A Totally Plausible Scenario (in Three Acts)

By S. Faith, © 2015
Words: 3,995
Rating: M / R
Summary: Thoroughly modern dilemma for thoroughly modern Bridget.
Disclaimer: Not mine! Never has been!
Notes: Absolute speculation based on paparazzi photographs taken during filming of Bridget Jones's Baby. Also a dash of the 2005-2006 column thrown in.

Act I: The Sort of Thing That Could Happen to Anyone

How had it all come to this?

Once she was alone, back in the security of her flat—another stark reminder of what had not come to be—only then could she allow the façade she'd been presenting all day to fall away, allow the gulf of emotions to wash over her. She had suspected he might be there—after all, her friends had been his, too—but the reality of his presence hit her harder than she had ever expected.

She crumpled down onto her sofa and collapsed into tears, and asked herself again how everything had fallen apart. As she sobbed, she felt oddly relieved, too, at finally being able to let the tears flow after putting on a happy face all day in front of him. She had never wanted to split from him, but all of their frustrations while trying to conceive a child had ultimately caused everything to go sour, until finally they'd decided it was best to go their separate ways. But she still missed and loved him. She knew that now.

Belatedly she wished she'd had the foresight to grab a box of tissues. Getting running mascara and runny nose snot all over her gorgeous blue dress would be like adding insult to injury.

She rose again, kicking her shoes unceremoniously towards the door. To her surprise, something that sounded like a yelp of pain immediately rose from the darkened foyer of the flat.

"Who's there?" she demanded in a panic, on her guard in an instant. She could just make out a form ascending the steps into her flat. She grabbed a decorative wooden duck decoy that sat on a nearby bookcase, wielding it as if it were remotely possible to be a threat to an intruder.

But it wasn't an intruder. Into the light stepped the one man over whom she had just been lamenting. Mark Darcy. He stood there rubbing his temple. "As usual," he said, "this building's security is wanting."

She felt defensive at his indirect criticism, and it showed in her voice. "Better than you thought it was," she retorted, indicating the shoe in his hand. "What are you doing in the flat? I know I locked it."

"I had intended to knock," he said, "but I heard sounds that concerned me, so I used my key to come in. To be greeted by a flying shoe." He set it down on an end table.

"Sorry about that," she said. "I really didn't know you were there. But you still didn't answer my question."

At this, he seemed to be at a loss for words. He shoved his hands into his pockets and looked down to the floor. "I needed to see you," he said at last, in a very quiet voice, then looked up.

"Why?"

"I don't know, actually," he admitted. "An impulse, maybe." After a pause, he added, "Today was unbearable for me."

It was her turn to be speechless. She wanted to glibly reply with, "Unbearable for you?"… but of course, she had projected sunshine and happiness. Why would he think she'd been in turmoil in any way?

"You looked happy. Serene. And that made it worse for me, somehow." He sighed. But then, as if reading her thoughts, he went on: "But I heard you crying just now. Tell me what's wrong."

"Why should I?" she returned almost immediately, drawing her brows together. "You don't have to swoop in and save me anymore, you know."

He looked as stunned as if she had actually slapped him. "I know," he said morosely. "God, do I know."

She looked down, feeling ashamed for snapping at him when he was trying to offer comfort. "Sorry," she said. She folded her arms in front of her chest. "Just… a lot of emotions churning up today."

He stood there, looking intensely at her, before striding closer, drawing his hand out of his pocket, then brushing a thumb beneath her eye to wipe away the dampness that had remained. Their gazes locked; he brought his other hand up to cradle her face.

"I understand," he said quietly.

Her heart pounded in her chest. He drew her to him and kissed her, instantly igniting the passion that had been simmering in her since they had split. From the way he covered her mouth with his, dominating her, she could only guess the fires of his own passion were equally stoked.

When his hands moved down her body to grasp her backside and pull her close to him, she gasped. Within a moment he had swooped her up into his arms, carried her to her bedroom, then dropped her down on top of the mussed sheets and discarded clothing from that morning. In a moment he was beside her, kissing her, pinning her down as he lifted the bottom of her dress, then to hurriedly undo his own belt buckle and trousers, then to tug down her pants; all of this to her repeated gasps of "yes" and futile attempts to get into his own clothing, made more difficult by the fact that his shirt was rather buttoned down.

It hardly mattered, though, as the connection they both desired came quickly, fuelling a frenzy of thrusts, groans, gasps; kisses, both gentle and hungry, on lips and on skin; culminating in cries of ecstasy as each found satisfaction for a want, a need, that had gone unmet for far too long.

Panting for air, he fell to the pillow beside her, then nuzzled into her neck, peppering her throat with tender kisses. His hand grasped her hip again to pull her to with him. As she regained her breath, the fog of lust began to clear from her head. She had no regrets over what she had just done—but would he?

"Mark," she began, her voice gravelly, "what about her…"

He paused in his mission. "Who?"

She ran her fingers over his hair, clearing her throat. "Mark," she said. "I think you know who I mean."

He paused with a sigh. "Oh." He rested his forehead against her cheek. "I don't have feelings for her," Mark said, his voice low. "I don't love her." He began kissing her throat again. "I've missed you," he said, "and I still want you."

That much was clear as her eyes fluttered closed again, but the fact remained that he was still technically in a relationship with another woman. "Mark," she said again. "What are you saying? Do you want to give it another go? You and me? Then what about her?"

This time he stopped to rear back and look at her. His eyes were dark. "She's practically nothing more than a friend. We've had a few drinks, a few times."

"You haven't slept together, then."

He did not reply. Instead, he asked, "I suppose you haven't seen anyone else?"

She bit her lower lip, thinking of the date she'd had with the handsome American, one that had turned into something a little more intimate… but he'd been so charming and caring, and she'd so needed cheering up. "Once or twice," she said.

"What?" he asked, his voice resounding through the empty room. "Once… or twice?"

"Mark," she said pleadingly. "It's nothing. It's—"

"Oh," he interrupted. "It's that… it's your scruffy-looking co-presenter, isn't it?" he asked.

"If you must know, yes, it was Patrick," she said, bristling. "I was trying to get over you."

"The same man you said didn't fancy you," he said, reminding her of many a discussion before they had broken it off. "And it's nothing."

"Yes." It wasn't a lie; they had slept together, she liked him as a person, but she wasn't in love with him or anything.

Mark looked angry. Jealous.

"It doesn't mean anything, Mark," she said. "He doesn't mean anything to me."

He fell back to the pillow, resting his hand over his eyes, exhaling sharply.

This ridiculous response made her furious.

"So was I supposed to pine away here in my flat, cloister myself like a nun?" she said.

"It's only been a few months," he said flatly.

"But it's all right for you to see what's-her-name?" she said. "Sorry, Mark, but it goes both ways. You can't be indignant that I slept with another man when we were apart, because you've done exactly the same with her."

He didn't say anything. It spoke volumes.

"I… think you'd better go, then."

She didn't move until she heard the door of the flat slam behind him. When it did, she picked up a pillow and threw it across the room, knocking over a photo of him, sending it to the ground and shattering the frame and glass.

"Good," she said to no one. Too bad that shoe hadn't done more damage. "Bastard."

After a moment's thought, she popped up out of bed and reached for her mobile. She punched in a number; he picked up instantly.

"Hey, Bridget," came the soothing voice. "How'd the christening go?"

"Fine," she said. "Really wish you could've come with me."

"Yeah, me too."

"Are you free now?" she asked.

Pause. "Are you?"

"Absolutely," she said. "Come over."

"Be there soon," he said, without hesitation.

She disconnected the call, feeling smug. She didn't need that stodgy, old-fashioned, double-standard Tory when she had a sexy younger man practically at her beck and call.

Bastard.

And yet, when she slept in his arms later that night, she dreamt only of Mark.

Act II: Pride Cometh Before… an American

Bridget would never change. She was frustrating, maddening, illogical, far too bleeding-heart, with no filter on the words that came out of her mouth. So why did he still love her as deeply as he did? Why did he allow her to have such power over him?

He knew why, of course. She was kind-hearted and loving, warm, sexy as hell, and absolutely phenomenal in bed. But more than that, she was good for him; she was unafraid of speaking her mind, of telling him when he was being a total arse. She kept him from being too full of himself, kept him from making safe choices instead of the ones that would make him truly happy.

Standing on her front step of her flat for more minutes than he could count considering these things, he realised he'd blown it again. But he had his pride to consider, too. He'd made the effort to reach out to her; if she was so quick to dismiss him from her presence, he wasn't going to go prostrate himself in front of her again.

He took a deep breath, then exhaled again. Why was he still standing there?

As he crossed the street, heading for his car, he was nearly run over by a man on a motorcycle. Angered, he turned to watch where the bike ended up, and to his surprise, it parked by Bridget's building, the engine disengaging.

Curiosity piqued, Mark stood by his car's door, pretending to fumble with his keys as he covertly watched the driver dismount. The helmet came off… and there he was, that American scoundrel, striding up to Bridget's door and pressing on her flat's buzzer. Within a moment, to his amazement, he opened the door, letting himself in with a grin. She had clearly buzzed him in, as Mark had definitely closed it securely behind himself.

Mark struggled to think of what had happened in the minutes after he left, and the most logical conclusion he could come to was that she had either previously arranged an assignation… or had called this man over as soon as Mark had gone.

There was nothing more to do but to redouble his efforts to put his relationship with Bridget behind him. As he drove home, he used the hands-free option on his mobile to dial a phone number he hadn't intended on calling again except to break it off.

"Hello," Mark said. "You mentioned something about dinner? I'm free, after all."

"Oh, good," she said. "Come whenever you like."

He switched on the indicator and redirected himself towards her house.

The dinner and drinks were as exquisite as the sex afterwards was not. It was a start, though. Not every woman could compare to Bridget in the bedroom. She had even felt the need to comment on his eagerness, which he could only attribute to inadvertently performing some intimate techniques on her that he knew that Bridget enjoyed. Regardless, it was a step in the right direction. He had to put Bridget behind him.

He'd thought he'd done an admirable job of it, too, at least until he heard through the grapevine—a friend's daughter who happened to go to the same gym as Bridget—that Bridget was pregnant. He hadn't expected the news to hit him as hard as it had; it was tangible proof that she had moved on with a man who could give her what he hadn't been able to. He called to wish her the best, as was proper and right to do, and that led them to have a decent, civil conversation to catch up.

He realised, though, that he still loved her as much as he always had.

Act III: Who's Your… Oh, You Know

It was one thing, after sleeping with not one but two men in short order, to have dealt with the uncertainty as to which was the father of said child. It was another altogether to learn that the father… well, might not be.

She had kept in sporadic touch with Mark after their fight that day they'd slept together; he knew his relationship with that brunette woman had gotten more serious, to the point where Bridget had seen her sporting a large diamond on her wedding finger. That had hurt, she'd admitted that to herself. She'd had the consolation of carrying the baby she'd always wanted, and a nice, likeable man with whom she could easily see raising a child; the paternity test—or rather, DNA test—that she'd had done had seemed to seal the deal. They cared a lot for each other even if they weren't in love; they had even spoke of moving in together, though she doubted that would be a possibility without the baby on the way.

That was when the phone call came that had sent everything into a spiral.

"Ms Jones," the cool voice on the other end of the line had said, "we're contacting you because the lab that processed your test has noticed a problem."

She'd felt faint. "Problem?"

"Yes. The DNA submission you provided flagged as a match to your baby's cells, but quality control at the lab, during a routine audit, noticed that what was supposed to be a paternal sample was not in fact male."

"Not male?" she'd repeated.

"Yes, ma'am. I'm not sure how this was not caught at the time…"

This, then, was how she had learned that she had, somehow, had managed to contaminate her kit, and mistakenly had submitted her own DNA to be tested against the baby's.

The lab had invited her to resubmit a sample for testing. She had stolen one from Patrick when she'd stayed the night with him before an early morning doctor visit. Now she was expecting to hear the results any time now, and she was not sure what she hoped to hear.

And when she got those results, she still didn't know what to do. She rang both men up and told them to meet her in Olympic Park. To her surprise, Mark was not the one who arrived first. The motorcycle drew nearer to her and then came to a stop. The driver dismounted and removed his helmet. Patrick.

"Hey," he said, grinning. At seeing her own less-than-happy face, his smile faded. "What's going on?"

"I have some news," she said. "About…" She ran a protective hand over her protruding stomach.

He looked immediately concerned. "Something wrong with the baby?"

"Baby's fine," she said. "But I've had some news back from the lab."

"News? Lab?" he asked. "Is something wrong with you?"

"Really, I'm fine," she said, then explained what she had learned the week before, about accidentally contaminating her own sample. "Remember when your toothbrush disappeared?"

"Oh yeah," he said. "I assumed it ended up in the garbage."

She shook her head. "I took it. I mean, I assumed you were the only one using it—" He nodded. "—and I sent it in." She pursed her lips. "It wasn't a match."

"So that means…"

"You're not the father, after all."

She had expected him to look at least a little bit sombre or stunned. Instead, he reached forward and grabbed her for a hug, kissing her cheek. She was too stunned to react, to even embrace him in return. "Oh, Bridge," he said, then with a distinct and unmistakeable tone of relief in his voice: "Sorry to say, but thank Christ."

She pulled back. "What?"

"I'd always stand up to meet my obligations, would've supported you and Junior all the way, knowing how much you've wanted a child… but…" He stepped back, looking quite sheepish. "I wasn't all that thrilled about being a father, to be honest, and I'm less thrilled about raising another man's kid."

She should have felt more crushed than she did, but deep in her heart she hadn't really been too surprised. She had felt initially his response to the news of her pregnancy had been lukewarm at best, and his efforts to muster excitement hadn't been convincing. "It's all right," she said. "You're not obligated to."

"Can you do it on your own?"

She nodded—even as she realised he was essentially breaking up with her.

"Have you told him yet?"

She shook her head.

"Isn't that him now?"

She turned to see him striding—no, charging forward, attaché in one hand, takeaway coffee in the other. Her stomach did a nervous flip, though in all honesty it could as well have been the baby shifting.

"Bridget?" Mark asked as he got closer. "Is everything all right?"

She nodded. She wondered exactly how much he had seen.

"What did you…" Mark began, but trailed off at seeing the grin that Patrick offered him. "What?" Mark asked, clearly confused.

She didn't quite know what to say, didn't quite know how to tell Mark that he was the father, after all, and opened her mouth to speak when Patrick spoke, instead:

"Congratulations, man."

He then reached forward and gave a very stunned-looking Mark a friendly pat on the shoulder. Mark drew his brows together and looked pointedly at Bridget.

"I've had some news," she said; she hadn't wanted to tell Mark any of it in case he was still not the father. "The lab was mistaken. He's—" She pointed to Patrick. "—not the father."

He went a bit white; clearly he realised what this meant.

She nodded again, to confirm what he was thinking.

Patrick took the cup from Mark's hand—it looked like he might drop it—and handed it to Bridget. He then shook Mark's hand. "As I said, congratulations."

"Wait a minute, wait a minute," Mark said, looking at Bridget. "A mistake? What kind of mistake does a lab make to result in mistake like this? A man either is or isn't the father."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth. "It was more my mistake than theirs," she said. "The sample I sent was… accidentally my own. So I sent in Patrick's toothbrush…"

"Toothbrush?"

"I had to be sure it was his DNA, this time," she said. "And it's not a match to the baby." She remembered then that they had sent her a PDF of the letter certifying a 0% match to the baby, so she dug out her phone and pulled it up. "Here's the confirmation letter."

He took the phone from her, examining the letter on the screen with what she knew was the critical eye of a lawyer. "How could this be?" he said, then handed her mobile back to her. "After all of the tests, the experts, the stress of trying…"

Nothing short of a miracle, she thought, but said only, "I don't know, Mark, but it did. Maybe because we weren't trying quite so hard." Then she took in a deep breath. The next bit could not be left unsaid. "Anyway. I thought you had a right to know," she said, "but I don't want you to feel obligated to me in any way. I know you're seeing someone else now—"

His head snapped up. "What?" he said crisply.

"I just… I don't want you to think this is a demand for you to drop everything for me. Well. Us. How much you want to be involved in the baby's life is totally…"

She trailed off as she saw what his features had done: he looked appalled.

"…up to you," she finished meekly.

"Bridget," he said curtly. "You and I spent months… years… trying to conceive. Do you honestly believe I would not want to be involved in the baby's life?"

She looked down to where she was wringing her own hands. "I didn't want to assume."

"Bridget," he said, "you are one of the most obstinate people I have ever known." When he spoke again, the change in his tone surprised her, causing her to look at him once more. "And one of the most selfless," he said gently, "which is why I'd want no one else but you to be the mother of my child."

"I'm… I'm glad to hear that…?"

To her surprise, Mark began to chuckle low in his throat. He came forward and took her free hand with his. "I don't really want to be a father from a distance, Bridget," he said. "I never wanted to split up with you, but with everything that happened, getting on each others' last nerve trying to have a child, drifting apart…"

She knew exactly what he meant, and what he was suggesting: that they give it another try. "What about… you know." Bridget felt terrible for forgetting her name.

"She's a companion, Bridget. She's not…." He struggled for the right words, until finally he said, "She's not you."

"What about that ring?"

"Cheap costume—"

A loud throat-clearing to their side broke them from the moment. Patrick. "I… think I'll be off, if you don't mind," he said, pointing towards his motorcycle. "Feeling a little—okay, a lot like a third wheel."

She would have felt mortified if they had not already indirectly ended things before Mark's arrival. "Thank you for everything," she said, handing the coffee cup back to Mark in order to give Patrick a hug.

"It's been a trip," Patrick said. "Hoping we can still be friends."

"I think so," she said.

Patrick pecked a kiss on her cheek, then held his hand out for Mark to shake. To her relief, Mark accepted it, even smiled a little. "I'd say take good care of them," he said, "but I'm sure you will."

Mark nodded once in acknowledgement.

With that, Patrick was off to his bike, setting his helmet back on his head, and mounting it to take off. He held two thumbs up, and then, after starting the engine and revving it a few times, he was off.

She turned to look at Mark, who was already looking quite intently at her.

"Congratulations," she said again, then took his hand and brought it to rest palm-down against her abdomen. He tried to hide it, but she saw tears prick the corner of his eyes, even as he smiled too. "You haven't missed much—just morning sickness, really," she said. "But if you're lucky, I might yet throw up on you."

He chuckled, then wrapped his arms around her, holding her tightly to him… attaché and coffee cup be damned.

The end.