(Almost) Weekend in Paris

Bridget had the entire week between Christmas and New Year's Day off of work, and she spent most of it in front of the telly, picking through her Christmas chocolates and updating her diary. She actually could have used the distraction of working, to take her mind off of What Would Never Be.

By the time Friday night rolled around, she figured maybe she'd add in a little excitement by doing some laundry, too. Her friends were off with their own families or partners, and while she had filled them all in about what had happened, she had no expectations of actually seeing them until perhaps New Year's Eve. Her weekend seemed laid out before her: domestic, unexciting, as close as a human being could get to hibernation.

So when her entryphone went off, no one could have been more surprised than she was. A brief flare of hope welled up in her; maybe it was Mark taking her up on her offer? But no, he was gone; left for New York the day after the Ruby Wedding party (as reported by her mum). Moved on with his life.

When she brought the entryphone receiver to her ear, she was glad to hear her friends' voices. She wasn't even too disappointed it wasn't Mark; that had never been a realistic expectation, anyway.

Tom wasted no time. "Have we got the most fantastic surprise for you!"

"Oh no," she said with a grin. "You're not going to sing…"

"Not that fantastic, sadly, no, but still pretty good," said Tom, who did look very pleased with himself. "We've decided we're taking you to Paris for the weekend. Forget everything—particularly, forget about Mark Darcy."

They filed in to sit on her sofa and chairs. Jude came up to her, took hold of her face, pecked her cheek affectionately, and said, "I can't believe you said what you said you said."

"I know," Bridget said, adding with heavy sarcasm, "There goes my invite to the Darcys' next year."

"If he didn't leap over the family heirlooms and whip you up in his arms, then sod him," said Tom.

"Yes," agreed Jude. "He's clearly the most dreadful cold fish."

Her friends were clearly trying to make her feel better by trash-talking Mark. Bridget wasn't sure it was working. He was certainly no cold fish.

"Exactly," Shazzer said, waving her cigarette around for emphasis: "I mean, there's been all these bloody hints and stuff, but has he ever actually stuck his fucking tongue down your fucking throat?"

Since that hideous New Year's Day when he'd learned her name? Since their talk at Magda's? Since her last birthday?

"No," Bridget said. "Not once."

"I think we should pack, shouldn't we?"

Hurriedly she threw together an overnight bag—at the very least making sure to grab clean pants and her passport—before they headed downstairs. She stood at the front door, digging furiously through her purse to make sure that she had her keys. Granted, she probably should have checked before getting to the street, but it would have made her mental not to know before they set off.

"Come the fuck on, Bridget!" Tom shouted from the driver's seat, just as she located the keys, which she raised and shook in her triumph.

"Bridget?"

She whipped her head around to see the impossible: Mark striding through the falling snow towards her. Was she imagining things?

"What are you doing here?" she asked the mirage.

"I just wanted to know if you were available for bar mitzvahs and christenings as well as ruby weddings," he said, apparently serious, and apparently all too real. "Excellent speech."

"I thought that you were in America."

"Well, yes, I was, but, um… I realised I'd forgotten something back home."

Adrenalin shot through her. "Which was?" she asked, stepping forward; she stood on the stoop of her building, and he, on the street, rendering them nearly eye to eye.

"Well, I realised I'd forgotten to, um… kiss you good-bye. Do you mind?"

She pretended to think about it, but her heart raced in anticipation. "Um… not really, no." He bent towards her, but she asked, halting his progress, "So… you're not going to America, then?"

He smiled. "No."

"No," she repeated.

"Not," he reiterated.

"Oh… oh. You're staying here?"

He smiled, moving in close again. "So it would seem."

Just as their lips were about to meet, the car behind them suddenly erupted in cheers and horn honking in celebration.

Needless to say, Bridget chose not head for Paris, after all. They retreated to her flat, and he stayed close to her the entire time, so evidently eager for that kiss that he came up behind her to nuzzle into her neck without so much as asking first. She needed, though, to prepare to properly embark on what she hoped might be an actual relationship with him. She slipped away—and oh, was it ever difficult to pull away with his magnetic gaze trained upon her—to trade her clothes and granny pants for something more suitable.

Then she heard her flat door slam shut. She froze.

She called his name. No answer. In her camisole and pants, she tiptoed out into the flat, only to see that she was indeed alone. She went to the window, threw it open, saw him retreating the way he had come. She called after him, but he vanished around the same corner from which he had appeared.

What the hell had just happened?

And then she saw it. Her diary. Right where she'd left it open as her friends had arrived. And it was now open to a page that was less than kind to him, perhaps even overcompensatingly so. Of course, she had never recorded their surreptitious trysts in her diary; she didn't want anyone who might have read it think less of her for such behaviour, even amongst the drinking and relationship woes. But she had recorded her thoughts about him after the Turkey Curry Buffet, and after other ill-fated encounters. Obviously she never expected or thought that Mark himself would see the words.

"Shit," she said. "Double shit."

There was only one thing left to be done about it.

She threw on a cardigan and a pair of trainers, and flew out the door in the direction in which she had seen him go. She caught sight of him, running almost blindly against the falling snow after him, realising only belatedly that the cardigan was not enough against the winter temperatures. In that moment, she didn't care.

And then he was gone. She didn't see him at all anymore, had no idea to where he had disappeared. Now she was blocks away from home, half naked, no money…. Shit. No keys.

In frustration, she dropped her hands violently down against the cold night air, cursing lightly to herself. She turned around and unexpectedly found herself locking eyes with Mark, who happened to at that moment be emerging from a stationery store.

For the second time that night, she couldn't believe her eyes.

She walked briskly towards him, still slightly winded from running. "I am so sorry. I'm so sorry. I didn't mean it. I mean, I meant it… but… I was so stupid that I didn't mean what I meant." He looked slightly puzzled, then distracted by her outfit. She pulled her cardigan closed. "Oh, for Christ's sakes. It's only a diary. Everyone knows diaries are just full of crap."

Her pulse pounded waiting for his response.

At last, he said, "I know that. I was just buying you a new one." He held it up as proof. "Time to make a new start, perhaps."

And then he smiled.

And then she ran into his arms.

Regardless of the presence of the old lady passers-by, he dropped his head just as she raised hers, and they kissed.

And kissed.

At length.

God, she never wanted it to end, even though her knees were ready to buckle beneath her at the desire that coursed between them, the promise of what was to come.

As they pulled apart, she teased him a bit, thinking back to their first night of hot shagging. "Wait a minute. Nice boys don't kiss like that."

Without missing a beat, he replied, "Oh, yes, they fucking do."

He drew his open overcoat around her as they kissed again. She suddenly wished they were back in her flat, because she could feel how badly he wished they were back in her flat…

Gently, she drew away. "Maybe we should… you know," she said. "It might be enormously embarrassing, possibly career-ending, if you were to be caught snogging a half-naked woman on the street."

He smiled, then laughed. "You make an excellent point." He slipped out of his coat, then draped it around her. As they walked, he put his arm around her shoulders, almost protectively. She was thrumming with anticipation, though she remembered—

"I left my keys in the flat," she said sadly. "We'll have to break in."

"Actually, you didn't, and we won't," he said. "I took them to let myself back in after getting your gift. I'd hoped to return before you were finished, none the wiser."

She smiled as her face flushed red. His arm tightened around her shoulders almost reassuringly.

Due to the stupidity of leaving her window wide open in her earlier search for Mark, her flat was now nearly as cold as the outside. He strode over and shut the window, then went over to the fireplace, peering at it for a moment before lighting it.

"Thanks," she said.

"Come here," he said, quiet, commanding. She had heard this tone before, and a thrill zinged through her. She took a step, but he added, "You won't need my coat over here." She slipped out of it, draped it over the chair. "Or the cardigan."

She offered an anticipatory smile, then took that off as well before going over to where he was stood at the fireplace. He placed one hand on her shoulder, and one palm against her face to cup it. "Feeling better?"

"Mmm," she said, closing her eyes, leaning into the caress.

"You know," he said, drawing the hand from her cheek. "I still owe you an apology for the…" He still seemed to hate saying the phrase. "Turkey Curry Buffet."

"No," she said, looking to him again. "You don't. You were just as surprised as I was. I was really hurt at the time, but after I had a chance to think about it, I realised what had happened."

"I was surprised," he said. "I was shocked. I didn't know what to say. And… I admit that I was a bit worried that somehow everyone would know about what I'd done. And not because I'm inherently ashamed of it. But…"

She nodded, remembering what he'd said. "Not only the public sees you as nice," she said. "Your parents…"

"Christ, I'd never want my parents to know I went to a nightclub in the hopes of finding someone to spend the night with," he said; it amused her to hear him use such a euphemistic term for hooking up. "I'd never done it before. I was getting a bit desperate, and most of the women I work with want the status. Like Natasha."

"Oh my God! I forgot about her!" said Bridget, her hand flying to cover her mouth. "Is she going to barge in and interrupt this, too?"

He chuckled low in his throat. "She stayed in New York. Onward and upward the social ladder."

"Were you really engaged?"

He looked down for a moment as he spoke, clearly embarrassed. "There was never a ring, no. We talked about it as a possibility in the future, as a… merger of our interests, which, yes, sounds as awful as it is. She must have told my father; I think she suspected my interest in you, and knew full well I'd never contradict him in front of all of those people." He brushed her hair away from her eyes, tucking the loose strands behind her ear. "But enough about her, about my bloody parents. It's been more than a year since our last rendezvous at Quicksilver. I'm a bit keen to make up for lost time."

Oh.

He slipped his hands to her hips, pulled her close, then pressed his cheek to her temple. "Is it all right if I kiss you?"

"More than all right," she murmured.

The end.