Into the Fire
12 of 12 ::sadface::

By S. Faith, © 2010

Words: 75,406 in total, 8,054 this part.
Rating: M / R
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Chapter 1.

Chapter 12.

They finished the exhibit, saw some more of the impressive permanent collection then decided it was time for a late lunch. On the way back to South Kensington Station they ventured into a pub with the amusing name Hoop and Toy, had a couple of pints and some bangers and chips, then took the Tube back to her flat.

As soon as they were inside he took her into his arms and gave her a tight hug, spanning his hands over her back. "This has been a very, very good day," he said quietly, then kissed her again just on the hairline by her temple.

"I'm glad," she said, "but it's hardly over yet." She pulled back, taking his hands. "Why don't you put on the football, read your newspaper… I have a bit of baking to do."

Curious, he went to the kitchen with her. One of the things she'd procured in the morning before he'd awakened was a box cake mix. "It's angel food cake," he said, reading over the box label.

"I know," she said.

"You prefer chocolate."

"It's not my cake. Come on." She took his hand and marched him to the living room, switched on the telly, and found the football. He was going to protest that he would have preferred spending time in the kitchen with her, but it turned out to be a really good game.

Within no time at all he could smell the delightful scent in the air of cake baking, and she was dropping to sit beside him on the sofa. "Who's winning?"

"We're ahead at the moment, but it's been really touch and go," he said in a very serious voice, the sound of which snapped him back to reality. "But it's just a game."

"It's a game you enjoy though."

He sat back, held his arm out to invite her to curl up to him. She took the invitation, resting her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest, her legs up over his lap. He leaned into her, felt her hair against his chin, the scent of her shampoo mixing with the heavenly baking smells. "There are other things I enjoy more," he murmured, then raised his hand to tilt her chin up in order to give her a kiss, sweet at first but quickly descending into a passionate snog.

The timer beeping from the kitchen broke up the kiss with chuckles.

"Let me get that," she said. "Burned cake would not do."

"Indeed not."

She swung her legs over, stood and went towards her kitchen. With the way the flat was laid out he had a straight line of vision the entire distance. Watching her walk did not have the effect he would have expected—flaring, uninhibited lust—but rather, filled him with a sense of love, of rightness, of 'this is the way things are supposed to be.'

"Oh, bugger," she said, pulling the cake from the oven.

"What's wrong?"

"My oven runs hot, I think," she said mournfully. "It's too brown."

"It's all right," he called back. "It'll taste just fine. Plus with icing…"

"Fuck," she muttered. "I knew there was something I forgot to buy." She turned back to him, her expression completely forlorn.

He rose and went to her. "Do you have confectioner's sugar?"

"Um. I don't think so."

"What about… jam?"

"Oh, I might," she said, brightening; she went to crouch in front of the refrigerator. "Raspberry jam."

"Sounds perfect."

The cake had yet to cool, and coupled with the late August summer heat, the flat was too warm to want to think about cooking supper. "That's okay," she said proudly. "I bought tomatoes, some basil and some fresh mozzarella. We can have a cold salad after the match."

They returned to the sofa to find the game still on. France was presently ahead by a point which immediately got Mark to ranting about the egos of the top English players. She only smiled and agreed, though it was clear to him she had no idea, aside from his previous rants, what he was going on about. "Be right back," she said, kissing him on the head as he fell into the match full force.

She returned some time later with two glasses of iced tea. He took a long sip; it was homemade and unsweetened with a little lemon, and was very refreshing. "Excellent."

"It's bottled lemon juice," she said, "but it's still good."

"Darling, you don't have to make excuses. It's still excellent."

She smiled and took a sip of her own.

In the end, England took the game. "If I'm not careful," he said, "I'm going to become superstitious and think they only won because I was watching with you." At her look of unbridled horror, he leaned in and gave her a kiss.

Together they assembled dinner. He chopped up the vegetables while she found the Balsamic vinegar and olive oil, then cut the fresh mozzarella balls into smaller, bite-sized chunks. It all got mixed together into a large bowl with a little salt and oregano, which he then doled into smaller bowls.

"It's funny," he said as they settled in at the table; he brought the bowls and forks, she, the glasses of white wine. "I think I know your kitchen better than my own."

She chuckled. "It's a lot smaller. Fewer options to get confused by." She raised her glass of wine. "Another toast, another wish for all things good on your birthday."

He smiled, nodded, and clinked his glass to hers. "I have absolutely no complaints."

As dinner was concluding, Mark's mobile began to ring. He hadn't intended on answering, but did pull the phone out to see who was calling. "It's my parents," he said. "Do you mind?"

"Not at all," she said. "I'll clear the table."

He opted not to answer with his standard greeting. "Hello."

"Mark, son, happy birthday." It was his mother.

"Thanks," he said.

"I tried ringing before at your home number but I figured you must have still been working."

"I didn't work today. I spent the day with Bridget."

She didn't respond immediately, and when she did, she sounded very surprised. "You didn't… work?"

"We had breakfast, went to the National History Museum and saw the deep sea exhibit, had lunch, watched the football match, and just had supper."

"And there's cake!" called Bridget.

"But you didn't work."

"Not for a moment."

She was silent again. "And it was a good day, I trust?"

"One of the very best."

There was another pause of silence. "May I speak to Bridget?"

"Sure," he said. "Bridget, my mother would like to speak to you."

She furrowed her brows, paused to lick something that looked suspiciously like raspberry jam from her fingers, then came to take his mobile. "Hello, this is Bridget," she said; as she listened intently, her features smoothed out. Her eyes darted to Mark. She smiled. "Yes, he's fine. Yes. Okay. I will. Did you want to—oh, all right. Good night then." She held the phone away and pressed a button to disconnect the call. She handed it to him once more. "I think you just broke your mother's brain. She—"

The mobile rang again, and again it was his parents' number. "Hold on." He answered it. "This is Mark."

"Mark, m'boy, what's this I hear?" It was his father, and from his tone Mark could tell he was in a jovial mood. "You not feeling well? Did the aliens take and replace you with a pod person?"

"What?"

"Your mother tells me you chucked work to spend your birthday with your girlfriend."

Mark chuckled. "Yes. I did."

"And it was a good one?"

"Very good."

"Glad to hear it, glad to hear it," said Malcolm. "All work and no play, and all that. Cheerio, son, and happy birthday. I'll leave you to your Bridget."

"Goodbye, Father." He disconnected. "He called back," he said, stating the obvious.

"I think your mother was so flustered to hear you spent your birthday in a normal manner that she forgot to hand the phone over," said Bridget. He thought she was probably right. "Okay. You stay there and close your eyes. I'll be right back."

He did as requested. He heard her set something down on the table then leave again.

"Don't open them yet," she warned.

He heard her swearing softly at the matchbook, then could tell through his closed eyes that she'd turned the kitchen lights off. After a moment she returned and set down something a little heavier directly in front of him.

"Okay, now you can open them."

As he did, the sight that met him made his eyes tear up a bit: it was the little round golden cake, and in the centre, with the raspberry jam, she had drawn a heart. Around the edge of the heart were the candles, lit and glowing warmly. As he gazed upon it, as beautiful a thing as he had ever seen, she began to sing the Happy Birthday song to him, off key and with an interesting sense of timing, but it touched him more than any professionally rendered song could have. At the conclusion she threw her arms around his neck from behind, pecked a kiss on his cheek and said, "Make a wish."

He blew out the candles, but realised he had no wish to make that had not already come true.

"Hurrah!" she said, clapping her hands together before leaning forward to start to pluck the candles out. "Come on, you have to cut it."

He picked up the bread knife that she had brought for him to cut the cake and precisely divided it into eight slices.

"Almost forgot. Ice cream."

"It's okay."

"No, no, must have ice cream." She scurried away then returned momentarily with two pints of Ben & Jerry's ice cream: one brand new and obviously unopened vanilla, and another of a chocolate variety.

"Do you not think I like other flavours?" he teased as she scooped out vanilla for him.

"Well, I know you're not as crazy about chocolate," she said, "and I didn't have much time this morning to be too choosy." She moved to scoop out her own ice cream.

"Bridget," he said, feeling suddenly emotional.

"Yes?" she asked, stopping at the seriousness of his tone.

"Thank you for all of this," he said. "For waking up early, buying breakfast and all of these other things—" He vaguely indicated the ghost of dinner just past, as well as the ice cream. "—treating me to a wonderful day with you, watching the match with me, making supper and baking a cake for me."

She smiled broadly. "It was my pleasure, Mark. I told you it should be a special day, and you mean the world to me."

He did not quite know what to say, so instead he leaned forward and kissed her once again.

The kettle went off at that moment. "Some tea?" she asked, pulling back.

"Sure."

The cake was moist and tasted very good, particularly with the raspberry topping and paired with the vanilla ice cream. Tea was standard and black, which made him ponder her propensity for light, sweet coffee.

"You'll have to take the rest of the cake with you," she stated.

"What?"

"Well, it's yours," she said, "plus if it's here I'll eat it all."

He chuckled. "How about if I leave it here?" he said. "I'll need something for breakfast when I'm here."

She smiled.

He pushed his plate aside when he finished, cupping his mug of tea in two hands as if it were a cold winter night. It was twilight now, nearly full dark, and the air coming in through the window was finally cool; perhaps the difference was what made him cup the mug in such a reflexive manner. He was pondering the eventuality of going home; he had not planned to stay over the night before, and another day in the same clothes, even if only to go home to change into a suit, seemed untenable.

"Time for your present."

These four words snapped him to the present.

"My present?"

"Mm-hm," she said with a grin, getting up out of her chair. "Give me a moment."

She returned momentarily with a decorative gift bag of not inconsequential size. "Sorry it's not a bit fancier," she said. "I didn't have time to find a box and wrapping paper—"

"Don't apologise," he said. "Thank you."

He took the bag from her hand; it was not particularly heavy. He went to open the tape seal at the top, but she tsked him.

"The card."

There was a small card on the front. He slipped open the envelope and pulled it out to read. On the front was a glittery pink heart entwined with another silver one. On the inside, she had penned:

Dear Mark,
May the next year be even better than the last. I know mine will be.
XXOO,
Bridget

He looked to her with a smile, but could feel the emotion closing his throat. He dared not speak. Instead he opened the bag, moved aside the tissue paper, and pulled out—

"It's so you have something to wear when you're here," she said. "You know, that isn't a suit."

In the bag were three items that had clearly been sold as a set: a lightweight robe of dark red cotton; a pair of pyjamas; and a set of men's house shoes. All three bore the colours and the logo of the English soccer team. He wondered what she had spent on this, and said immediately, "Bridget, you shouldn't have."

"I wasn't sure which team you supported, you know, within England," she hastened to explain, "so I figured that was a safe bet, but if you want we can take it back—"

"No, they're great," he said, holding up the robe. "I just mean—this must have—well, never mind."

"What?"

"I hope you didn't spend too much."

"Don't worry about it," she said. "Do you really like them?"

"I love them." He dropped the items back into the bag, looked at her intently. "I love you."

It was her startled reaction that made him realise he had never actually said the words out loud before. She went slightly pale, and he considered what he might say to backtrack himself into a place of comfort… but then she surprised him by leaping out of her seat and into his lap to embrace then kiss him.

"I love you too," she said as she shed happy tears, "probably more than I should, but I do."

He chuckled in relief, then kissed her again. "I feel exactly the same," he murmured, wiping the tears from her eyes. "And you… you're in the best possible position."

"For what?"

"For this." He slipped his arm under her knees and got to his feet, kissed her again as he carried her off to her room.

Once he'd told her he loved her, it seemed he could not stop, murmuring it into her ear between kisses, as he cherished her lovely body, as he moved to join with her. She proclaimed the same each step of the way, vehemently declaring herself as she reached climax.

They ended the perfect day in the same place in which it had begun.

…

As the days got shorter still, they found more of a rhythm in their life as a couple. Not only did he have the pyjama set at her place as well as his razor, but he brought a few shirts, trousers, socks and boxers in case he decided to stay over. Similarly she brought some spare clothes to his house, but in all honesty he liked it best staying with her.

To celebrate two months together, he insisted upon taking her out for an indulgent dinner at Le Pont de la Tour, as it was a Friday night and it felt as if he hadn't taken her out on the town in eons. She had really outdone herself for eveningwear: a little black satin dress that came to her knees, her hair swept up in a twist, fringe cascading down over her eyes, and the highest heels he thought he had ever seen her in. She looked so beautiful, so sexy, that he half-wished he could skip dinner altogether and take her straight to his house, where he had arranged flowers and candles all over the bedroom and around the large bathtub, and where a bottle of champagne was already chilling.

Unsurprisingly, dinner was top notch, and he had as good a time with her as he ever had. As she excused herself to use the ladies, he offered to pick up her wrap from the coat check.

"Mark Darcy."

He turned at the sound of his name, just as he was handed her shawl. It was Derek from his office.

"Not really a good look for you," said Derek with a wink, indicating what Mark was holding. "Just kidding. I saw that girl you were with."

"Bridget."

"Very cute, very sexy young thing…" He gave a light conspiratorial punch to Mark's upper arm. "Good to see you're having a bit of fun before you get too serious about looking for a new wife. Sort of a palate cleanser after that disaster, eh?"

Mark was dumbstruck and did not respond right away. "Derek—"

He felt a hand on his upper arm, and turned to see Bridget standing there. "Ah, there's my wrap. Thanks, Mark." She looked directly at Derek. "I don't believe we've met."

"Bridget, this is Derek Cracroft-Amcotts. We work together in chambers." He saw her fight a smile at the somewhat unwieldy last name; she had not apparently heard the insult which he had not had the opportunity to refute, for which he was grateful. "Derek, this is Bridget Jones. My girlfriend."

"A pleasure," he said, then added with a wink, "Mark, best be getting this one home. Surely it's near to her bedtime."

Presumably Derek thought it amusing, but he saw Bridget's pleasant smile fade. He did not know what to say that did not sound equally condescending—after all, he had every intention of taking her home and to bed—but was rescued when Bridget spoke up.

"I'm very much looking forward to Mark putting me to bed."

He slipped his arm around her waist and squeezed it in solidarity, chuckling softly. Derek looked appropriately gobsmacked. "Goodbye, Derek. See you on Monday."

Derek, in Mark's opinion, looked very envious, particularly when Mark glanced back and saw he had been joined by his attractive but extremely unpleasant wife.

Bridget seemed a bit sullen during the walk back to the car. "Don't let that old arse bother you," he said, his arm about her shoulders.

"I suppose I shouldn't," she said.

"You definitely shouldn't, especially since I don't want to have to compete with him for your attention tonight."

That got her to chuckle. "No competition at all," she said, her spirits visibly lifting. He opened the passenger door for her. "Come on, Mark," she said. "Get me home. It's past my bedtime."

…

The autumnal weather passed into something decided more wintry. The two of them continued their occasional forays to museums and other galleries, since it was pretty embarrassing to have lived in London and not have taken advantage of such things. It was on one such outing in late November, to which they had decided to take the Underground despite the surprise snowfall, that Mark's past and present would collide, figuratively and literally.

"It's beautiful," said Bridget as they strolled on the path to the Serpentine Gallery, nestled in Hyde Park. "It's like a Christmas card, but all twinkly in the sunlight."

The glinting snow on the bare branches of the tree was incredibly lovely against the bright blue sky. She was saying something else, something he didn't hear fully until she ended the sentence with:

"—but you probably have no idea what I'm talking about."

"What?"

She pursed her lips. "I said, when I was a little girl we played in the snow, made pathetic little forts and had snowball wars and made snow angels."

"Why would I have no idea what you're talking about?"

She shrugged. "I would have thought they'd discourage that sort of thing at Eton."

"I didn't go there until I was thirteen," he said. "I had quite a normal childhood before that." She snorted a laugh. "What's so funny?"

"I cannot picture you in a little snowsuit terrorising your friends with snowballs."

In truth he hadn't really done any such thing, but he could not have her think he was that much of an oddity. "You'd be surprised."

"So if I ask your mother about your securing the stately grounds of Darcy Manor with snowballs," Bridget said playfully, "she'd back me up?"

In her smugness in knowing he was likely fibbing, she lifted her chin and strolled on ahead. This gave him the opportunity to fall back, scoop up some snow and pack it into a little ball. The sunlight warmed it up just enough to give it a little cohesion, so as it flew through the air in a neat arc, it held together nicely until struck her square in the bottom, sending shards of snow outward around it like a sort of halo.

When she turned around there was a split second that Mark was truly worried he might have taken it one step too far, but then she smirked devilishly. "If it's war you want," she said, "it's war you'll get."

As she bent to get a snowball, he dashed around her and to the fountain they'd been approaching, a smile on his face, his breath trailing him in the air. The sparse number of passers-by seemed amused but carried on their way. As soon as she stood upright she ran after him.

"If I fall…" she said, circling towards him. He moved in the opposite direction; she reversed course.

"I'll kiss it better," he called back.

"If I don't murder you with a snowball first," she said, laughing.

She was not, unfortunately, watching where she was going, and instead of lobbing her carefully shaped snowball, she ran into a woman walking past on the periphery of the fountain. Before stumbling off to the side and landing on her backside in the snowy grass, the snowball practically jumped up out of her hand and smacked the woman right in the face.

"Oh my God!" exclaimed Bridget as she recovered herself, standing upright. "Are you all right—"

There was more that Bridget said, but Mark did not hear it. As he got a good look at the woman brushing slush off of her chin and cheeks, all he could hear was a whooshing in his ears. It was like a spectre from his past looming up to haunt him, black bobbed hair, long pristine white coat hanging from her shoulders and around her tall, thin, shapeless frame in an elegant drape, taupe calfskin gloves on her small hands, and now, water stains dotting the front of her pale silk blouse peeking out at the collar.

"Mark," came the cold voice that was worse than icy; the tone held an expected disdain, but even worse was the lilting amusement in that one word, his name.

"Mark?" Bridget's voice was like a beacon in the dark, bringing him back to the present. "Do you know…?"

Mark looked to Bridget at the same time as their interloper did. "Yes," he said quietly. "This is Tamiko." At Bridget's confused expression, he added, "My ex-wife."

Bridget's gaze moved to her snowball victim.

"Tamiko," he continued. "This is my girlfriend, Bridget."

He watched as her fine brows raised. "Girlfriend," she said condescendingly. "How sweet. Aren't you adorable?" The last question was directed to Bridget as if she were a puppy. She clearly did not know how to respond, and looked down.

"We were just going to see the Scott Burdick exhibit," said Mark, striving for civility and reaching out to take Bridget's gloved hand.

"You'll find it boring," Tamiko said. "But she might like it." The insinuation was clear: Bridget didn't have the sense or experience to know any better.

"Burdick's a magnificent painter," said Mark. "And I don't much care for your definition of 'exciting'."

At that Tamiko visibly flinched a little, but recovered to make it look like she'd meant it in shooting a glare at Bridget. "So you've taken trolling nurseries for girlfriends, Mark? Someone easy to train, someone to stroke your… ego." He knew her tactic all too well: she couldn't hurt him any more than she already had, so she was taking aim at the next best thing while insulting him in the process.

"Very original, Tamiko; as if I haven't heard that insinuation before," he said calmly; he strove not to lose his temper with her, or at least not appear to, because then she would have won.

"Well, you know what they say. Where there's smoke, there's fire," Tamiko said, delivering a withering, imperious look in Bridget's direction again. "Clearly she's good for one thing only… if you're even able keep up your end of the bargain, because God knows you never did with me."

Bridget laughed abruptly. "I hardly think that had anything to do with him," she said. "I can testify to the fact that there is no problem in that department—"

She stopped short at the look he gave her. He said, slipping his arm tenderly around her waist, "Don't lower yourself to her level."

Tamiko laughed mirthlessly. "That's rich considering who you're talking to. She'll never survive our kind, Mark. They'll eat her alive. And it's such a pity to see you sink so low."

Bridget tightened her grip on his own waist. He saw her expression; he could tell she was upset, but most of all she was torn. He could tell she wanted to continue to speak her mind at this insult to his virility, amongst other things… but out of respect, he supposed, she did not. This was a battle he had to fight himself, and he realised there was no reason not to anymore. Just like that, the floodgates opened, and he said everything he wanted to say to her without restraint, everything he hadn't gotten to say when she'd devastated their marriage. He could only do this now because there was nothing left of anything he might have once felt for her.

"And who exactly do you think you are?" Mark began. "You, a gold-digger and a whore, a role that you and no one else cast yourself into. As I understand it, not even Cleaver can tolerate you anymore, and that's saying a lot considering he'd take anything with a pulse to bed." He lowered his voice. "You are acting like some kind of vindictive, jealous ex-wife, like I am the one who did something wrong, that I have no right to be happy when I was the one so brutally hurt, when it was you who betrayed me so horribly with my best friend. Yes, Bridget's younger and a good deal more attractive than, well, you, but she's also kinder, more generous, more genuine, funnier, wittier and smarter than you ever were or could be… and is so unlike you I could not help but love her in a way I never loved you… and it's killing you." He paused to consider his next words. "There might have been a time when I could have forgiven you. Lucky for me I found someone who has opened my eyes."

Tamiko seemed unruffled as she regarded him, but he knew his words had shaken her. He had never said an unkind word to her in his time with her, had always given her the benefit of the doubt; even when her affair with Daniel had been revealed, he had merely kept his cool demeanour.

"Love is blind," she said at last in a catty tone. "It's funny how a good fuck now and then can pass for love these days."

"You would know," he spat back.

"Mark," said Bridget, her voice quiet. "I think we should leave."

It was just what he needed to rein in his building anger. He exhaled quickly. "You're right, darling." He raised and put his arm about Bridget's shoulders to pull her towards him (protectively, he realised), glaring at Tamiko again. "I'd say it's been nice to see you, but I would be lying… and you'd know all about that, too."

With that he swept her off towards the warmth of the gallery as he tried to control his trembling fury with every step he took. By the time he got her inside, he had mostly settled himself, telling himself Tamiko was not worth the energy. Bridget, however, had tears welling in her eyes. The rest of his anger dissipated in a moment as he cupped her face in his hands, then placed a tender kiss on her lips. "I'm so sorry."

She shook her head. "No, Mark," she said. "Don't apologise. You really tore her a new one. I was pretty proud of you there."

"I don't understand. You look like you're ready to cry."

She shook her head, though she couldn't possibly think he'd believe she wasn't. "It's okay. I'll be okay. I think I'd just like to go home."

He nodded. He didn't want to press her for details. "Okay."

"Maybe in a bit," she added, "when we're sure she's gone."

There was an empty bench, so he took her to sit upon it, holding his arm around her, holding her close into him.

"I'm not sorry, after all," she said softly after many minutes.

"For what?"

"For hitting her in the face with a snowball."

He chuckled.

"In fact, it's too bad there weren't some chunks of ice in it."

"Maybe some small rocks," added Mark. "Or dirt."

She laughed quietly. "She's awful," Bridget said. "She looks so beautiful, but she's not."

"She's not," he agreed. "She may have pleasing enough features, but the true woman inside can't be hidden for long."

"How long did she hide it from you?"

"Not long enough," he said. "But I was too trapped by what I thought I wanted and by inertia." He leaned in to kiss her. "I got better."

She held on to him tightly. "You know," she said with a decidedly brighter tone, "I think instead we should take a walk through this boring exhibit, after all. I think I might like to imagine one of the warrior men spearing her as if she were dinner."

The exhibit was anything but boring, and she seemed much cheered by the entrancing paintings. He was himself impressed by the painter's skill at capturing both the subject's likeness as well as essence. He gazed upon the African tribeswoman in a painting that was three quarters of a meter on each side, could feel her wisdom and serenity emanating from the canvas.

"You like this one?"

"Mm," he agreed.

"Me too. They're all sitting, but it's so active."

"I do like that," he said. Mostly, he was thinking about what a portrait of Bridget might look like by this painter's hand; it would look like her only more vivid and beautiful; it would be captivating; it would make him wonder what mischief she was getting into or was thinking about getting into. He smirked. "I like it very much indeed."

As they left the museum hand in hand, she said, "It just occurred to me who she reminds me of."

"Who?"

"Your ex-wife."

"No, I mean who does my ex-wife remind you of?"

"Oh," she said sheepishly. "She reminds me of Natasha."

He squeezed her hand, smiling and thinking it had been exactly Jeremy's observation. "Yes, well, I sort of ran to type." He looked to her. "Think I've been cured of that."

She smiled a little in return, and they walked the rest of the way to the station in a comfortable silence.

…

The next few days were incredibly busy, what with the start of preparation for the holidays and all that entailed (a gift purchase for Bridget at the forefront), court business winding down before the holiday season and one other unexpected hurdle to overcome: an energy efficiency inspection he'd decided to do turned up evidence that his furnace was not only incredibly wasteful (which explained why his house always seemed so cold) but possibly dangerous, as it was a model that had been included in a recall a few years ago. It was recommended that he turn off the furnace (and the gas) until it could be replaced, and with the cold temperatures that meant he could not actually stay in the house. Searches related to this dilemma were doubly unsuccessful; he was not able to locate a suitable replacement that could be delivered and installed before the end of the year, nor could he find a hotel suite (thanks to the impending holidays) that wasn't on the outskirts of London and therefore too far to commute every day.

"Well, durr," she'd said when he told her over the phone about the furnace and lack of lodgings. "You can stay with me."

He wasn't certain why it hadn't occurred to him; maybe it had, but maybe it had seemed a little presumptuous to have asked to stay. "Are you sure?"

"Mark, you're practically here every night anyway," she said, adding quickly, "not that that's a bad thing. Besides, it's not as if they're condemning your house. You can still go back there if you need to."

He realised he had no argument to offer, so he ordered the furnace and arranged for its delivery, to have the gas and furnace turned off, and for the housekeeper to pare down what she was doing (particularly with regards to grocery purchasing). He packed up some clothes and all of the perishable food in the refrigerator and brought it over to her place.

The sight of the milk, eggs, bread, luncheon meat and other goodies he bore brought a smile to her face and a quip to her tongue: "Already past the flowers and chocolates phase, are we?" She made some space in her bureau for his boxers and rolled her eyes appropriately at the commentary he made on her housekeeping, but it was all in good fun. There was a slightly different charge to the air when he climbed into bed beside her that night, as if it were the first night they were living together, that he might never have to leave at all.

The following night, he brought her tulips and Milk Tray.

He thought she was perhaps a little down, but he also thought he was seeing his own mood reflected in her, as well as her own stress about the holidays, and was not unduly worried. He didn't really think much of it at all until he woke with a start in the middle of the night early Sunday three weeks before Christmas to find he was alone in her bed. He called her name in a loud whisper, thinking she was probably in the loo. She didn't reply. He threw back the sheets, slipped on his house shoes and robe, and went out to find her.

The flat was dark except for the fairy lights in the kitchen and the moonlight coming in through the windows, reflected and magnified, it seemed, to unnatural brightness. She was standing in her own robe by the paned glass door leading out to the two-person-ledge-with-railing that served as a balcony, looking out into the night sky, holding a mug of something hot that sent curls of steam licking up into the air. She was leaning on the doorjamb, resting her temple against it too.

Mark padded closer. "Bridget," he whispered gently so not to startle her. He saw her lids lower as he spoke, as if she hadn't wanted to be caught. "Everything all right?"

She nodded. "Couldn't sleep. Having a hot toddy."

He wracked his brain to think what she might have made a hot toddy with; as far as he knew she had some white wine and some Irish cream. "Something I can help with?"

A shrug told him more than an outright denial could have.

He placed his hand on her shoulder. "Tell me what's wrong."

He saw a tear fall onto her cheek, which she brushed away quickly. When she spoke at last, her voice was almost unrecognisable. "I'm not your kind."

"What?"

"I'm not world-wise or sophisticated. I'm young. Your friends and colleagues will never see me as more than… your rebound plaything."

"That's not true," he said vehemently, feeling his head swirl with confusion and anger at anyone who'd ever made a comment like it, and for himself for saying he'd heard such commentary before.

"Mark, it is true," she said. "I'm inexperienced, fresh out of uni with no money to speak of; I'm not established as a career woman and I have no useful connections; I'm not well-versed in political news events, I'm not exactly socially graceful, and I feel like an insect whenever I'm around a woman who would be more… your type." He instantly regretted the off-handed comment he'd muttered after seeing Tamiko. "And I feel like sooner or later the charm's going to wear off of me and you're going to want someone I don't think I can ever be, even if I were older; someone polished and shiny with smooth edges. Eventually I won't even have youth going for me anymore."

He exhaled, not sure what to say. Never in a hundred lifetimes would he have thought she'd feel so insecure about his love for her when even his ex-wife had seen it; never did he imagine she was so full of self-doubt. He gently tightened his fingers on her shoulder in a reassuring manner, but didn't make her look at him. "The thing about polished and shiny-smooth things is sometimes they no longer resemble what they once were," he said softly, his pace slow and measured. "Sometimes polishing hones razor-sharp edges that hurt and cause pain and damage because they don't comfortably fit against anything else. All of those years of wear and weathering turn them cold, and absolutely nothing can penetrate that hard surface." He paused, watching her for a reaction, any reaction; she was absolutely still and unblinking. "I don't want that again. I want soft and warm; I want tender and caring; I want someone who can without effort fill all the places that are lonely and hollow, and I want someone for whom I can offer the same and know it means something. For all of this, I'm willing to risk the occasional scuff by a rough, unfinished edge."

He saw her start to shake with sobs before he heard them. Only then did he take the drink from her hands and pull her into his arms.

"I meant every word I said at the gallery." He stroked her back. "I never want you to change. If you turned into someone like Natasha or Tamiko because you thought that's what I wanted, I would never forgive myself." He kissed her on the head, her hair silky beneath his lips. "I love you, and I would still love you whether you were twenty-one or forty-one. I will love you. Always."

She clung to him, crying relentlessly into the lapel of his robe. They stood there for many quiet minutes until her tears subsided under the ministrations of his caresses. She released him, got up onto her toes, breathed "I love you too" across his lips, then kissed him sweetly. "Come on," she said. "I don't think I'll have any trouble sleeping now."

They climbed into bed together; he spooned up to her back, held her tight, rested his cheek on her hair. He listened carefully to the rhythm of her breathing, waited until he heard it even out to the shallow pattern of sleep. Only after that did he allow himself to drift off too.

…

Mark knew, intellectually, that the rough edges would irritate a bit, but losing his things to clutter—his attaché case under a stack of takeaway containers and carrier bags, his keys and wallet beneath a discarded jumper, his favourite tie amidst a jumble of lacy pants—was all becoming a bit wearing. It was a rare day when he had a day off and she did not, so while she was away he endeavoured to try to clean things up a bit for her.

After gathering up all of the papers, containers, cans, bottles, wine glasses and plates in the main area of the flat, and socks, pants, skirts, trousers and other smalls from the bedroom and the loo, he brought all the clothes to the washer and started cycling them through; between loads of laundry, he washed the dishes, returned any important-looking papers to her little writing desk (and set anything else like outdated newspapers or adverts aside for recycling), hoovered the floor (after taking a sidebar to organise the closet, hanging up some coats and jackets that had fallen), made a tidy pile of all the magazines he'd found and returned books to what appeared to be logical places on the bookshelves. By the time he was finished (breaking for lunch and as needed), he was achy and exhausted, but her flat had not looked so clean since she'd moved in.

He was just coming out of the shower—required, extra hot water—and was towelling off when he heard the thump of the front door, the sound of her footfalls on the steps up into the flat.

"What the…" he heard her say, her voice perplexed and somewhat alarmed.

He slipped into his robe and house shoes then went to greet her with a smile. He was expecting gratitude. He wasn't expecting annoyance.

"What happened?"

"Fairies came in and cleaned the place while I napped," he said.

"I'm serious," she said, setting down her handbag, sloughing off her coat and letting it drop to the ground behind her as she strode forward. "I knew where everything was. Now…"

"Now everything's clean."

She pursed her lips. "Now everything's organised in a way that's logical to you."

"There was nothing about the way things were before that could be remotely termed 'organised'," he replied. "There was no discernible method to your madness, and it was making me a little mental."

She stared at him. Only then did he see a smile reluctantly light upon the corner of her mouth. "You're mental, anyway." She went up to him and gave him a hug, getting the front of her top all water-spotted. She giggled. "I suppose if I need to find something I'll just ask you where you put it, since I'm sure you've memorised it all." With her arm around his waist, she shifted herself to look around the whole flat. "It does look really nice, Mark, and I do sincerely appreciate it."

"Guess we know who'll be doing all the tidying when we live together," he mused in a light tone.

She stopped moving and turned herself back to him. "'When'?"

"Oh," he said. "I guess I've only been thinking it, not saying it."

"Saying what?"

"Well," he began unsurely, "Living together. I mean, I want you to have your independence. But I also think it's impractical to live apart, both in terms of commuting and rent/mortgage. And then there's the matter of your appalling housekeeping."

The corner of her mouth twitched up. "Are you saying you want to move in with me for good? Because there's no room for your insane king-sized bed, anyway."

He laughed, pulling her close. "Oh, Lord, no."

"Oh, good," she said. "Your folded boxers are just this side of psychotic."

He chuckled again. "I'm saying you should move in with me."

It was her turn to laugh, but she pulled back with a furrowed brow when he did not continue laughing himself. "Are you serious?"

"Yes," he said.

"I don't really want to be a kept woman."

"I know, hence my hesitation in mentioning it."

She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and considered the options.

He added, "I promise I won't be offended if you say no."

She regarded him with great solemnity. "I'll think about it over dinner."

Dinner.

"Oh, hell," he said. "I forgot to put in the roast."

They ordered Thai takeaway and had it with wine in front of the telly, the hearth ablaze. She was much less talkative than usual, and had very few pithy things to say about what was airing. It was as he collected her carton from her that she switched off the television set with the remote then looked up to him.

"You have a housekeeper, right?"

He nodded.

"And… I could have my own room if I wanted?"

"Your own room?" he asked, slightly hurt.

"I mean," she said quickly at his doleful tone, "somewhere I could go if I needed time to myself, to put my computer in—"

He suppressed a laugh. "Does that computer of yours even still work?"

"Ha, ha," she said. "Maybe the room could be off limits to the housekeeper."

"Potential fire hazard, but… sure, okay," he said.

"Maybe…" she began. "Maybe I could pay you rent for that room. That way I won't be a kept woman."

"That sounds reasonable."

"But not until the spring," she said. "I made a promise to Jude."

He nodded, maintaining his usual cool but his heart was pounding. It sounded to him like she was agreeing.

"Mark," she said, seemingly reading his mind. "That is in fact a 'yes'."

He felt his face flush, but he smiled. "Good." He sat beside her, putting the cartons down again on the clean floor. "Of course, I may have to give the housekeeper a rise. Hazard pay and all."

She picked up one of the decorative pillows and tossed it at him. "Suppose that's why they're called 'throw pillows'," she said.

He picked it up and hurled it back at her, which led to much laughing, a little horseplay, and eventually a lot of kissing then snuggling on the sofa in front of the fire.

"It is nice," she murmured.

"This?" he asked sleepily. "Yes it is."

"Not just this," she returned. "Being together in the evenings as the rule, not the exception."

"Mmm," he assented.

The fire did not have the satisfying pop and crackle of a wood fire, but it flickered in a very mesmerising way. Mark could feel slumber trying to overtake him. "I must admit," she continued, "it was lovely to come home to you today, and not just because you were fresh out of the shower." He roused enough to offer a laugh. "The mental image of you scurrying around like an old-fashioned housewife…"

She trailed off or he drifted to sleep; which of the two he did not know, because the next thing he knew the sunlight was peeking through the window and slowly filling the room. Bridget was not with him, but as he stirred he realised she was padding over from the kitchen with coffee. She sat beside him and smiled.

In that moment, in accepting the coffee mug from her, everything about his life felt complete. It was such a profound realisation that his expression must have been cause for some concern; the minuscule wrinkle in her brow asked him what the matter was, and the slight shake of his head and small curl of a smile told her nothing was wrong. In fact, quite the opposite. Her own smile broadened again, and she sipped from her cup, then nestled in closer to him. They said not a word as they drank. They did not need to.

He thought with some amusement that it was just a fortnight until the Turkey Curry Buffet again. There would be no need to persuade him to go this time, no reason why he would not want to. He was a different man than he was this same time last year, a happy man.

A healed man.

The end.