exited to open the door for her. She sat there, her hair and clothes still damp from the spray of water along her back (thanks to lorries plowing through rain puddles), feeling awkward and out of her element - was she supposed to tip the driver? - when the blond man asked, "Miss, this is the correct address, isn't it?"

"Yes it is. I'm sorry. I… well, wasn't sure about whether or not I was supposed to pay you." Her voice was very quiet and she felt quite the idiot.

Trying very hard to retain his professional composure and not smile or laugh, he remarked, "You needn't worry. This is Mr Darcy's car, not a taxi, miss."

She smiled and offered a thank you, while deep down, she was feeling a bit blown away. A car at his beck and call. Possibly at her own beck and call, once they were married. Married! A rush of adrenaline washed through her as the reality of it hit her yet again.

She emerged from the car onto the kerb, unable to help herself from waving at the car as it whooshed off back to him at Inns at Court, rather like Bruce Wayne's Batmobile. She smiled moonily, momentarily imagining herself as Batgirl. Again it hit her: engaged! To be married!

She made her way back up the stairs, letting herself back into the flat. She was astonished to find Shaz, Jude, Tom and Madga were back, unloading grocery sacks, wearing paths into the floor with their pacing, the ashtrays heaping with butts. They all froze and fixed their eyes upon her.

"What are you doing here?" Bridget asked.

"We decided to get some groceries for you," said Magda, with a smile.

"So what happened?" Tom said, pouncing upon her, his hands grasping her upper arms.

She tried to effect a Darcy-like inscrutability, but failed miserably, cracking the faintest of smiles. Tom squealed like a little girl and they all flocked to her for a group hug. The sound somewhat muffled by the surrounding bodies, she said in a quiet, still-disbelieving voice, "He asked me to marry him."

They pulled back and all motion stopped. Jude and Tom seemed genuinely stunned. Magda grinned. "You're fucking joking!" exclaimed Shazzer, mouth opened in surprise, grabbing Bridget's left hand to find it bare.

"I am not, in fact, fucking joking; there's just no ring yet," replied Bridget, taking her hand back. "The proposal was rather spur of the moment." It started to really sink in: she felt herself get a little light-headed and unable to stop smiling.

"What about bloody Rebecca?" Shaz asked.

"There was nothing happening between Mark and Rebecca!"

Shaz looked dubious. "How can you be so sure?"

"Because she told me she was hung up on someone else." She waited a beat, then finished, "Me!"

The three of them were speechless, mouths agape.

Breaking the silence, Tom exclaimed, "Oh, Bridgeline!" With that they embraced her again, congratulating her practically as one voice. Then she frowned, pulling back to look to the group of her friends.

"What if I'd come back here with Mark?" she asked.

"We would've beat a hasty retreat," said Jude solemnly.

"And extracted the details out of you later," Shaz added evilly.

"Why didn't Mark come back here with you?" Tom asked.

Magda leaned in to Tom knowingly. "The Peruvians."

For a split-second Bridget thought Magda had gone spontaneously psychic, but realised she must have heard from Jeremy. The conference Mark was having with the Peruvians could not be cancelled or rescheduled. "Yes, he'll be here as soon as he's through and oh my God!" Something in Bridget sounded a red alert. "You have to go! I haven't eaten in days or so it feels like, and I have to shower… and ugh, I haven't touched a razor in eons—"

"We are on the case," Tom announced, "and have taken command of this operation. We've already spruced the place up, fresh sheets on the bed, nice new bar of soap on the tray, clean towels, necessary nutritional provisions like chocolate. Get yourself in the shower and we will take care of dinner."

……………

Bridget emerged from the shower feeling like a whole new woman, having been reacquainted with hot running water and the wonders of personal grooming paraphernalia. She combed out her hair and slipped into a comfortable cotton nightshirt. Mark would surely understand if she wasn't primped to the nines upon his arrival.

The friends had departed, but she found on her table a takeaway box containing a chicken sandwich (with fresh lettuce and tomato!) and a side of chips. She went to the pantry to discover they'd purchased a loaf of bread, a pound of coffee, a Cadbury Milk Tray, a jar of jam and a box of muesli. An inspection of the fridge revealed the acquisition of skim milk, a couple of bottles of chardonnay, chocolate croissants, and some cheddar.

How well they knew her.

Also newly-acquired was the largest box of Durex she'd ever seen, to which a note was attached, written in Shazzer's chicken scratch but signed individually: "Shag 'im senseless! Love ya… Shaz, Tom, Jude & Magda." In smaller print at the bottom there was an addition in Magda's hand. "P.S. I'll tell Jeremy that Mark may not be available tomorrow. M." Next to the initial was a smiley face. She laughed and crumpled the note up, stuffing it into the trash bin; she would be mortified if he saw it. With a self-satisfied smirk, she stashed the condoms in her bedside table.

Bridget then removed herself, her lunch and a glass of wine to the sofa, and tore into the sandwich with great enthusiasm. Mmm. Fine British cuisine. Best in the world, as a matter or fact. The most excellent sandwich she'd ever had, without a doubt.

Unfortunately, Bridget had not had a drink in so long that she quickly felt the wine going straight to her head. Hmmm. After finishing her superlative sandwich and exceptional chips, she decided to rest her head on the arm of the sofa and close her eyes until the spinning ceased.

Thursday 31 May

Bloody wine!

From the sofa Bridget awoke with a start. The flat was pitch black save for a faint light from outside - plainly, the sun had long set. She was immediately torn between two emotions: anger and worry. Where was Mark? Why hadn't he come? Was he all right? Or had he realised the error of his proposal and decided he couldn't face her again? Or… oh God, had he tried to come up and she hadn't heard the entryphone? Did he think he was now rejected? She stood and felt her head go woozy. Once again she cursed the wine.

Stumbling into the bathroom, still in darkness, she splashed some water on her face and reached for what she thought was a towel, but instead found it to have utterly the wrong texture. She held it up and found it to be a blue dress shirt. She raised it to her nose, inhaling deeply. Mark's blue dress shirt! At once she remembered that she'd given him a key and he had never given it back. Where was he? Why hadn't he roused her? She threw down the shirt and spun on the ball of her foot, sprinting to her bedroom, pausing at the door. Bridget could only stare in delighted wonder at the reposed form of Mark Darcy, the planes of his very attractive chest highlighted by moonlight, sound asleep in her bed. It was a sight she'd sorely missed.

She tiptoed to her bed and crept in next to him. He was sleeping on his back, one arm tucked beneath the pillow, the other atop the sheet covering him to the waist. Gently she caressed his forehead and cheek. Stirring ever so slightly, he turned his head and sighed, "Becky."

"'Becky'?" she shouted, recoiling, her heart and mind racing, her world crumbling around her. Had Rebecca's speech been merely a cleverly constructed cover story? She felt the blood drain from her face and she became slightly dizzy.

However, a playful smile formed on his lips and he opened one eye to look at her squarely. "Bridget darling," he drawled sleepily, "I'm teasing."

With open-mouthed shock, she grabbed her pillow and thumped him with it repeatedly. "Gah! You bastard! Not funny!" He raised his arms to defend himself and began to laugh. As logic regained control of her senses, she began to laugh at the absurdity of it. Of course it was a joke. She decided at once that she must never let on how dreadfully panicked his little jest had made her. She also vowed not to doubt him again, reminding herself that Mark Darcy was perfect, perfect, perfect, had done so much to bring her home again, had never once submitted her to fuckwittage, and more to the point, loved her beyond all reason, enough to literally travel to the ends of the earth for her. Why he'd chosen to pick now to express a playful sense of humour was totally beyond her. Inner Poise would reign… after the pillow thrashing was over.

"That was an evil, evil thing to do!" she exclaimed.

He continued taking the hits penitently. "I'm sorry. But I heard you come in and I couldn't resist. You know what they say: be careful what you wish for."

She stopped the one-sided pillow fight, still chuckling. She was, after all, the one who wanted more extemporaneous behaviour from him. "You're absolutely right." Fresh on her mind from his prank, she thought of Rebecca and the weird kiss sprung upon her on Mark's doorstep, shocking the hell out of Giles Benwick. "So… did you know?"

"What?"

"That your 'girlfriend' was a lesbian?"

"Bridget!" He blinked, sitting up. "What have you not told me?" he asked, perfectly deadpan before revealing a huge, genuine smile. She'd longed for that smile. He reached for her hand then held it in both of his, examining the back of it for many moments it as if memorizing every detail, then kissed it. When he spoke again, his tone was solemn. "Actually, yes, I did know. She told me in strict confidence, and I couldn't break my word." Marvelous, loyal Mark Darcy. "You and I were… apart when she told me about the crush on you. It was positively Shakespearean-comedy-of-errors."

"My poor darling," she said; with that she wrapped her arms around him. She buried her face into his neck and held him close; they settled back against the bed pillows. It felt so good to have him back there in her bed with her. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "Oh, God, Mark, how I've missed you."

Softly he concurred. "I've missed you, too." They held each other in tranquil silence for many moments, content to be in each others' arms, his hands pressing into her back as if he were afraid to let go. "I wanted so badly to come directly back with you. I'm so sorry the meeting ran so long. When I came in, I didn't have the heart to wake you."

"You're here now; that's all I care about." After a beat she added, "Besides, I needed a good sleep. The floor mats there weren't exactly high comfort."

He didn't need to ask where 'there' was. "Wish I could have had you out of there sooner." As if he hadn't already done everything within his power (and a few things beyond - oh, the favours he must have called in for her). "I decided that I wanted - needed - to be here when you woke up. Just didn't figure it'd be—" He paused to look over to the display on the bedside clock. "—three in the morning."

She raised her head to look him in the eye. "Don't forget, I am still on Thailand-time. There it's, what? Ten?"

He looked surprised that she could possibly have calculated the time difference so quickly.

She smiled, nestling into his neck again, suddenly overwhelmed by his familiar masculine scent and the memories they evoked. She began planting kisses against the strong pulse there, then murmured huskily, "Now that I'm all rested up… I've really missed you." Her fingers played over the skin of his shoulders, to his chest and abdomen.

He lifted his chin, allowing her easier access to her quarry. "Bridget," he whispered.

She paused, looking to him with wide, innocent eyes. "Yes, Mark?"

"If you continue, you won't be back to sleep any time soon."

"Hmm. Promise?" she asked coyly. She dove her head down again, this time placing languid open-mouthed kisses on the side of his neck; as she drew his skin gently between her teeth, her mind's eye devilishly pictured him at Inns at Court with a love bite hiding beneath his barrister's wig.

His voice was gruff and thick as he spoke. "Well. I did warn you."

With a quick, fluid motion she suddenly found herself beneath him, his mouth covering hers hungrily, hands rapidly raising the hem of her cotton nightshirt, rediscovering all that had been missing from his days and nights.

Perfect, marvelous, loyal, and utterly passionate about shagging her.

……………

Something in the room was making the most god-awful beeping sound. Blearily, Bridget opened her eyes and found the source of the sound: Mark's mobile phone. She also noted the time on the alarm clock read just a little before seven A.M. He held her close even though he was fast asleep, and she raised a hand to caress his face, which he roused at. How was it possible that would wake him when the alarm on the mobile did not? Amazing.

She indicated the mobile with a flick of her eyes. "Sorry." He reached to silence it, dropping it down on her pillow. He then kissed the top of her head. "In case I didn't mention: welcome home."

She settled back into his arms. "Best homecoming ever."

Bridget lazily pondered the events of the day before - well, mostly the night - when a horrifying thought penetrated her happy reverie: the box of condoms hand-picked by Tom and crew remained unopened in her bedside table. They'd previously tested clean and she knew she hadn't been shagging anyone since their split - though came scarily close in Thailand. But Mark… had he shagged anyone? If so, who? How delicately to ask without sounding totally accusatory?

There must have been a great stretch of silence as her mind worked to solve this particular quandary, much greater than she realised, for he murmured, stroking her hair, "Penny for your thoughts."

She didn't quite know how to delicately address the subject, so she decided to sally forth with the direct approach. "Um. We never… um. You know. Condom."

His hands ceased moving. She turned her face to him, and saw that he had gone paper white. "Oh, Bridget. Oh, God." Mortified did not begin to describe his expression; he brought his hand to his face as if to hide behind it, pressing fingertips against the inner corners of his eyes. "I'm so sorry."

She would have no self-censure. "Don't apologise - I am equally to blame." In a decidedly less sure tone, she continued, "If you're worried about— well, I haven't… been with anyone since we split."

He lowered his hand. Soberly he said, meeting her eyes, "I know."

She raised a brow. "How can you know? Shazzer?"

"Believe it or not, Daniel Cleaver."

She thought she was hearing things. "What?"

"When I found out he'd abandoned you at the airport—"

"What!"

"—I went to confront him, and at the end of my fist, he confessed that he had not been successful in seducing you."

Her anger at Daniel Cleaver dissipated in an instant and she smiled. "Oh." She felt guilty that she so much enjoyed his physical outbursts in her defense. Feeling a little less like the world was about the end, she continued with a mock-indignant tone, "So how do you know I didn't have a stable of pool-boys at the ready in Thailand?"

His voice was quiet when he spoke. "Because I know you." He stroked her chin. "And I remember the look on your face in the prison meeting room. I didn't realise at the time what I was seeing. What an idiot I was." He brushed her hair back from her face, seemingly absorbed in her blue orbs. "For what it's worth, I have been with no one else since we split."

Deep down, she knew he hadn't. She reached up to kiss him.

There was one more pressing concern stemming from a lack of protection. It pained her to think of the awful ski weekend that had been the catalyst of their breakup, and she didn't want to get off on the wrong foot on the first day of a new beginning. But she had to address it. Trying to sound nonchalant, she continued, "By the way, you needn't worry - I can assure you that spending the heaviest days of one's period in a third-world-type Thai prison is about as nasty as personal hygiene can get." He looked at her as if she'd just told him that the prevalent currents in the English Channel had suddenly and mysteriously reversed direction. She clarified: "Period. Just ending. Relatively small chance of nappies in near future."

The light dawned and the colour fled his face again. "Oh."

Taking pity on the poor man, she rested against his chest again, slipping her arms across his back. He tightened his embrace around her, and they were content to sit like that for some minutes until the mobile began to ring from its position on the pillow. Mark palmed it, glanced at the external display and sighed before answering. "Mark Darcy speaking," he said in greeting, the professional register of his voice sending a frisson of delight though her. "I see. … Thank you. … Of course, yes, I will. Goodbye."

He closed the phone and set it back down. "Who was that?" she asked.

"Jeremy."

"Ah."

"Says he's covering my appointments today. No need for me to come in." He looked down to her, looking puzzled. "Says to tell you hello from Magda."

She turned to sit with her back along the length of his torso, resting the back of her head on his shoulder, doing her level best to hide the knowing smile.

Mark asked, "What about you? Are you expected in today?"

"No, no. Terrible ordeal in scary foreign prison, need to rest, and all that."

"Hmm. 'Rest.' Is that what they're calling it these days?" She turned briefly to look back up to him and saw his grin. "I would like to take you shopping, if you're up for it."

Shopping? Mmm. Delightful. Of course she was up for it; she loved shopping. And who better to take one shopping than loving, doting, well-off fiancé? Things just kept getting better. She briefly imagined walking out of Marks & Spencer with armloads of packages. Maybe not Marks & Spencer! Maybe something more upscale: Chanel! Dior! Prada! But ooo, must not seem too anxious. Or be too shallow. Did not want to give any sort of impression that money was what she loved—

She was brought back from her fugue state when he tightened his embrace, then slid his hands upwards along her arms, crisscrossing her chest. She felt his lips against her earlobe, and flashed back in time to the first night he'd spent with her. They'd been barely two steps into the flat when he'd begun nuzzling into her neck, unable to control himself. "Bridget," he murmured. "You're too thin."

These were three words she had never heard strung together and directed at her before in her life, so it took her a moment to parse. Too thin? Oh, how she loved this lovely man.

She broke from his embrace and leaned over the edge of the bed.

"Bridget?"

Glancing back, she saw he looked very confused. All would be clear in a moment. She pulled the drawer of the bedside table open, pulled the package open, and grabbed a few sealed condoms. Triumphant, she turned back to him, grinning impishly, setting the condoms down within reach on the bed. "Flattery will get you everywhere."

Feebly he began sputtering, "I just meant that I'm concerned—"

Honestly. What man delivers a compliment and then tries to backpedal out of it? "Shut up and shag me."

Clearly, he was not in a position (or a frame of mind) to argue.

……………

"As I was saying before I was interrupted," Mark began drowsily, Bridget resting upon his chest, "I am concerned about your health. I don't think you got enough to eat in Thailand."

"I've never felt better." It was true. Their reunion - from discovering his true role in her return to the proposal through to this morning - was second only to their first night of being together.

He ran his hand down over her shoulder and backside, then over the arch of her bottom. She sighed and closed her eyes; she'd missed his caring touch so much. "You seem to forget that I rather like a woman who doesn't have bones poking out at every angle."

She raised her chin to look up at him. "Don't worry, I'll have all of my padding back in no time."

"You mean 'curves'. Which, as I've mentioned, I am quite fond of." He raised his head from the pillow and kissed her. Mmmm. He tightened his arms around her, pulled her closer, burying his nose in her hair, lavishing kisses upon her throat. She could have stayed like this for hours, but as much as she hated to admit it, there was the lure of shopping, and the day would be over before she knew it…

To satisfy her curiosity, she glanced up to see what the time was, found that it was ten-thirty. He realised she was distracted, ceased his ministrations, and with a curious expression turned his head to follow her eyes.

"Do you have somewhere else you need to be?" he asked teasingly.

She blushed furiously. "Of course not."

He studied her intently for a minute or two, then as if plucking the thought from her head, he stated, "Ah. This is about shopping. Breakfast it is, then." She hated being so predictable. With an amused smirk on his face, he rose from the bed. "Would you like coffee, tea…?"

"Mark, I'd rather have you here in bed."

It was very hard to consider his frown an authentic one when he stood there naked as the day he was born. "Be serious. Anyway, we can't stay in bed all day; I made an appointment yesterday for two hours from now."

Her heart leapt up. Shopping by appointment! What a lovely surprise. Playfully, she pouted. "Well, put that way, I would seriously like some coffee, please, and chocolate croissant. Lovely Urban Family stocked some for me."

"That's more like it." He made to leave, but his eyes suddenly connected with the jumbo box of Durex; frankly, he looked horrified. "Good grief. I see that's not the only thing they stocked." He looked back to her. "A bit overly optimistic about my stamina, aren't they?"

She could not contain a giggle, thinking of the note that had accompanied it. "They wanted to make sure I had all the necessities."

"But the economy-sized box? No pressure or anything…" He shook his head in disbelief with a chuckle, then departed the bedroom and headed in the direction of the bathroom. As she heard the water running, she curled back up with the pillow; a few minutes later she saw him pass by the bedroom door, this time clothed in boxers. Lovely sight for sore eyes. Mmm. Sore eyes. She closed her sleepy eyes. So foolish, their split. Missed him so much. Had been so lonely. Bed so empty.

She didn't remember drifting back off to sleep but awoke when the bed moved: Mark planted himself beside her. He bore a tray with two cups of steaming coffee, hers undoubtedly fixed just as she liked it, two slightly-warmed chocolate croissants, and a couple of serviettes. She righted herself and somewhat greedily held her hand out before he was settled.

He grinned adorably, setting the tray between them. "'I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours.'"

Mmmm. Breakfast in bed and quoting Mr Darcy. She realised she must impose strongly upon Inner Poise to resist the urge to ravish him again. After all, there was an appointment to keep.

……………

"Where are you taking me, anyway?"

Mark didn't answer, merely smiled. The taxi had deposited them near Berkeley Square; she noticed they were heading in the general direction of posh New Bond Street. Dream come true! Walking on a proverbial cloud, her hand linked with his, she wondered idly which store he would take her to that she'd only ever walked past before with a heaving sigh.

"You know, Bridget," he began, seemingly out of nowhere, "I sincerely wish I could give you my mother's engagement ring."

Up until this point, newly-recovered Inner Poise (teamed up, of course, with Utter Joy at Return of Most Perfect Man Ever) had throttled Neurotic Urge to Obsess About Lack of Ring. But now Inner Poise stepped elegantly aside and a flood of ring-related thoughts filled her head. Did Elaine Darcy not approve of Bridget as future daughter-in-law? Or— "Um, does, er, she still have it?"

He didn't answer right away, and when he did speak she could hardly hear him over the traffic. "It's an heirloom. She was not allowed to keep it per the terms of the prenuptial."

The concept made her cringe somewhat. Of course there would be a prenuptial agreement - he was a barrister, after all. Inner Poise whispered into her ear that it was the sensible thing to do, that it didn't mean there were automatic expectations of failure, like how estate planning is not a wish for hastened death. That still did not explain why he could not give her that particular ring. Did he think she wouldn't want an ex-wife's castoff? That she would lose it? Why? Why?

"So then…?" She trailed off, not wishing to speculate aloud.

Quiet, again. "It's me, actually." Mark continued. "It's a beautiful ring - it was my father's grandmother's - but I couldn't bear to see that ring on you. Too many… painful associations." He stopped, taking her other hand in his own.

She smiled. An heirloom would have been utterly romantic, but he was right; every time he held her hand it would have reminded him of the incredible heartache he had suffered.

"So I say: new starts all around." He glanced sneakily to the side, playful smirk in place, and she realised they had stopped squarely in front of the elegant, impressive U-shaped glass entryway of Asprey, the epitome of posh, "by Royal Appointment" luxury boutiques. She actually gasped. He took a step towards the door, broad smile on his face, pulling her in with him.

The last thing she consciously remembered seeing was the glass doors sliding aside - everything after that was a blur. Soft amber lights gleaming ethereally bright; dazzling jewelry cases displaying a fortune in gems; deferential yet attentive salespersons floating on the periphery to assist in the decision-making process then the purchase.

Forty-five whirlwind minutes later, they emerged, Bridget's finger adorned with a brilliant-cut diamond solitaire with two tapered baguette side stones in a platinum setting. Hanging onto Mark's arm was the only thing that kept her remotely tethered to the earth.

……………

Beautiful, sparkly, shiny, bright, gorgeous. Almost as gorgeous as lovely loving fiancé. Just as pretty from left side as from right, twinkling radiantly in the sunlight.

"Bridget. Stop staring at your hand and decide what you want to order."

She balled her left hand guiltily and shot Mark a look. For his part, he was subtly smiling at her from across the bistro table. However, the waiter had a thin, impatient slit for a smile. She glanced again at the menu and decided Alsatian Tarte was too perfectly named not to try. Mark ordered a serving of the pot-au-feu, and the waiter departed.

It was a gorgeous sunny summer day, their outdoor table nestled amongst others on the outdoor patio. Mark reached across the table and took her left hand in his right. "So… when to tell our families?"

Gahhhh. "Do I have to tell them?" she pouted.

"I think your mother will eventually notice the ring," said Mark. Then as an afterthought: "The invitations would be a dead giveaway too."

She smiled bashfully. "Too true." She entwined her fingers with his, couldn't imagine being any happier.

She should've known something would pop that bubble.

Having ordered, Mark excused himself to go to the gents, leaving his mobile on the table between them. The minute he disappeared back into the main restaurant, it began to ring as if on cue. She glanced down to see who was calling.

Natasha Glenville.

Gah! What was that she-demon calling Mark for?

This was a new start and she swore she was not going to make the same erroneous assumptions she'd made before. Mark had demonstrated himself as faithful. Just the same, she remembered his little joke about Rebecca and her reaction to it, and so felt unsettled. The only thing to do was to take it head on, as soon as Mark returned, and—

"Jones?"

Oh, God. Was just continuing to get worse.

Her head snapped to the side and suspicions were confirmed. Daniel Cleaver. Ray-Ban sunglasses. Dimpled cheeks and rakish, sun-lightened hair spiked up and away from his head. Looking like he'd just stepped off of a plane from Los Angeles in his blue jeans and short sleeved dress shirt, top two buttons undone. He was passing by from a corner table on his way out of the café, or so it appeared.

He raised his sunglasses and looked Bridget up and down. "You're looking fant— Darcy!" What began as a roguish purr ended in shock and surprise for Mark had at that moment reappeared at that table. As their eyes met, Mark's smile vacated at once. To say that he did not look pleased was the understatement of the year. Daniel became visibly nervous and took a step back. Mark resumed his seat; only then did Daniel regain his easygoing manner. "Almost didn't recognise you with an expression on your face."

"Cleaver." Mark's voice was terse, hands under the table; Bridget was sure they had squeezed into fists.

He continued talking to Bridget, directing his gaze to her again. "Jones, about the Thailand thing—" Daniel's eyes then connected with the sparkler on Bridget's ring finger. "Well now, that didn't take long at all, Darce! Well done! Who'd've thought you'd actually take my advice?" He was pushing his luck, though at least he had the sense not to clap Mark on the shoulder as if in congratulations. He directed his gaze back to Bridget and waggled his eyebrows. "Can I be the best man this time too? Another Mrs to look forward to—"

Mark's quiet rage was evident in his voice when he interrupted. "Cleaver. Leave now before I knock you flat across this restaurant."

Daniel, for once, looked utterly speechless, the reserved tone terrifying him more than if Mark had shouted the relatively tame threat, but also knowing that Mark would make good on it if need be. A statuesque woman with waist-length copper curls and a very short skirt had paused at the exit, and now called out, "Daniel, come on, already." He flashed a cheeky smile to Bridget, then departed.

Bridget leaned forward to reclaim Mark's hand. His anger seemed to defuse as his attention returned to her. "Mark, I'm so sorry. He came out of nowhere."

He shook his head, voice still under rigid emotional control. "Not your fault. He does that to get under my skin, and unfortunately, it works." He took in then released a long, slow breath before raising his eyes to her again. "I'm the one who's sorry."

"Why?"

He shifted uncomfortably. "Because I could have warned you to stay away from him. I could have at least told you the havoc he wreaked on me."

Bridget smiled sweetly. "And I was so smitten with that fuckwit at the time I would not have believed you." Their plates arrived just then and he sat up straight, regaining his composure. Mark's dish was a hearty-looking soup and her savory tart looked like four perfect little pizzas. She bit into one. Mmm! Cream cheese, onion and bacon. Washed it down with some wine. Thailand was a million years ago.

Niggling thoughts pecked at the back of her brain, though. Daniel made it sound like he'd been the one to suggest Mark propose! Did that mean he wouldn't have otherwise done so? Did he just feel pressured by the moment? Oh God. And here she sat with a very spendy ring on her finger, gorgeous as it was, feeling increasingly guilty.

"Was that true?" she began uncertainly.

Mark finished chewing and swallowed. "Was what true?"

"What he said about it being his idea to propose?"

He looked to her grimly. "Do we have to have this conversation right now?"

She looked down to her hoity-toity pizzas. "I was just wondering. Sorry."

He sighed, set down his spoon and took her hand again. She raised her eyes to him once more, which he engaged earnestly. "I told you about going to find him. Ended up chasing him out of the Serpentine Gallery and into in a fountain in Kensington Gardens, utterly hell-bent on beating him to a pulp in sixteen inches of water, for Chrissake. I was worked up to an absolute froth over what he'd done to you. That's when he told me he hadn't been able to tempt you. And then he said to me…" He paused. "He asked me: if I was so obsessed with you, why didn't I just marry you?"

She smiled, imagining the scene, her perfectly staid, well-mannered human rights barrister chasing lanky Daniel into a fountain, crazed with fury.

"…And then he made a crack about you definitely shagging him after becoming my wife," he finished morosely.

Like that would ever happen. She frowned. "Low blow. I hope you slugged him for that one."

Mark finally smirked. "Yes. But crack or not, I realised he was dead right. Imagine me actually agreeing with that fuckwit."

Her heart melted, not only for the sentiment, but for the fact that his vocabulary continued to expand to include her terribly vulgar vernacular.

Surprising her again, he jested, "Now eat your lunch, you Alsatian tart."

……………

"Uuuuugh. I'm knackered."

Upon their return, Bridget slumped down on the blue chair directly inside her sitting room. She leaned her head over the back of the chair, viewing the kitchen upside-down.

Mark walked to the phone. "Um, your answerphone light is blinking. Shall I play it for you?"

Phone. Messages. Her head snapped up. "No, no, I've just remembered something I wanted to ask you." Bridget's mind flashed back to the mobile call that came in during lunch. The last thing she wanted to do was sound like a jealous fiancée, so she fought very hard to keep any accusatory tones out of her voice as she asked, "Why would Natasha Glenville be calling you?"

He looked genuinely taken aback. "What? Why do you ask?"

"Your mobile rang while you were in the loo and I saw her name on the display."

He still looked perplexed. "Well, let's find out."

He dug the phone out of his pocket, pressed a button, held it to his ear and listened, his facial expression changing to comprehension as he paced the room. Within a minute he disconnected, turned to her and explained: "I was supposed to be part of a conference call at two o'clock, nine A.M. New York time - which of course Jeremy stepped in to take over for me today. Jeremy was apparently late, she didn't know of the last minute change, and was calling me to find out where I was… just as Jeremy walked into the London meeting and came on the line." He took a seat in another chair to her right.

"Ah." She was still very proud of not sounding shrill and suspicious.

However, she must have looked unconvinced, because he offered the phone back to her. "Bridget, you can listen if you want to."

She was torn. It wasn't as if she didn't believe him, but she dearly wanted to listen, if only to make sure there was nothing else to the message he was withholding from her to spare her feelings. Remembering her promise to herself not to fall into the same traps as before, she said decisively, "No. As much as I don't trust her, I do trust you." As she said it, she realised she truly meant it. She wondered if this was what enlightenment felt like.

He stood, pulled her to her feet, then smiled and embraced her, planting a kiss into her messy hair. Quietly he said, "That means a lot to me." When he pulled back, he punched a button on his phone again and handed it to her. "But because I know the curiosity will eat you alive: here."

She grinned sheepishly.

The message was exactly as he'd described. Nonetheless, she felt a secret thrill, as if she'd been elevated to a higher level of being. Calm, cool, collected fiancée of top human rights barrister, brimming with Inner Poise and Grace.

That is, until Mark played her answerphone messages. Inner Poise took Grace and fled for the hills.

Beep. "Bridge! Richard Finch here. Expecting your flighty arse tomorrow at nine-thirty sharp!" Ugh. She sunk to the sofa and laid back on it dramatically; he joined her there, placing her feet in his lap.

Beep. "Darling! I'm just calling to remind you about the party at the Alconburys next weekend!" As if she ever knew to begin with, having been in prison and all. "Elaine assures me that Mark will be there - and maybe you can win him back! Byeee!" Mark stifled a laugh. Bridget just groaned. Honestly, her mother behaved as if Bridget's only social contact with the opposite gender of her generation was somehow exclusively facilitated via the tacky to-dos she and her friends threw.

"Well," Bridget muttered, "I think you just got your answer."

"Pardon?"

"Announcing to the family." She wiggled her left ring finger at him.

"That should go over well, with you dressed in your bunny outfit."

Not that humiliation again. "Oh God, not Tarts and Vicars," she whined.

"According to my mother."

"Ugh. I'm not going."

He rubbed the arch of her foot through her stocking, then turned to her. "Mind you, I like the bunny outfit."

Her eyebrows raised. "Do you?"

"Mmm. Very sexy." His hand crawled up to her calf. Then he crept to lie beside her on the edge of the sofa.

"Really?"

"Mmm-hmm." Now practically nose to nose.

She closed her eyes. "All the same. I'm calling to verify it hasn't been changed at the last minute."

He wrapped his arms around her, but sleep was overtaking her once again. The last thing she remembered hearing was Mark's smoky voice close to her ear: "Don't suppose you have it here, hm?"

……………

It was Bridget's wedding day, the happiest day of her life, or it was supposed to be, only something was terribly wrong. Walking down the aisle of the church, she realised the pews were filled with pastors, priests… and prostitutes. She looked down and realised that instead of a beautiful ivory gown, she wore an all-white version of her famed (and evidently lusted-after) bunny outfit: white body suit, cuffs, collar, tail and ears. Additionally she wore a shoulder-length veil cascading from around the bunny ears.

She glanced to the pews. There was her mother, dressed in a teal feather boa and cherry red hot pants. There was Una Alconbury in a bright purple mini, fishnet stockings and a midriff-baring tee shirt; and aieee, Elaine Darcy wearing a black leather bustier and tiger-striped Lycra pants! She could take no more, decided it best to keep her eyes focused forward.

The aisle seemed to continue for an unnaturally long stretch, and at the end she could just barely make out someone she prayed would be Mark, alongside a bishop standing at the altar with his back to the congregation. As she got closer she saw that yes, it was Mark, dressed in purple vestments like the local vicar in Grafton Underwood. But the bishop, adorned in ivory and gold and a mitre that seemed to be almost as tall as he was, turned around and to her horror it was Daniel Cleaver, with the hugest lecherous grin she'd ever seen on his face. "Another Mrs to look forward to," he intoned with great gravity. The crowd hushed. It was the start of the ceremony…

"Gah!"

She sat up, alone on the couch, waking from her fiendish dream to find herself covered with a blanket on the couch. The shadows in the flat were long and Mark was not to be found. It was déjà vu all over again, as the saying goes.

She made her way to the kitchen and found a note tacked to her refrigerator:

My dearest Bridget,

Having fully recovered from the humiliation of you falling asleep during my attempt to seduce you, I've gone to fetch a change of clothes and some dinner for us. Be back as soon as I can.

Love,
Mark

P.S. Mother sends her hellos and informs me that the Tarts and Vicars concept has been dropped. (Damn.)

Bridget smiled to herself in an almost secret way, as if the universe caught her it might snatch her happiness away. They were well and truly back together; her heart sang. She folded the note, held it briefly against her chest, then set off to tuck it into her diary and tear apart her closet in search for her bunny ears and tail.