Episode SEVEN b – PRIVATE DANCER

AN: With a deep respectful bow to one of the most honest and heart-rending songs ever written and performed by two of the very true artists in the music business, imho. Here's to Tina Turner's "Private Dancer" by Mark Knopfler.

Josh's words are undeletable burnt into his memory: "Drew, I know you asked me to drop the investigation, but what the hell is going on in New York? I know you get your kicks by getting off by a close shave, but I sure hope for your sake you do know what you're doing with your 'colourful' sister-in-law while your wife is vacationing in France. Got bored? BTW: Thanks for the shoo-in. Made a killing."

He opened the file and found Bridget's birth certificate - she was 20 minutes younger than Siobhan -school reports, her medical file and her police record. Sighing he leant back in his chair and started reading. Some of the information he had already known from the time he had had Siobhan's background checked out. Some was new and some put a different spin on things he had thought he knew. For instance, he had known that their father Thomas Kelly had lost his high prestige job when they were still very young. Too proud to do lesser work than he was qualified for, he sought to uphold his damaged pride and feeling of self-esteem through alcohol and left it to his wife Beryl to provide for the family. She juggled two jobs to make ends meet, which left Siobhan as the elder, more mature sister much in charge of the household and her sister. By the twins' age of fourteen their father had drunk himself into an early grave. Siobhan did well in school and worked after school at a local fast food restaurant to put money aside for the college. She was reputed to be an ambitious, bright, serious, determined girl to drag herself out of poverty. Bridget on the other hand floundered. She wasn't half as good in school as Siobhan, got in constant trouble with teachers and peers, started to hang out with the wrong sort of crowd and gained the reputation of being an easy-going party-girl that was regularly taken home by the police. Again and again Andrew read teachers' and school psychologists' evaluations that she would benefit from following her sister's example and that she sorely lacked direction. Some expressed their concern for her future and their helplessness and inability to reach her or their wish Bridget would find the strength to step out of the large shadow of her sister, some were simply disappointed in her sub-standard performance compared to her sister, and lastly others wrote her off as a lost case by the age of sixteen despite of her elder sister's and mother's best efforts to mould her into a useful member of the community. That was the black and white version of things.

If he read between the lines, he discovered a girl who tried at all costs to put some distance between the twins, to desperately find an identity as her own person – as Bridget Kelly, not as Siobhan Kelly's twin. While Siobhan successfully attended college, Bridget was still floundering. By the time Siobhan started seriously dating her future husband Peter Tomlin, Bridget spent more time in bars than at work, couldn't keep a job for longer than a few weeks before she got into another fight with colleagues or her bosses and started to experiment with soft drugs. Siobhan and Peter married and got Sean. The marriage soon soured with Bridget's constant escapades and little scandals that reflected again negatively on Siobhan and by extension on the ambitious executive assistant Peter Tomlin, which put an additional strain on the relationship between the sisters. And then the night of the accident happened. It destroyed Siobhan's marriage and the relationship between the sisters for good. Bridget took Siobhan's move to New York City and her following remarriage very hard and spiralled downwards after she had been trying with good effort to sober herself up and put her life on track, showing for the first time some ambition and a goal in life. That accident had shaken her up badly enough to want to turn her life around. But lost and without support system, Beryl Kelly had passed away the year before, she formed soon enough an addiction to hard drugs for which she couldn't pay, so she started stripping and from then on it was only a small step to prostitution to finance her addiction and various medical bills. Her medical record reflected the career of an addicted prostitute: STDs, severe beatings, one reported rape whose investigation had gone nowhere, two attempts to overdose. Her police records showed drunken indecent behaviour, insulting and assaulting police officers, prostitution, possession and very minor trafficking and one or two small time sentences for some other petty crime. In jail one attempt of sobering up failed. And she always returned to the old crowd as soon as she was out again, because she had nowhere else to go. Currently she was charged with possession and prostitution, which both would be dropped in exchange for her statement in court against Macawi.

She witnessed the strangulation of a friend by Macawi and was put back in rehab. This time – under witness protection – she met Malcolm Ward and he succeeded where others had failed. He managed to sober her up, gave her life direction and put some self-esteem and pride into her. She apparently had tried to make amends with Siobhan who finally agreed to meet with her a couple of weeks ago. The sisters met in the Hamptons and from then on things got hazy. What crazy plan did they concoct, while he was in Europe? Did Bridget know her sister was alive and kicking in France? Had he cherished an even more poisonous viper in his bosom than Siobhan?

So that was Bridget Kelly for you: addict, stripper, whore, professional liar and killer in self-deference. This was the woman he stuck his neck out for. He really knew how to pick them, he smiled wrily. But what did she see in turn, when she looked at him? Just another john who would pay with food, clothes and shelter in exchange for possible sexual gratification? Could she still respect men? Was she still able to enjoy a man's touch or did it make her skin crawl in revulsion? Was this the reason why she always paused for a moment or two before she let him touch her? Had she to psych herself up to it? How careful would he have to be with her? How much fun could their sex life possibly be, if she secretly hated it? He loved to give pleasure to a woman, loved to see her fall apart under this touch. He loved that moment of absolute power over her, this sweet manifestation of absolute trust. How would he be able to enjoy that with her considering her past? And what about Juliet? Was someone like her fit to raise a child? What kind of values and examples could she set?

Andrew felt like going mad and he was loosing control – rapidly. That is, had he ever been really in control since Bridget had turned around and kissed him hello? Or wasn't he always one step behind and only following instead of leading, vainly deluding himself to be the master of the game just because he knew who his wife really was? Was he the double-crossed double-crosser? With Siobhan he had eventually known what to expect, at least he had thought. Maybe he wasn't as smart as he liked to think.

Bridget on the other hand was a mystery to him. What did that woman really think and feel? Wasn't she a polished facade that reflected your idea of her rather than her real substance? Their "date" came to mind... how real had it been for her? Had he seen the true Bridget or had she been his "Private Dancer" that night? Was this why she had left him standing outside of her hotel room? He had paid for the food and the company, but sleeping arrangements hadn't been explicitly included in the "first date" deal and she didn't hand out freebies?

His face hardened. Andrew didn't do pity dates and never ever had he needed to pay for sex. He hadn't done it before and as sure as hell wouldn't start doing it now, he nursed his wounded pride.

But then the usual demands on a CEO intruded and he pushed the troublesome trio – Siobhan, Bridget, Gemma - to the back of his mind and concentrated on his business. Strange irregularities had come up and figures didn't add up anymore and Olivia updated him regularly on the progress of their internal investigation. Up to now they had about fiftythousand Dollar missing and they weren't much closer to solving the mystery where the discrepancies originated from and where the money had gone to. Over three hundred accounts were involved up to now with sometimes up to several thousand Euro or Dollar too much in favour or in the red and sometimes only a few cents were booked incorrectly in the accounts which made it all the harder to really find out how much was truly missing and where it had gone to. It was time consuming and very tedious to check and cross check the monetary flow dating back several months, just to be on the safe side and to exclude simple accounting errors, which muddled things on top. And it tied up their accounting staff in Europe and the US and hampered the workflow rather fiercely.

So the day had flown by in a daze and when the elevator doors opened, he realised he had done nothing to come to a conclusion about the twins.

Seeing her lost in thought as she was leaning against the rail, watching the city lights around her and listening to the traffic noise from below her, he decided to confront her. He wanted to know where he stood with her and what he could expect from her. He wanted, no, he needed to reconcile the woman in her sister's designer clothes on his balcony with the woman from the police record and the medical files in his mind.

Besides, it took only one phone call from Machado to the DHS on a whim and then the FBI would know who exactly they had interviewed today. And he needed to know what she had told them in order to keep their stories straight.

He would make it easy for her and start asking about Malcolm Ward. Pleasantly surprised he got a straight, and most important, a truthful answer from her. Encouraged he stepped up to her asking about her addiction. Again she was honest by telling him how close she had been to end it all more than once. It should have pacified him, but all it did was making him angry, because her sudden honesty didn't fit into his new perception of her when he had thought he had figured her out as a self-serving pathological liar and opportunist. What should have made things clearer made things even more complex and obscure. And yet, there had been a flicker of hope that Bridget had been played as well, that she had stumbled into this minefield of a broken marriage as an innocent. But the benefit of doubt died painfully when Bridget slipped up by telling him her sister had left the country. So she knew. So she had known all along! The truth had finally come out. She had played him rather well and he had fallen for it hook, line and sinker. Anyone looking to sell a bridge? Ring up Andrew Martin and have it handed over by a petite blonde with long hair and the famous handful of curves and you have bagged the deal! So he lashed out to her, let his words slice through her, wanted to see her bleed and break for taking part in Siobhan's charade and to humiliate and hurt her like she had humiliated and hurt him.

He was so mad he could have kicked himself down Park Avenue and all the way over the ocean back to his home town. Very well, his only chance from now on was to keep playing the village idiot! There was no more tentative trusting Bridget Kelly. And now she even played the old trump of crying - for god's sake how gullible did she think he was? - and argued she was telling him the truth. The truth? Did she even know the meaning of the word? Oh, yes, she had told him the truth, but only because she had to to save her worthless hide. Their whole promise to be honest with each other and not keeping secrets was a joke. She had never meant it, only telling him what he wanted to hear – just a private dancer dancing to his tune. Obviously he was on his own – again. An icy fist squeezed his heart thinking Macawi might get Juliet; they could get kidnapped by that man's goons in exchange for information where Bridget was. Was this what really happened to Gemma? He wanted his daughter close by, in his line of vision to reassure himself she was safe. He would give his girl a call just to hear her voice, to learn she was safe and happy.

In fact Juliet didn't appreciate her father's control call at all, but for once Andrew let her rant and rave. Mrs Randolph confirmed both girls were at home and had been watching a movie with her or rather she with them while munching popcorn. Her husband was upstairs working on a presentation. At least all was fine in the state of Connecticut.

Suddenly there was not enough air in the appartment. He pulled on his tie, opened the first buttons of his shirt and rushed out onto the terrace. Breathing in deeply he leant against the rail for support. In the gentle cool breeze he listened to New York City: the traffic noise, the sirens, faint laughter drifting up from below. Jeff and Rachel entertained some guests. But for once his city failed to calm him. He couldn't shake the feeling of being threatened. He knew he was irrational, he knew Juliet was fine, but hearing her exasperated voice was not enough. Abruptly he turned around and walked to the elevator.

"Where are you going?" Bridget intercepted him at the elevator doors.

"I'm going to pick up Juliet and bring her home."

"What for?"

He turned to Bridget.

"Your sister's NA sponsor has gone missing and you ask me what for? What if this Macawi got him? What if Malcolm Ward knows about you, what if he knows where to find us, what if this man makes Ward talk? And Gemma's gone missing, too."

"Malcolm would never..."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Bridget would have never meant..."

"Be that as it may, but she left one hell of a mess behind."

He stabbed the elevator button.

"Andrew, Juliet's fine. You know that. You just talked to her. I would never let her come to harm! Bridget would never..."

The doors opened and he stepped in.

"Again, how can you be so sure? No, I'm picking her up. I want her home."

The elevator doors closed and the last thing he saw was Bridget with her head down, looking forelorn and unhappy, which gave him a stab he ruthlessly suppressed.

He hadn't left Manhattan yet as he realised how silly he behaved. Juliet was fine, she was happy apart from being mad at him, she was out of harm's way and he was completely overreacting. He was half of a mind to return to Park Avenue, but then the Hamptons seemed to be the better choice to regain his balance. Resolutely he turned his car at the next intersection to head for the Hamptons.

Andrew blinked sleepily when he woke up to the soft lapping of the gentle surf on the small strip of the beach that belonged to his weekend retreat. The late Autumn sun had tickled him awake. He tried to sit up but fell back groaning. For a second he felt slightly disoriented before he remembered. After his argument with Bridget he had left the apartment to pick up Juliet and had ended up here. He looked around and listened. It was quiet in the house. Not even a clock's ticking reached his ear. The only sounds that found their way to him through the opened window were the surf and the lonely screech of a sea gull.

It was too quiet.

Gingerly he rolled around and looked at the pristine half of his bed. No one had slept next to him last night. He wasn't surprised to find the sheets cool and smooth, when he touched them carefully with his hand.

It was deathly quiet and it felt lonely.

He rolled back on his back. Last night the quiet solitude, supported by half a bottle of Scotch, had soothed him, but this morning it unsettled him. What had he been thinking? Oh yeah, right. Not thinking had been the objective last night. He looked further around, acknowledging the understated wealth. That chest of drawers alone had cost over $15,000 being a designer's original. Did any of his possessions hold any worth beyond the material value if he had no one to share them with? The Chinese print from the Ming period at the wall opposite the bed was beautiful, but it couldn't communicate with him in whatever way. Whatever he felt or thought when looking at it was just a reflection of his own thoughts and feelings.

The house felt sterile, as if he was just an unwelcome intruder.

Feeling a bit foolish he called out just to hear his voice. But there was no echo. He didn't even make a dent into the oppressing emptiness of the house.

He hated it.

He got up, not feeling particular hungry, rather a bit queasy in fact, but lying in bed alone and hungover felt even more depressing. The long shower and a most vigorously cleaning of his teeth made him feel at least physically better. He switched on the radio to drown the silence, but the professionally cheerful chatter got quickly on his nerves, yet browsing through their CD collection felt too much of an effort.

He checked his mobile phone: three calls from Bridget. He listened to her voice mails. She seemed to be worried and angry when she asked about his whereabouts and expected a return call from him. Immediately he pressed the short dial button but disconnected as quickly. He wasn't ready to talk to her yet, but then he dialed again. Maybe her worry for him was genuine and not a ploy to reel him in again. He waited for her to get it, but got only the voicemail. He left a message, where he was, that he was fine, that he needed to work through some issues and that he would be back in time for the Art Pavillion. He pondered for a moment, if he should apologise for worrying her, but disconnected the call. Right at this moment he wasn't particular concerned for her feelings, when he didn't even get his own straight.

Deciding to have a small breakfast at his marina's club house, he left his house. But the only people he met and could stand were Miffy and Bitsy Bonaventa, but even their laid back approach to life irritated him today. Even taking the boat out to race along the coast at maximum speed didn't appeal to him. Deciding nothing would please him this morning and nothing could distract him any longer he turned to the beach and fed the sea gulls around him with the rest of the bagel he had grabbed at the club. Breathing in the tangy smell of the sea, listening to the screeching sea gulls fighting among themselves for the fishes they had caught, walking along the surf, jumping occasionally quickly to the side, when a larger than usual wave lapped boldly at his shoes and letting the late morning sun warm his back, he realised it was time to take a step back and approach the situation with a bit more sober-mindedness and put things into perspective instead of letting his rampant, mercurial feelings and fears rule.

His thoughts turned to his wife. So she was still alive and had fled to France – the obvious choice for her. Involuntarily he smiled. Siobhan loved France with a passion. The people, the language, the food, the climate, the culture, the history, everything. From the moment they had left the airport in Paris and she had taken her first breath, she had been enarmoured. Fondly he remembered how she had more or less pressed her nose childlike against the taxi's window to take it all in, when they had driven along the Grands Boulevards. Smiling he had instructed the driver to take the scenic route to their cosy, little, out-of-the-way hotel in Montmartre. The Arc de Triomphe, the Eiffel Tower, the Champs-Elysées, the Louvre, the Seine, Notre Dame and Sacre Coeur – she couldn't get enough. At one moment along the drive she had actually remembered she had a husband sitting next to her and she had turned to him and shown him the most radiant smile she had ever given him – and he... drunk with love for her he would have bought her the Eiffel Tower on the spot, if it had been on sale. So they had to make do with dining at the restaurant on the tower which led to the first of a series of rather memorable Parisian nights. The next two weeks they had toured the city from the North to the South, from the East to the West and the Left and the Right banks on the days they managed to drag themselves out of bed.

And then he had taken her to the French Riviera as his real wedding gift. Claudine had managed to book them into the 'Suite Grace Kelly' at the world-famous InterContinental Carlton Cannes for two weeks and that had been the ultimate experience for her. If she had liked Paris, she LOVED it down there. The sheer luxury, the casinos, the multi-million-dollar yachts in the marinas side by side by the hundreds and the largest ones at anchor just outside of them, the pittoresque manoirs and petits châteaux, the flair of easy living, the landscape, the many, many rich and super rich people and especially the centuries old titles: Count this, Duchess that... He had been less impressed, used to deal with people like them on a daily basis, but Siobhan had been walking on air in Paradise.

He remembered quite well how they had followed Grace Kelly's footsteps and even had once picnic at the same spot as her and Cary Grant had in an vintage convertible with her head resting in his lap while sipping cool Champagne and him feeding her grapes. She had looked up to him through her overlarge sunglasses and said ,Andrew I want to learn French.' And he had bent down, while her head had come up a bit, aided by his hand beneath her shoulder blades, and proceeded to teach her her first French words, while the hot summer sun put sparkling diamonds on the Mediterranean Sea below and a soft, warm breeze caressed their skin. They had stayed there until the bright lights of the many famous, glamorous towns had illuminated the coastline like a string of pearls.

Racing down the long and winding road at breakneck speed with squealing tires as Grace Kelly, Siobhan's great and much beloved idol, had done in 'To catch a Thief' 60 years ago had been a dream come true for Siobhan, while he had been holding on for dear life like Cary Grant and secretly asking himself, not entirely in jest, if he had married a black widow. When they had arrived at the bottom - surprisingly in one piece - and him being able to relax gradually he had vowed to himself to never ever let her get behind the steering wheel again.

Those four weeks in France had been pure magic and they had been so in love back then. She had been his princess and he had done his damnest to be her Cary Grant.

So how could it have come to her running away and him wanting to kill her? When had they lost the magic? Where had they gone wrong? Had it been only his fault? He knew he tended to be emotionally closed off; especially when he was hurting, he shut people out. He knew he had worked too many long hours, had left her too much alone on her own, trying to please her by being the highly sucessful manager that navigated his business through the storm-tossed sea of a worldwide financial crisis. He had done what she wanted from him. They had let every day life dull the magic. Let their playful little games turn gradually nastier. They began to hurt each other. She withdrew from him, turned colder and less forgiving, when he didn't perform to her standards and bent to her will. And then Siobhan began to take an avid interest in charity work and both began to drift apart for good, caught up in separate lives with him living in a world of figures and her living in a world of social misery.

He shook himself firmly. Now was not the time to get lost in memories.

So, where had she gone? Knowing her penchant for luxury, big names and titles, he thought her path had led her inevitably down to the French Riviera. She had so very often been talking of wanting to return there for an extended period of time, had even asked him only half-jokingly, why they couldn't relocate M/C to Monte Carlo, which had led him to open Bank Tresonne in Paris as their European headquarters as a compromise. That had caused several spectacular rows with Olivia who had thought it a complete folly, because from the business point of view London would have been the obvious choice as THE financial centre of investment banking in Europe and had advised him strongly to start thinking with his head residing above the waistline again. The animosity between the women began then and there with Olivia defending her position as business partner and prime consultant and Siobhan wanting to be more than a trophy wife.

Besides, she would need a "sponsor" who would cover her expenses. And where better to look and find some benevolent man enjoying the company of a beautiful woman than there? She had learnt to speak the international language of the rich and she knew how to behave around them. She would easily be accepted by that lot as one of their own. This is where he would need to start looking for her. That is, did he want to find her? What would he do, if he found her? Would it be enough to know where she was and that she was doing alright? Maybe he should leave it at that and let her go for the old magic's sake? They had an ocean between them. Maybe Siobhan was content to turn her back on him and the States and be left alone to start a new life with a new love over there?

That was all well and good, but ostrich-like policy didn't accomplish anything here. She might want to start over in France, maybe even with a new name and reinvent herself. She might leave it at it and forget what she knew in exchange for her life. But he couldn't know that for sure, until he knew what she was doing. And the cold hard question was: how much of a threat could she be in France? And that led right back to Bridget and her involvement in this mess.

He doubted much that Siobhan would return to New York City, if she could help it. She knew or at least suspected, what would await her here. Otherwise she wouldn't have run in the first place. But what if she did... if she wanted to have a second chance with him... if she wanted to reconcile? Would he take her back? Would he be able to maybe not forget, but forgive? Would he want to? Would he be committed enough to try making it work again? Could they regain what they once had? After some soul searching he denied it firmly. There would be no reconciliation for them. He was through with her. He had been through with her the moment she had stolen the documents and threatened him and he had asked the Barusos for a small favour. There were no lingering feelings left on his part. Besides there was already one Siobhan Martin currently residing in 526 Park Avenue Suite 1400 – Bridget, his personal enigma.

So what evidence was there that Bridget knew about Siobhan being alive besides her blunder the night before? Was there any indication she regarded their current arrangement as temporary? He recalled their interactions from the first moment she had turned around to breathe a flirty hi at him and kissed him. He'd been so surprised, suspicious and nervous that the feel of it had barely registered. How had her lips felt on his? He couldn't recall. Their shape? He couldn't recall. Their softness? He couldn't recall. Their taste? He COULDN'T RECALL! His inability to recall that short second tormented him. The more he tried the blurrier it became. A wave of hot longing to repeat that second over and over again crashed over him. With great effort he returned to the matter at hand what that kiss really meant and not how it felt.

It meant... that Bridget didn't know how things were between him and Siobhan, when she pretended to be her sister. With the way they had been before his departure Siobhan would not have said it's been forever, but rather it hasn't been long enough. If Bridget had known, she would not have given in so easily on the issue of going to the ballet. If Bridget knew she was only a stand-in for a little while, she would not make such an effort to turn things around for them, as it would have been awkward for her sister to return to a more loving marriage. If Bridget had known, she would not have tried to mend bridges with Juliet. If she had known, she would not have done half the things she did to make life better for them all. She would have kept her distance and giving him the cold shoulder like her sister.

If Bridget had known about the phone, she would NOT have made the calls to Ward. If she had known, she would not have left that message on Gemma's mobile phone, asking for Gemma's friendship as Bridget. Because she would have known, he would learn about them and then the jig would have been up for her. She would have used another phone like Siobhan used to do. That meant that Bridget was not briefed properly by Siobhan, what she would have done, if she had planned to make it a temporary thing.

But what convinced him most was that Bridget had left her fingerprints at a crime scene on purpose, what she wouldn't have done, if she hadn't planned to live the rest of her life as her sister. And not to forget the distress call to the coast guard. Something must have happened on their boat to convince Bridget that Siobhan had committed suicide.

That meant that Bridget was innocent of her sister's machinations, which left Bridget Kelly herself. She had been an addict, a stripper and a whore. Unfortunately for his inner balance she was also a good stepmother and good and loyal friend, a strong ally, an almost perfect wife, desirable, loveable and full of warmth and compassion. Maybe it was exactly her experiences that made her able to reach out to Juliet and catch her fall. Maybe she really was the most qualified person for the job to keep it all together and rebuild their lives. He and Juliet had made such a progress these few weeks to regain that wonderful father-daughter relationship they once had. She had overcome her addiction at last, which took an immense lot of strength, courage and willpower. He felt confident she would not return to her former life if she could help it.

So what were Bridget's dreams? Making a life without compromising herself in any kind or shape? A man who loved her and she could love in return? Maybe even getting married and have children? Was this her chance to become the woman she had always meant to be? But would she want to stay with him or would she leave one day, when the dust had settled? Was he just a convinient mealticket or could she find it in her heart to love him one day?

And did he want to stay with Bridget and pursue a relationship with her, now that he knew that maybe hundreds of men had left their dirty and uncaring pawprints on her silky skin, even with bruising force? Did he still want what they had enjoyed before him, when he thought about it? To be one of many wasn't something Andrew's alpha male pride could accept easily. His ego, pride and ambition demanded that he was superior, that he went for uncharted territory and that he rammed his conquerer's flag into virginal soil so to speak. But what if he looked at it from a different angle? So he wasn't the first or at least among the firsts, but he could be the very last. Perhaps he should look at her like a precious painting which he stole from a museum to hang it in his private gallery knowing his eyes would be the only ones that would ever see it again and relish the proprietary pride that came with it?

He briefly toyed with the idea to call his father for some parental advice what to do about the mess he was in, but then he shied away from it despite all. His parents were so proud of him, he couldn't bear to disappoint them and they would worry themselves sick over him. He didn't want to burden them with his problems. He tried to imagine this call. His mother would make a fuss on the phone as she always did, when he called. And his father would ask about the business, wanting to get an insight scoop of all things financial he only learnt about from the newspapers and the TV with the underlying hope that despite all, his son was still doing well. And when he would tell his father what was really going on, he saw his face in front of his inner eye. He would listen, very quietly, then keep quiet for a while and then clear his throat and say 'son, your mother and I love you very much, but you shouldn't have done that and you know that, too.' And he would say he should make things right again. And his mother would start crying and asking why he couldn't have chosen a good, proper English girl like Sue Brennan whom she loved dearly still after all these years like the daughter she never had. If he had married Sue, none of it would have ever happened, conveniently forgetting that Sue from across the street had bored him to tears after only three months and they had only been 15 after all. Besides she was thin as a rake, looking sick and haggard with clothes so small that even "Posh" Beckham would swim in them, when she had come by to see him at his parents to say a quick hello a couple of weeks ago. He shuddered. No, he preferred the feel of a healthy and trim woman in his arms. Coming to think of it, he should make sure Bridget ate properly, she really was a bit too thin. Perhaps he could convince her to drop Siobhan's veggie nonsense and start eating properly with meat regularly on the dish. Especially now with her being pregnant she should have healthy, balanced meals and stop eating like a bird. No wonder she wasn't showing yet.

But what if the truth ever came out? He would be finished as a business man. The socialites would not accept Bridget in their midst. Men would make dirty jokes about her. He would have to listen to comments like buying the cow for a glass of milk. Was he prepared to loose everything for her? Did he love her enough for that? Did he love her, period. After a while of internal struggling he came to a conclusion.

Yes, yes, he did love her. He loved her for Juliet, he loved her for turning him away from the path he had been walking on for too long, he loved her for the child growing inside her, he loved her for her sense of humour and her sassiness, he loved her for her strength, he loved her for the potential she presented to his future. His heart had decided long ago it wanted Bridget, only his head was dragging its feet, while the rest of his body joyfully leapt ahead to catch up with his heart.

He loved her, but his love might cost him everything.

It was tearing him apart.

When Andrew dressed for the opening night, he heard the soft hustle of Bridget's clothes, who prepared herself at the same time in his back. One look at her and he felt let down once more. Why was she constantly making it harder for them to keep up apperances? Was he the only one committed to making it work? If she wanted to go on pretending to be her sister, she should do it a bit more professionally. Everyone who knew Siobhan rather well would raise their eyebrows looking at her and wondering, what caused that drastic change in appearance and to some extent in personality. The real Siobhan would never have been caught in such a dark coloured dress that showed a more than appropriate cleavage with false eye-lashes, too much tacky grey-blue eye shadow and with her hair not put up in a tight or elaborately styled bun. Bridget was definitely cracking up, showing more and more of her true persona. On the other hand he could not deny, put all things together, that she looked beautiful. And he reminded himself to see in her the painting, not the prostitute.

He didn't know how to bridge the distance between them. So Bridget stood up to meet him half way by admitting she felt ashamed of her actions and she was so afraid that it would have changed his feelings, if she had told the truth. That HURT! Even if Bridget only tried to come up with a reason, why Siobhan had never told him about her sister, it hit below the belt. Had Siobhan been afraid of him, afraid of telling the truth, because she feared he would tar her with the same brush? Was it, because she had too often been judged by the actions of her sister? Siobhan should have given him a little more credit. And Bridget should, too. Whoever Bridget had been in her former life, that woman didn't exist anymore, he realised. She hadn't done those things. That had been old Bridget. The Bridget of today was a totally different woman than the addicted stripper/whore. Of that he was absolutely sure. But he didn't know if she detected the duplicity of his words, she couldn't as long as she didn't know he knew exactly who he was talking to.

In any case their words carefully spoken to build a bridge opened floodgates and they had the most honest conversation ever about honesty and lies. Taking the bull by the horns he decided to take advantage of her generous offer and unburden himself a bit. He had told so many lies, omitted so many facts, where to start? For a crazy moment he even pondered to tell her about his plan to have her sister killed because she was a threat to his empire. Would she still never judge? Yet, reason prevailed and he decided to tell a relatively safe truth – the truth about his feelings for the little one growing inside her. He hadn't been happy, true, he had got sick upon learning of the pregnancy, because it had forced him to take a very good look at himself and his actions, yet it pulled him back from the final abyss. He hadn't been happy, because he hadn't known Bridget then. She had been a stranger who shared his appartment and burdened him with the additional responsibility for a child that wasn't his own. Not a good place to be in back then. But despite all this, this baby was his moral compass and his guiding star. This baby had changed things for them. This baby had forced them to co-operate and try making their relationship whatever shape it was in right now work. So this baby meant everything because it brought them together. The lies she told him hurt, true, because he was deathly afraid he would never really know how she felt about him, would always need to second-guess her. Would he always need to live in fear that things would go wrong between them? Yet what prevented them from having a successful and happy marriage despite her false identity and the surrounding lies? Was he married to a woman or to a name?

He didn't know what signal he had sent to Bridget, but she responded to his message with heart-rending honesty. He was astonished, heart racing like mad, when she confessed that she didn't want to loose him, too. Despite his doubts and careless actions he had carved his niche into her heart like she had in his. Incapable of resisting he took her into his arms, and for the very first time she returned his embrace, confirming she, too, felt they belonged together. Helplessly surrendering under the onslaught of tenderness, he pulled a strand of hair aside and then... he felt her lips finally on his again and he pulled her even closer and then her hand was in his hair and his world narrowed down to this tiny slip of a woman in his arms, all of his senses filled with her essence. Desire flared up in him, hot and heavy. If he needed to be somewhere else, he couldn't remember anymore.

Only when she started to pull away against his wishes - he had not had his fill of her yet, they hadn't even really started - he heard the ringing of his mobile phone. Almost giddily he reached for it. She had kissed him back, out of her own free will. Finally she had given him the sign he had been waiting for. She was his now. He would get rid of the caller and then they could explore this new development between them in more depth. To hell with Gemma's opening night!

It was Juliet's English teacher, but if he called just now to discuss her progress... he would yank that man through his phone and pull him up by the invisible cord line for breaking the mood.
But irritation gave way to worry and then to sheer terror when he learnt that Juliet had been involved in a car accident.

How he got to the scene of the accident he can't tell. It's all a blur to him. He barely remembers talking to the police and to Juliet's teacher. But he distinctly remembers the feeling of not being able to breathe when he looked at the damaged car and the broken shop window.

In fact he only started breathing again, when Juliet came up to him, apparently unharmed. He crushed her into his embrace. She was there, she was safe. Nothing else mattered for those few seconds of holding his daugher close after such a fright and feeling her cling to him.

But relief turned quickly enough into justified anger over her irresponsibility, her careless breaking of their agreement to stay in Stamford, her flippancy and her inability to understand the graveness of what she had done. She could have died! This was the final straw for him. Fed up he decided on the spot to cut her off. He would ground her until she had proven satisfactorily that she had turned her life around. Weekend parties were a thing of the past. If your children don't hate you, you're not doing your job properly, shot randomly through his mind. Well, he was prepared to be numero uno on Juliet's shitlist for the next ten years if necessary, as long as she grew into a responsible and decent adult.

Talking to Oliver Randolph proved to be as unpleasant as expected with emotions running high in both men. Eventually they agreed to distribute the blame for this desaster equally on both girls and decided to freeze the contact between them in the foreseeable future.

The drive back to Park Avenue was drenched in sullen silence after he explained his daughter the new house rules. Just as Andrew pulled into the garage his mobile phone went off again - "Siobhan" had fainted at the Art Pavillion.

Letting Juliet out of the car with the explicit order to stay put or else, he left again for the hospital. Speaking with the nurse he learnt the doctors worked on Bridget. A passerby had called for the ambulance and had followed them to the hospital. With his thoughts firmly on Bridget and barely having got over the shock of Juliet's almost fatal accident, he barely looked at the tall black man. Anxious to be with Bridget he thanked him quickly and went to see her, when the man went on his way. There was something vaguely familiar about him, but he dismissed it as unimportant right now.

A doctor informed him that his wife suffered from a concussion and he agreed immediately to his suggestion to have an ultrasound to make sure the baby hadn't suffered.

Looking down at her with flat hair and no make-up in the standard issued hospital gown, she still was so very beautiful to him and when she turned to him and smiled at him in greeting and enquired about Juliet, he knew he had made the right decision. His head had finally caught up with the rest of him. Juliet, Bridget, the little one and he: they would be the family he so wanted to have. No second thoughts, no ifs and buts. Relieved that she felt fine so far, he made a small joke and smiled even larger when Bridget snorted. He had made her laugh and it felt better than bagging another multi-million-investor. He gave her small hand a gentle squeeze. But she quickly became agitated enough, when she heard about the ultra-sound, which he refused to understand. This was their baby! It was in her best interest to have it checked. And he looked forward to seeing it for the first time, the small bean that would be soon enough a real little person. This was the greatest of all miracles. Expectantly he stared at the monitor. But there was no change. It stayed homogeneous grey, empty. Where was it? He felt his heartbeat anxiously quicken. Where was his child?

tbc