The History of Mark Darcy, a Barrister

By S. Faith, © 2012
Twitter: _sfaith

Words: 95,000, in 18 Chapters and an Epilogue
(I have estimated the Word count down from 96,292 to offset the dialog that came straight from the book.)

Rating: PG-13 / T
(for non-explicit adult situations and language)

Summary, Disclaimer, Notes, Art Credit: See Chapter 1.

At long last… sniff. Thanks for coming along for this ride.

Chapter 18: 7 Dec – 23 Dec

Sun, 7 Dec

Lovely day yesterday.

I arrived to church (through intermittent icy rain) with fifteen minutes to spare. The bridal party was not yet there. I was brought to a seat close to the front, on the aisle, on the bride's side, in one of the reserved pews for those close to the bridal party (dates, family, and so on) so I was in a good position to see the ceremony. It was freezing cold in the church. To pass the time, I made small talk with Jude's aunt, feeling a bit nervous that the top of the hour had come and gone and no bridal party had turned up. Richard and his groomsmen were exacerbating that feeling—standing up there, shifting their weight from one foot to another, fiddling with their nails. All sorts of worst-case scenarios began rolling through my mind, all of which seem ridiculous in retrospect.

When the organ started up I felt immediately better. I turned toward the back of the church and zeroed in B at once, and had to restrain myself from laughing. She looked gorgeous, but the dress looked a bit like she was in fancy dress as a ball of cotton wool.

Then they set off down the aisle, and I could not help noting, with bemusement, that attached to one of B's shoes was a light purple brassiere. She became aware of it partway through the procession, and tried to—well, I'm not sure what it was she tried to do, aside from a little dancing gait to distract attention from the garment hanging from her heel. (When she got to the front, she picked it up and tucked it behind the bouquet.)

The ceremony was typical and quite nice—made me reflect on by brother's wedding, my parents' recent landmark anniversary, and my own possible future—but things were slightly spoilt by the wailing baby and the two young boys who decided to hold an impromptu football match partway through. And there was a bit of excitement when Sharon succumbed to what I can only imagine was a wretched hangover and passed out, caught just in time by one of their mates, Simon, and keelhauled off to the vestry.

Just before the pronouncement of 'man and wife' B turned and caught my eye and I immediately understood—she needed me to get a boy off of her back, or rather, two. The boys with the football. I put down the prayer book, rose from the aisle, scooped one boy under each arm, and marched them outside. The door had just closed behind me when I heard a roar of applause.

I smiled to myself as I sternly told the boys, at some length, that kicking a football around was not the way to behave at a wedding. I think I put the fear of God into them, forgive the pun.

It seemed like forever until people started to file out, including Rebecca and Giles (whom I was surprised to see), as well as the mother of the two footballing terrors. "You really didn't need to take them out," she said to me scornfully as she took custody of them again.

"I think I did," I said, somewhat amused.

"But it's wonderful having children just being themselves at a wedding. I mean that's what a wedding is all about, isn't it?"

I wondered if she might be putting me on. "I wouldn't know," I said. "Couldn't hear a bloody thing." It was then I spotted B nearby and pardoned myself so I could go to join her.

"Hi," she said meekly.

I bent and kissed her cheek. "You look beautiful," I said in all sincerity.

She snorted a laugh even as she blushed. "I feel like a giant cosmetic puff," she said, shivering a little. The rain had begun again, accompanied by a bursts of high winds. I took off my jacket and slipped it around her shoulders. She looked up to me with gratitude.

"Come, let's go to the car."

Once we got settled in for the drive back to Claridge's, I noticed that there was a huge hole in the front of her dress, in the copious layers of netting. "Bridget," I said, "you seem to be tormented by holes."

"What?" she asked. Then we both chuckled, undoubtedly thinking of her mother.

I asked, "What happened to the front of your dress?"

She explained that she'd gotten red nail varnish down the front, and the only thing they could think to do about it was to cut it out. "I was hoping it wouldn't be that obvious."

"No, I think the purple bra distracted attention well enough."

She groaned and leaned into the seat. I reached for her hand and kissed the back.

We arrived to find the hotel decked out beyond anything I've ever seen. Murmurs went up all round at the expense that must have been put in to the shindig. I heard figures quoted as high as half a million pounds. We came upon Jude's parents in the receiving line; her father, Sir Ralph, was shaking Shaz's hand vigorously, which made her look like she might fall over again.

"Ah, Sarah," said Sir Ralph. "Feeling better?"

"Sharon," Jude said, the smile not leaving her happy face.

"Oh, yes, thank you," said Shaz, bringing her hand to her throat in a manner that reminded me, strangely enough, of Una Alconbury. "It was just the heat…"

I tried not to laugh, and saw B do the same. "Are you sure it wasn't the tightness of your stays against the Chardonnay, Shaz?"

I was rewarded for my candour with a laugh and a single finger. I wasn't offended—on the contrary, I felt pleased to be reminded that B's friends had accepted me.

"Mark!"

I turned and saw Rebecca, who was beaming at me as if we were long-lost lovers reunited after years apart. She was accompanied by Giles—who, unfortunately, gave off the impression of being more like her pet than a boyfriend. I thought of Gloucestershire and of "fetch," poor fellow. "Oh, hi," I said. I was more pleased to see Giles. "Giles, old boy! Never thought I'd see you in a waistcoat!"

He bent to greet B with a kiss on the cheek. "Hello, Bridget," he said. "Lovely dress."

"Apart from the hole," said Rebecca coolly.

The comment got under B's skin, I could tell; she glanced away. Frankly, I wanted to kick Rebecca in the shin, but instead I spoke up with a great big smile that I knew would aggravate even more. "Oh, that's part of the design. It's a Yurdish fertility symbol."

"Excuse me," B said, then she got up on her toes and whispered close to my ear, "There's something wrong with Magda."

I watched her go off to where Magda and little Constance stood, then excused myself, or tried; Rebecca attempted to waylay me with conversation. Firmly I put her off then went for a glass of champagne to bring over to Magda in support. I overheard only the tail end of the conversation; seemed as if Jude had invited someone that Magda hadn't wanted to encounter.

"Hey, Constance," I said as I offered the champagne to Magda. "Did you enjoy the wedding?"

She looked up with huge, wondering eyes. "What?"

"The wedding? In the church?"

"The parpy?"

I chuckled. "Yes. The party in the church."

"Well, Mummy took me out," she said with a pout; I half-expected her to follow up the statement with a Bridgetesque "Durrr." Magda muttered a vulgarity as Constance added, "It was supposed to be a parpy."

B leaned in as she gave voice to my thoughts: "Can you take her away?"

I looked from B back to Constance and offered my hand. "Come on, Constance. Let's go find the football."

She took my hand and we wandered off. "I don't like to play with the football," she said in a very mature tone. "Harry likes to but he always hits me with it."

"He probably has poor aim," I said. "He is littler than you."

We never did find the football; our attention was caught by Jude announcing she was throwing the bouquet. Constance begged to be picked up so she could see, and we watched as the flowers cut an arc through the air, landed in B's hands, who glanced to Magda, then immediately tossed it at Shaz, who then pitched it to the ground.

"Ladies and gentlemen," announced a butler suddenly who looked something out of Versailles as he banged away with a cherubic gavel. "Will you please be silent and upstanding as the wedding party makes its way to the top table."

I was still thinking about the bouquet, about B catching it and throwing it aside. Was she rejecting the idea of marriage? I hope not. The thought that she might be averse to the idea made me realise all of a sudden how much I wanted it.

It was unfortunate that the bridal party sat at the top table, because it meant that I couldn't sit with B. Jude had at least had the sense (and kindness) to put me almost as far from Rebecca as possible; as much as I would have liked sitting with Giles, it wasn't worth being in her proximity at all. Instead I sat with a group of Jude's colleagues from the bank and Simon, who I'd met before, and who I thought fancied Shaz a bit (especially given the church-fainting rescue).

Sir Ralph's speech to the assembled was long and excruciatingly dull, but no one dared say a word as he had certainly paid enough for the privilege of making it. I caught B's gaze on more than one occasion, looking like she might burst into laughter at any given moment. I admit that I tuned out most of the lengthy speech as did Simon. We chatted a bit—I hadn't realised he was an architect, but he clearly loved his work and was passionate about it. Caught him looking (and smiling) at Shaz, confirming my suspicions—he was looking to Shaz the same way I was to B… and she, to me.

There was a stack of telegrams that got read, too; they were all bone-standard and boring but for Tom's ("CONGRATULATIONS: MAY IT BE THE FIRST OF MANY.") Then Jude rose and made a speech of her own. I was minded to pay attention, as B had helped write it. It was a very good speech, one which did in fact have B's fingerprints all over, in praise of 'Singletondom,' which then reminded me of her pitching away the bouquet. (Hm.)

There was a toast to the bridesmaids. I beamed with pleasure and pride, and was very happy that she should catch my eye at the moment I felt most pleased and proud.

After the dining there was drinks and dancing. B went off to chat with Magda, and I lost track of her for a bit when the inevitable happened: Rebecca caught up with me.

"Mark," she said, sounding desperate. "I need to talk to you in private. Can we?"

For a moment I had a horrible, horrible feeling that she'd ended up pregnant somehow after our single, regrettable night. But then I realised that in her thinness she could never have hidden a five-month pregnancy. I didn't think there was any reason to not talk with her—she could get what she wanted to say off her chest and hopefully leave me alone. Maybe she wanted to apologise for her treatment of B, and of me.

"Sure."

We went off to the side near the entry where hardly anyone was. She turned dramatically, her long hair sliding over her shoulders; I had a moment of thinking how perfect and tailored her grey suit was, the shiny long hair… and how much I didn't feel attracted to her at all, and never had in that way.

"Mark," she said in a low tone. "I've wanted to talk to you ever since that awful day in Gloucestershire, and you never returned my calls."

"There was not much I wanted to say to you," I replied.

"But I have so much I want to say to you," she said, coming to life at last. She then reached forward and surprised me by clutching my lapel. "Don't you think… don't you think it's perfectly possible for two people who ought to be together, a perfect match in every way—in intellect, in physique, in education, in position—to be kept apart, through misunderstanding, through defensiveness, through pride, through…" She trailed off, then finished with a flair, "the interference of others, and end up with the wrong partners. Don't you?"

I knew what she was driving at; so much for an apology. I could also smell alcohol on her breath.

"Well, yes," I said. "Though I'm not quite sure about your list of—"

"Do you? Do you?" she interrupted.

"It so nearly happened with Bridget and me."

I thought that would be the end of it, but I was wrong.

"I know!" she said, a little too loudly. "I know. She's wrong for you, darling, as Giles is for me…" This surprised me, though not as much as it should have. She must have been delusional after everything I'd said to her on our last meeting. "Oh, Mark. I only went to Giles to make you realise what you feel for me. Perhaps it was wrong but… they're not our equals!"

"Um…" I said, thinking of poor Giles, who certainly did not deserve to be hurt, least of all by a woman to whom he was far superior.

"I know, I know," she went on almost maniacally. "I can sense how trapped you feel. But it's your life! You can't live it with someone who thinks Rimbaud was played by Sylvester Stallone; you need stimulus, you need—"

"Rebecca," I said, quietly interrupting. "I need Bridget."

The sound she made was neither dignified nor restrained; her face flushed a dark red. She stared at me a moment more before stalking away. B had been wrong about her, I thought. She wasn't a jellyfisher. She was more like a moth, but instead of being drawn to flame, she was mindlessly drawn to success, status and wealth. Was it wrong of me to hope she got burnt soon?

I walked around looking for B, and before too long found her staring raptly at Magda and Jeremy, who were dancing, moving together fluidly. I slid my hand across her waist; I couldn't help remembering the Law Society Dinner, the corset objections, and thinking what a difference these months had made.

She turned to look up at me, a serene smile on her face. "Want to dance?" I murmured. She took my hand, turned into my arms and we began to move as smoothly as Magda and Jeremy did—or at least I hoped we did.

Rebecca didn't approach again; in fact, I think she might have left the reception. We shared a few rousing dances with Jude, Richard, Sharon and Simon, and generally had a very nice time. When the reception broke up, when it came time to leave, I put my arms around B and led her to the lift.

"What are you doing?" she asked. She clearly expected to be led out to the car.

"I thought you might like a little treat," I said, kissing her on the temple.

She looked up at me in shock. "You took a room?"

"No," I said. "I took a suite."

Her mouth fell open. "Are you mad? You live ten minutes away. And your house is nearly as posh."

I hugged her. I knew she wasn't ungrateful, just surprised. "I didn't want to wait that long," I said in a light tease / low voice, before I kissed her cheek. She looked duly chastened. "We can just get your things out of the other room."

We went up, and upon hearing giggling sounds coming out of the room she and Shaz had shared, B rapped on the door rather than use her key. The sound stopped.

"Who is it?" A man's voice. Simon's.

"It's Bridget. I need my things."

There was a great shuffle around and a lot of banging and noise, before the door opened wide enough to allow passage of the bag, a woman's arm sheathed in terrycloth. The voice to follow assured us it was Shaz. "I'll bring you anything you missed tomorrow."

"Here's the key," said B, putting said object in Shaz's hand.

We then went up to the suite, which garnered a response nearly equal to the one she'd had at Hintlesham Hall. For my teasing just a few minutes earlier I could hardly keep my hands off of her—I lifted the skirts only to find there was more and more fabric and netting beneath. When I finally got to the middle of it (like some bizarre matryoshka doll), I found to my surprise that she was wearing thermal underwear under the poof-ball dress. They too were pink, like the dress, and peeled off easily enough, though the fabric of that dress made things a little difficult, nearly insurmountable and definitely uncomfortable between us. She certainly enjoyed it, though, probably as much as I did. There was something thrilling about making love while she wore that elegant (albeit huge) dress.

We then went on to have just as much fun as we had in Hintlesham Hall, enjoying the bubbling spa bathtub, strawberries and cream, and champagne, finally curling up in those very soft linens.

Sunday, today, was equally enjoyable—traded the glamour of a posh Claridge's wedding for shopping at Tesco Metro. Roasted chicken, potatoes, brief discussion of upcoming holiday season: "Mark, it's barely December. We have tons of time for Christmas plans."

I can see we have mixed philosophies on this.

I also broached the subject again about the hole in the flat wall. Reminded her that the bitter cold had not quite made it yet and the polythene would only keep so much out. Obstinate again: "I have a fireplace. I'll be fine." To prove the point she announced she was going back to the flat for the night. With the dress from hell in tow, I insisted on bringing her there. Couldn't myself stay the night because of the early morning tomorrow, but we had a nice snuggle on the sofa with the telly on before I left.

Mon, 8 Dec

Spoke with my mother today, who quipped that all must be well with B because she'd hardly heard a peep from me. I apologised for not keeping in better touch, but she said it was all right. "Besides, you'd be surprised how much gets back to me from Pam Jones."

I shall have to ask B about this.

Tues, 9 Dec

Interesting development. Very loud scene in chambers today (in the building, anyhow) with Rebecca, who has not shown her face around here for months, and who was alternately shouting at Giles and begging that they get back together.

When I went to see what all the fuss was about, Rebecca narrowed her eyes at me and accused me of betraying her confidence. "You told him!" she shrilled. "You must have told him about trying to win you—!"

She stopped. I think she knew immediately that she'd said too much.

"Mark didn't tell me a thing—but it seems I was quite right in chucking you," Giles said; apparently he'd acquired a backbone at last. His voice was strong, clear, and calm.

I nodded in confirmation. She stormed off.

If it's the last time I ever see her, I won't be too broken up over it.

Thurs, 11 Dec

Had a little row with B over the telephone thing, but all is well now. Post-makeup, B asked if I'd noticed anything had changed about her. I had to think about it a while.

"You're not too thin anymore."

"No," she said, threatening to buffet me with a pillow. "Sadly, no." She then mimed smoking, then widened her eyes at me meaningfully.

"You've quit smoking," I said eagerly.

"Not quite," she said. "But I've cut way back."

I pulled her to me in a great hug. "That's marvellous," I said, then teased, "not as marvellous as quitting completely…"

That earned me pillow-buffeting, laughter from both of us the whole time.

Later, B asked me about holiday decorations, and was I putting them up at the house. I told her I didn't usually, but might put a small tree in the foyer. I had meant to last year, the first in my new house, but with all of the Julio-in-Portugal stuff…

"I've got a tree coming this Monday," she announced.

I don't think I'll bother with decorations, to be honest.

Sat, 13 Dec

Had an hysterical (in a happy way) phone call from B at work yesterday, something about a letter and work and could I please come over as soon I was done? I did, and discovered that B has had excellent news: the chief executive from the ultimate boss at her old job has offered her a position again—she'd be promoted to Assistant Producer, or could work as a freelancer—and that the intervening time since she left was to be considered paid leave. Oh, and that Richard Finch had been suspended in October for "personal difficulties."

"I knew he was unhinged!" she declared excitedly. "And I heard from bossy-pants Michael at The Independent too. He wants me to do another celebrity interview!" She looked beyond smug. "Full moon luck!"

"Even though the other one—"

"Not a word, Mark Darcy," she said, putting her index finger over my lips. "Not. A. Word."

I thought it was cause for celebration, so we went out for supper. After we had gotten properly squiffy, I brought up fixing the hole again. "I mean, now that you're working again, and will have a great big lump sum payment to boot."

"Oh, fine, fine," she said. "I'll phone around tomorrow."

"Don't ask Magda," I said with a chuckle.

Mon, 15 Dec

Won't be able to see B most of the week due to work, trying to get things caught up before the holidays. Spoke to her on phone, asked how progress was going on ringing up for a builder for the hole. Seems a Christmas card came today from Gary. "I think he'll be out of prison soon," she said. "I think he deserves another chance. I'm going to wait for him. I don't want to hurt his feelings."

I am starting to think she's utterly mad.

Tues, 16 Dec

Since we were both in chambers working late, I asked Giles if he wanted to get some dinner with me. "Can't, mate," he said with a grin and a wink. "Veronica's waiting to meet me." Seems that after the row with Rebecca, he was emboldened in standing up for himself against her, so he rang up his ex-wife and refused to take no for an answer to see him for dinner. After the dinner she was so moved by his change in attitude she agreed to make a go of it again. They were dating once more.

"It's been great," he said. "Better than it ever was. Oh! You and Bridget should come have dinner with us."

I told him a provisional yes—but that I'd ask B. Sometime in the new year, I think… far too many commitments at present.

Weds, 17 Dec

Talking of commitments, I have been approached about taking major case. I'm quite keen to take it—exciting work on the Calabreras case. Unfortunately… it is in America. Los Angeles, to be precise. What about B?

Later

There's nothing to it. I'll just have to ask her to come with me. If she's working freelance, it shouldn't matter, should it?

Fri, 19 Dec

07.30

Went round to B's last night with a very strange card that was received yesterday by Nigel at work… one that B sent. The first time I read it, I was incredulous; the second, I laughed out loud. (We all did.) She must have been completely pissed when she wrote her cards on Monday night.

There was more evidence of said inebriation when I saw the tree upon my arrival at B's flat. Of course, I smelt the thing before I ever saw it—and it looked like it had been trimmed back by a maniac with a machete. "What's that strange smell?" I asked, then saw the tree. "What in the name of arse is that?"

"It was a bit…" she explained.

"A bit what?" I asked, amused and a bit amazed.

"Big," she said sheepishly.

"Big, eh? I see. Well, never mind that for now. Can I read something to you?"

Then, from my suit jacket pocket, I pulled out the card she'd sent to Nigel, which I then read aloud—commenting on Nigel's fitness and attractiveness when he's easily the largest man I know; declarations of feeling "very close to you now" despite only having him met once; "glistening bravely in the sunlight" and so forth—and concluded reading with uncontrolled laughter.

She sat heavily onto the sofa, looking utterly depressed.

"Now come on," I said to her with a smirk. "Everyone will know you were pissed. It's funny."

Dramatically, she said, "I'm going to have to go away. I'm going to have to leave the country."

I tucked the card away. "Well, actually, it's interesting you should say that." I then knelt before her, took her hands, and told her about the LA job for five months.

She looked devastated. "What?"

"Don't look so traumatised," I said, squeezing her hands. "I was going to ask you…" In that moment, on impulse, I very, very nearly came out with another question, but she blinked very quickly, and as she did, I lost my nerve, knew I could not go forward with it. If she said no, thinking of the bouquet toss and the praise of Singletondom, I might never have recovered. "Will you come with me?"

She had a sort of stupefied look on her face.

"Bridget?" I asked. "It's very warm and sunny there and they have swimming pools."

"Oh." She looked from side to side, as if concentrating very hard.

"I'll wash up," I added.

Still no response.

"You can smoke in the house."

This seemed to get her attention. She smiled at last. "Yes," she said. "I'd love to come."

Baby steps, I told myself as I leaned and kissed her. Five months in LA would demonstrate how well we could work as a married couple. And should the impulse strike again—well, Las Vegas wasn't that far away from LA. (Surely the smoking in the house was not the clincher.)

After that we had quite a lot of fun pruning the tree back until it was practically a bonsai, then made a holiday-related shopping list so that we could go shopping after I am off of work tonight.

Later

Shopping is put on hold. Shortly after writing entry, Nigel came to see me, to tell me the Calabreras case was on hold for another six months. "However, with all of your work this past autumn in Thailand… and your familiarity with the authorities and the system there… we've been engaged to assist another Englishwoman imprisoned in the Thai system, and think you'd be the best one for the job."

I was torn. It was just the sort of case that interested me greatly… but I suspected that B would be less than keen to return to a country where she had spent time in prison, and there was the matter of whether she'd be allowed back into the country after the delicate and potentially embarrassing political situation.

I rang up B as soon as I could to ask how she felt about it. There was a very long pause. "I…" she said. "I'm going to need time to think about this."

"I'll see you tonight?"

Another long pause. "How about tomorrow instead?" she said.

She didn't say it, but I knew what this was about: consultation with the Dating War Council.

Sun, 21 Dec

Telephone rang early Saturday afternoon with a very chastened-sounding B on the line.

"I've made a decision," she said. "About Thailand."

"Oh?" (So had I.)

"Mm-hmm," she said.

"Let's have it, then," I encouraged.

Another long pause. "Well, we—I—figured you wouldn't let anything bad happen to me," she said, her voice unexpectedly shaky. "So… yes. I'll go."

"Oh," I said. "Good. It's for two months, and I've already made tentative arrangements. We leave Sunday night."

"Sunday night?" she asked. "As in… tomorrow night?"

"You don't need much time to prepare, do you?" I asked. "You've got your passport handy, don't you?"

"Well, yes…" she said. "And we'll be there for Christmas?"

"Yes," I said, "but your parents are in Kenya, aren't they?"

"What about your mum and dad?"

"They'll be fine," I said, then asked, "Do you want me to come by and help?"

Silence, then, "Yes."

As we packed her things—laptop, clothes, swimsuit (it brightened her spirits a lot to remind her that it was not the rainy season in southeast Asia)—I made a revelatory discovery: I found her diary. I didn't read it, obviously, and I should have guessed that night so long ago (nearly a year ago) it had been a diary into which she had been making her notes. But still, a revelation all the same. It's quite possible we are more soul mates than I could have imagined (an idea I would once have laughed at)—and that she won't think me mad for keeping one myself. At least not completely mad.

Actually, I should have said I didn't read the diary intentionally. I dropped it and when I picked it up my eyes skimmed over an entry made during prison. My heart sank.

I knew though that I had made the right decision.

We weren't in fact preparing to go to Thailand at all; I had actually turned the job down, because I could not in good conscience take a job in a place where she'd had such a traumatising experience and expect her to happily join me. I had to put her before work, and when I'd thought about it that way, there had been no other option but to refuse it. Instead, it's time for a holiday. And the surprise of our destinations will be revealed soon enough.

Tues, 23 Dec

23.45

On Sunday night we arrived to the international terminal with plenty of time to spare, though I can't say it wasn't a challenge to accomplish this. B was so distracted and tired she didn't notice what our boarding passes said. I didn't like thinking of the turmoil that the thought of returning to Thailand was causing her, but I also thought that the surprise, once revealed, would be well worth it.

"Bridget, dear!"

This, as we neared our gate; she spun to see my mother, then my father.

"Oh!" she said, giving my mother and father a quick hug. "You really didn't really need to come see us off."

My mother looked perplexed. "We're not here to see you off," she said, then looked at me. "We're going too."

"You're going to Thailand?" B asked, looking up to me, then back to my mother, their confusion evident.

Not content with just a confused expression, my father asked, "Mark, what in bloody blue blazes is going on?"

I slipped my arm about B's shoulders. "Surprise," I said quietly, then pointed her towards our departure gate, which showed in big letters the name of our true destination: Hong Kong.

"Oh!" she said, then turned back to me, pummelling my shoulders with closed fists before kissing and hugging me. "You bastard," she whispered, eyes misty with tears of joy. At least I hoped it was joy.

"I couldn't do it, Bridget," I said quietly. "As much as I'd've liked the job, the cost was too high. Then I remembered my parents had booked to see Peter and Kate and I got us on the same flight."

"And you let me think—"

I stopped her with another kiss, then said, "Hush. It's time to board." After a pause, I added, "First class."

"I suppose I shouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth," she said as she wiped what I presumed to be lipstick from mine.

So now we're here in beautiful Hong Kong. It's just about midnight on Christmas Eve. B's taken the news of my diary very well, told her why I'd started and what I hoped to achieve. She's making notes in her own in bed beside me as I write this. I don't think I've ever seen her happier (he said, flattering himself). Wait until she sees our destination after Christmas.

Time to wrap up. There is writing about things… and then there is experiencing them.

Epilogue

Weds, 31 Dec

Dear Mark's Journal,

Mark has thrown you over for someone else who intends on keeping him busy for a v. long time, and keep him sleeping well when not. He doesn't need you anymore, Just for Now Girl! Ha!
Having v. lovely time in beautiful, beautiful, tropical Bali. You're here too, but shut up in room where you belong. Double ha!
Now to celebrate New Years Eve in style.

Ha ha,
Bridget.
Ps. Don't worry, M. I didn't read anything xx

Sat, 28 Feb

That little…

She promised not to open this. This, of course, means war.

Drafted reply:

Dear Bridget's Diary,
You should know that the little liar who owns you has been unfaithful with another journal

Coffee's arrived. Saving warfare for another day. Love is much preferred.

The end.