Chapter 4: The One Less Travelled By

Fast-Forward

2006

The silent treatment. There was nothing worse than the silent treatment, because he was damned if he asked her what was wrong, and he was damned if he didn't.

"Bridget," he said tentatively. "Tell me what's on your mind. What's wrong?"

She turned her fierce gaze to him in an instant. "I'm surprised you even have to ask, considering I'm helping you pack again for a work trip."

"And I appreciate that," he said.

"It's not the packing, Mark. It's another bloody work trip," she said. "I don't understand why you have to keep taking these jobs so far away. I'm pregnant. I need you here."

"I'm sorry," he said, "but this trip is the culmination of three years' worth of work. I can't just… not go. And I'll be back before you know it, long before your due date."

"What if something happens?"

"What's going to happen?"

"Anything could happen. I could fall in the shower. Something could happen to the baby. Something could happen to you."

"Nothing's going to happen to me."

"You can't promise that. And then what would I do?" she asked, tears in her eyes. "Can't you send one of the junior partners, instead?"

"The negotiators won't proceed if it's not me there. Believe me. I've tried to get out of it every which way to Sunday," he said, exasperated, but wholly empathetic. He reached out and took her hand, pulled her into his arms. She returned the embrace. "This will be the last one."

She sighed. "You can't promise that, either," she said, sadness in her voice.

The thing was, he couldn't.

Rewind

March, 1995

After slipping into their outerwear, they made their way out of the American Bar; Mark claimed her hand again, led her to his car—very expensive luxury-type sedan, not surprising—then opened the passenger door for her. He said nothing, his expression told her nothing; he just closed the door after she sat down and then went around to the driver's side. She began to wonder if she'd just imagined the heady kiss they'd just had. However, before he engaged the engine, he turned to look at her again with another smoky yet piercing gaze. She couldn't tell if he wanted to tell her off or reach over and kiss her. It was exceedingly sexy.

The ride towards his house wasn't more than twenty, twenty-five minutes, to the tony neighbourhood of Holland Park; when he stopped and disengaged the engine in front one of the tall, wedding-cake-style homes, she had to stop herself from letting her mouth gape open.

He got out of the car then went around to open hers, ever the gentleman.

"Thank you," she said, feeling oddly formal.

"My pleasure."

He drew out his keys and pushed open the door to allow her entrance. The lights in the foyer were already on and she again had to stop her jaw from dropping. It was a beautiful and obviously very expensive house, albeit a bit spartanly decorated.

He slipped out of his overcoat, as did she, which he took and hung on the coat rack. He dropped his keys onto a sideboard table, then turned to look at her with those intense eyes, not saying a word.

"I'm afraid I ruined your shirt," she said suddenly; she didn't know what else to say. Surely she had not misunderstood the reason for his invitation.

"Please, don't apologise," he said. "It was an accident." Then he offered a small smile. "One I'm afraid I had a hand in causing. But ruining a shirt was worth it."

She smiled back.

He came up to her again, took her hand, running a thumb over the back. The light sensation was almost erotic.

"Let me show you upstairs," he said quietly.

She nodded.

The walk up the staircase seemed to last forever. She felt his hand against her back. He didn't stop at the first floor landing, continued up to the second floor; he strode over then swung the double doors open. The room was shockingly large, probably as large as the whole footprint of the house itself, and lit with a warm, soft glow by a lamp on each bedside table; the four-poster bed seemed as wide as an airport landing strip.

"Have you been in this house long?" she asked.

"About five years," he said. "Why?"

She smiled. "I was just thinking how we spent all of our time before at my tiny flat in my… comparatively minuscule bed…"

He chuckled. "It was comfortable," he recalled. "But I hardly noticed the size at the time. Was rather more focused on you." He came close to her, bringing a hand to her shoulder. "You look absolutely astonishing in this dress," he said, his fingers playing along the skin at the collar. "I'd wanted to say so earlier, but it… didn't seem appropriate."

She felt a bit bashful. "I'm glad you think so," she said.

"I think everyone at the party thought so," he said.

"But I'm here with you."

"So you are." He stepped close to her, cupping her face with his hands. "So you are," he said again, his voice a whisper. Then he lowered his head as if he were about to kiss her.

"Your shirt," she said suddenly.

He chuckled again. "I suppose it would make sense to take care of that, wouldn't it?" He drew away. "I'll go into the en suite and get out of this shirt. Why don't you—" His eyes flicked down to her body. "—do the same with the dress and then make yourself comfortable?"

It seemed logical, so she nodded, turning around. "Unzip me?"

She felt his fingers on her back, working down the zipper all the way to the small of her back. "Be right back," he said; she heard his footsteps on the carpet then the door to the en suite click shut.

She tugged the shoulders down, then stepped out of the dress, peeled off her stockings, shed her pants and bra. She then pulled a corner of the bed covers down and slipped between the sheets. They were the most luxurious sheets she had ever had against her skin, and the mattress was the most comfortable one she'd been on in some time.

Mmmm. She closed her eyes, let out a long breath, hardly believing where she was, and who she was about to spend the night with. She never would have expected this at the start of her day… and yet the anticipation now was almost more than she could bear.

She heard the door open again; instinctively she tugged the sheets and duvet to her chin. He came close to the bed, smirking a little. "I doubt hiding is necessary."

He was absolutely stark naked, and he looked fucking magnificent, every bit as fucking magnificent as he had at thirty.

He continued: "Can you maybe… move over?"

"Oh, sorry, sorry," she said, scooting over so that he could get in beside her. He turned to face her, then pushed the bed sheets and duvet away from her to take the sight of her in, before he lowered his head to kiss her. Quickly he was up against her, wrapping his arms around her. She felt like she was drowning in him, in the best possible way.

…

He hadn't realised how much he'd missed this, missed her, until he was about to kiss her again—not in a bar, not in public, but in the privacy of his own bedroom, where the only thing stopping them from what they were about to do was one of them changing their minds. And he knew he wasn't about to.

Letting down the walls he had carefully constructed over the last decade had been strangely easy once he'd decided to do it; how could he have not, with the chance to be with her again?

He brought his lips to hers again, soft against his own, and as he deepened the kiss, as he pressed his body against the length of hers, she responded in kind, making soft sounds of pleasure.

…

As if no time had passed. He'd remembered all of the places that she loved being touched, caressed; being with him now was like no time at all had passed.

"A really good memory, my God," she said when she broke away to rest atop him, sweeping a hand over the fine mat of hair on his chest, which rose and fell as he breathed heavily in and out.

"That in particular I could never forget," he murmured, his hand stroking over her hair; she realised her upswept coiffure must have at this point looked like a fright wig. "I know this is going to sound like lust-suffused pillow talk, but you're the best I'd ever had. No one compared."

She felt a blush flood her skin. If it was just pillow talk, she still loved to hear it, but felt a little embarrassed. "Oh, go on."

"I'm not exaggerating," he said. "I didn't even—" He stopped.

"What?" She pushed herself up to look at him again. "What?"

"I didn't even want to kiss other women."

"But you said earlier that you—"

"Yes," he interrupted.

She understood what he meant. Whatever he'd done with other women had just been quick and only enough to get physical satisfaction. There had been no connection, no sentiment involved. She felt unexpectedly emotional. "I'm sorry."

"Don't let's go over that again," he said sternly, but somehow, she knew the tone was only an affectation. "I think we can safely consider that water under the bridge."

"Something under something, anyway," she said, referring to their present positions. "Mark, can I ask you something?"

"I think it's all right just to ask, at this juncture," he said.

"Have you got a hairbrush or something I might use to work this mess out?"

He began to laugh such in a way that… she wondered if it were possible that he hadn't laughed this hard in years; how bad did her hair look, anyway? Carefully she drew away and off of him, intending on lying amongst the crumpled sheets.

"Oh, I'm not laughing at you," he said, drawing her close to him again. "It's… an emotional release. I haven't felt, well, happy in a long time. And your request for a hairbrush struck me as completely ludicrous."

She touched the grey at his temples with a smile, thinking back to when she'd first spotted him on New Year's looking like a grim stone pillar. How he'd changed. How she'd helped just by reaching out and apologising. At this tears flooded her eyes again.

"I'm sorry. Did I say something wrong?"

She shook her head. "As you said. Emotional release."

"Ah." He leaned to kiss her. "Let me find a brush for you. As you see, I don't have need of anything too heavy duty."

She grinned. "Okay."

He rolled to the edge of the bed to sit, then rose to stride to the en suite. She couldn't help watching him walk the entire time. It was a view that she'd frankly missed.

He didn't come back right away as she'd expected. In fact she heard him call for her from the en suite.

She got up, pulling a blanket (smaller than the massive bed, thank goodness) from a chair there in the room, and wrapped it around her under her arms. She mused how she would not have cared a decade ago to walk around naked in front of a lover. Now she was too insecure, convinced that everything was sagging like a Hollywood special effect.

He stood there with a brush; she couldn't avoid seeing her hair looked as badly as she feared it might. "I found one. But I thought you might like to have a shower to wash out the hairspray."

"Oh, yes please," she said. "You'll join me?"

He smiled almost demurely. "I'd love to. But you know, you can't bring the blanket in with you."

He was right. Well, she thought, he's already seen me, and didn't react badly. Maybe her insecurity was all in her head. She unwrapped the blanket from around her, tossed it back onto the chair, and turned back to him.

He took a moment to look her over appraisingly, then offered the brush to her. "I don't dare try, myself. I'd probably make it worse. I'll just get the water going."

He had not only an enclosed shower stall with clear stall walls but, she noticed, a rather large jacuzzi-style bathtub next to it. She couldn't help but grin and hope that at some point, they might use it.

As he fired up the shower then got in, she began plucking Kirby grips from her hair, then worked the brush through section by section. She got through it faster than she expected. By the end of the process, her hair seemed to stand on end. I dearly hope he has conditioner, she thought.

She pushed the stall door aside then stepped in with him. He'd already washed his hair and most of his body, so he moved aside to give her the stream of water, which sluiced over her head, flattening the cloud of hair down against her head.

"Allow me."

She didn't want to open her eyes and get hair product in them, so she nodded and then felt him squeeze out a portion shampoo on her head. She began to work it in, then felt his fingers join hers to massage her scalp.

"Mmm," she said. Those lovely, long, strong fingers.

"Rinse," he said in a commanding tone. She did as asked.

"Soap?" she asked.

He handed her a bar. She sniffed it. Lavender? She lathered it up then scrubbed at her face, hoping like hell she wouldn't have panda eyes. She then rinsed her face under the water stream, pushed her hair back, blinked her eyes open, then looked to him.

"Conditioner?"

"Yes." He took the soap from her, set it into the recessed area in the wall, then reached for a second bottle. Handed it to her.

"Thank God."

They traded places again so he was under the water; as she worked the conditioner through, he commented, "Your hair's longer than I remember."

"My mother keeps telling me that women in their thirties don't have long hair," she said, twisting her hair into a loop to let the conditioner really take hold. "I swear I keep growing it to spite her."

He smiled, then grasped her shoulders, stroking the skin there with his thumbs as the water pounded down. "May I ask a favour?"

"Of course."

"Don't mention your mother again?"

She began to laugh. "Sorry."

He slipped his hands to her hips. "You should be," he said. "This might put her out of my mind."

…

After he'd finished in the en suite, he got back into bed to wait for her, sitting back against the pillows, with the duvet and sheets pulled up and folded over at his waist, the edge folded down as if to invite her return. Before too long, he saw the light switch off. She seemed to tentatively pad out of there, and as soon as she came close enough for the lamp to illuminate her, he couldn't take his gaze away. Her hair was still quite damp and hanging in loose waves, and her freshly scrubbed skin, particularly her face, was glowing. The soft curve of her hips and stomach, the full swell of her breasts, were everything he remembered and wanted.

He reached for her. "Come here."

She climbed in beside him, pulled the sheets up to her waist; she was turned slightly towards him. He wanted to have her again, and this time, wanted to touch and explore every inch of her body. Wanted to kiss every inch of her body, though knew—hoped—that would come in due time.

He raised a hand to cup her face again, brushing his thumb along her cheek.

"Sorry," she said.

"What on earth are you sorry for?"

"Not… well, not having the glamourous hairdo, the makeup…"

"Stop talking nonsense," he said brusquely. Then, he said more gently, "I was just thinking how completely beautiful you look. Nothing on you but the afterglow."

She blinked a few times, which caused a tear to roll down and over his thumb.

"Emotional release?" he asked, brushing the wetness away.

She shook her head. "Because I was an idiot to not have seen what was right in front of me, all because of the misfortune of having just broken up with the biggest prat in England after seven years."

He brought his brows together, but then remembered: Peter. The reason she hadn't wanted to embark on another relationship. Then the larger implications of what she was saying struck Mark: she ultimately had regretted that she had not pursued a relationship with him then.

He considered his words carefully. "Maybe this is too much, too soon," he said quietly, "but I'm in front of you again now."

He watched her take in a deep breath, then exhale. She regarded him warily. "I thought you said you couldn't just undo all of it in a snap."

"And yet I'm saying it anyway," he said. "You'll just have to remind me not to close myself off, if I slip and forget."

He watched her lower lip start to quiver. "I think I could manage that."

"All right, darling," he said tenderly, stroking her face again. "All right."

He kissed her, held her, caressed her, made her forget her regrets until the very small hours, when they fell to sleep in each other's arms; he could not speak for her, but he slept soundly and peacefully for the first time in a very long time.

He had called her 'darling,' and she had not objected.

…

What a whirlwind.

She did not get back to her own flat until later the following afternoon wearing her party dress from the night before, which garnered a few strange looks as she walked back to her building door, escorted there by Mark.

"Come over later," she said.

"All right," he said, then bent to kiss her.

Her answerphone light was blinking like mad when she got in; almost all of the calls were from Daniel, sounding frantic about where she was. It took her a moment to realise he was taking the piss. He made it very plain at the end of the string of messages that he knew exactly where she'd been.

Bastard, she thought with a laugh.

Had things happened too fast? She didn't think so. On the contrary, it felt like something that was meant to be had clicked into place. Almost from the moment she had fully expressed her apology, and he had accepted it, he was again the kind, thoughtful, courteous man that she had known years before.

That, she realised, she had actually loved years before.

She picked up the phone not to call Daniel, but to call Shazzer, who had been there at the beginning of it all.

"You are never going to believe what happened last night."

She then told Shazzer the story of how the apology last night had quickly led to their reigniting in bed, and more than that, to the promise of more, of an actual relationship. She listened and said not a word until the end, and even then said only:

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

But Shazzer was smiling; Bridget could hear the smile in her voice.

"I'm not."

"And everything was, you know, smoking hot?"

"As hot as it ever was."

Shazzer laughed. "Well, you got lucky last night, in more ways than one."

…

The bloody phone. Would not. Stop ringing.

Daniel realised he must have switched off his machine, so he rolled over to answer it.

"This had better be good," he mumbled. The bed shifted beside him; the woman he'd brought home from the launch party—Andrea? Angela? Shit, he thought—turned over and looked at him, blinking sleep from her eyes.

"Thank you." It was Mark; Daniel sat up. "Your machinations again had the intended effect."

"I thought they might," Daniel said, thinking of the messages that he'd left for Bridget. "Picked up where you left off?"

"More than that," he said. "Going for an actual relationship."

He smiled, happy for his friend. "Well done, you," he said. "Make time on Tuesday. You can tell me all about it at lunch, all right?"

"I'd like that."

"All right. The old haunt. See you then, about noon."

He put down the phone.

"Who was that?"

"My friend, Mark," he said. "I worked a little magic for him."

"Oh, that's lovely."

He reclined back onto the bed. "Mmm," he said, brushing a thumb over her lower lip. "Now it's your turn."

…

Una Alconbury is going to lose her mind.

That was the only thing Bridget could think of, as she patted her face with powder up in preparation of Mark arriving that evening, with a broad smile on her face. The application of a little lip gloss was all that was left, and she stood back to take in her own reflection. Her hair was down and loosely waved around her shoulders, brushing against her mid-back, and she wore a snug top and a miniskirt, her legs bare and smooth.

She was pleased with how she looked, and hoped he'd think so, too.

When her entryphone went off, she dashed across the flat for it.

"Takeaway delivery."

She was confused. She hadn't ordered anything. "Who is this?"

"It's Mark." Then he chuckled. "I've brought dinner."

"Ooh."

She pressed the buzzer to let him in, then went and opened her flat door in anticipation, leaning against her door frame. Shortly he was on her floor, and as his gaze locked onto her, he hesitated in his step, then smiled.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello." He held up his carrier bag. "I brought a curry. Hope that's all right."

"Of course it is."

"I just… preferred to stay in, rather than go out."

She grinned; she had hoped they'd stay in, too. "Come on in."

He set down the bag and removed his raincoat; as he did, he looked around. "Can't believe it," he said. "It looks just like I remember."

"I did replace the sofa with that chaise-style thing…"

"I just mean the overall ambience. I always remembered it as comfortable. Cosy." He smiled again. "You look nice, by the way."

"Thanks," she said. "So do you." He wasn't wearing a suit, but rather, khaki trousers and an off-white jumper. He had recently shaved; she could smell the brisk aftershave as she got closer to him, saw the neatness of the line of his sideburn. She ran a hand down over the jumper. "Very informal."

"I figured the occasion called for informal," he said. "Shall we get to it, then?"

She nodded, biting her tongue on a naughty double-entendre.

Rather than sit at her dining table, she suggested they just get wine and flatware, and park in the sitting room to eat straight from the containers. "Keeping with the informal theme," she said. "Will white wine be all right?"

"Sure."

The food was excellent: a biryani dish and a korma dish, both with chicken, mild on the spice level and exceedingly tasty. They must have both been hungrier than they thought, because there was hardly any conversation.

"I don't know what makes me think of this," she said as she scraped the last of the rice out of her container, "but I wonder about how things might have turned out if we hadn't actually met until this year. Do you think we might have still connected?"

He seemed to think about it. "Knowing you then, and knowing you now, I think we would have. With another decade of experiences under our belt, we'd not be quite the same people, but there's a basic compatibility here. Despite our differences, or maybe because of them, I think that would win out in the end."

She'd hoped he might say something reassuring. She leaned over and planted a kiss on his lips, which resulted in him taking her around the waist, pulling her across his lap, and deepening the kiss.

"I can't express," he said breathlessly, "how much I've missed this."

She knew he didn't mean since earlier that same day. She brought her fingers up to trace a tender path over the lines in his face. No more regrets, she thought. Just gratitude for the present and the future.

Fast-Forward

2013

"Children! Breakfast!"

The eldest of the two—Billy, seven years of age—came into the dining room, and the expression on his face almost made Bridget laugh. He looked very serious—almost as serious as his father—as he approached.

"Mummy," he said. "My shoe's gone."

"Gone?"

"Yup. One's there and the other isn't."

Bridget folded her arms over her chest. "Where you put them in the coat closet after school yesterday."

"Yup."

"And have you asked your sister?"

"Yup," he said.

"And what did she say?"

"I didn't thee it." This from her five-year-old girl, Mabel, who had just come into the room. Bridget turned to look at her, smoothed down her flyaway blonde hair. "Maybe da doggie took it."

"Sweetheart, we don't have a dog."

"Oh," she said. "Can we get one?"

Bridget began to laugh.

"I still can't find my shoe," Billy reminded.

"Can you wear other shoes today?"

"No," he said with a pout. In fact, he looked like he might start to cry. "They're my favourite shoes and I have to wear them today. I can't run as fast in the other ones!"

"If we can't find it before you have to leave for school, you'll have to wear another pair," she said. "I can ask Chloe when she comes by later."

"But—"

"No 'but'. I can't just magically find them."

"Why not?" he asked tearfully. "You find my stuff all the time."

She heard footsteps coming down from the upper floor, and they all heard a voice: "I would really like to know how this got into my briefcase, William."

She turned to see Mark standing there; he tried to look stern, but she could tell that he was very close to laughing. In one hand was his briefcase. In the other was—

"My shoe!"

Billy ran forward with a beaming smile to take his missing, prized trainer.

"Oh, I put dat dere," said Mabel nonchalantly.

"You just said you didn't see it," Bridget said.

"Dat was a different shoe."

"Why did you put it in my briefcase?"

"De shoes were playin' Hide and Seek."

At this, Bridget could not help but smile, then laugh. Mark set down his briefcase, walked over to sweep his little girl up into his arms, pecking a kiss on her cheek. Mabel giggled and threw her arms around his neck.

Bridget looked to Mark, and he to her. Her heart was so full of love at this moment that she felt like she might cry. She wasn't sure why, but didn't trust her voice to speak. She sniffed and mouthed the words, I love you.

He stepped forward to put one arm around her, too. Close to her ear, he said, "I love you, too."

The end.