As Time Goes By: Another 'What If' Story, a bridget jones' diary fanfic

As Time Goes By: another What If? Story

Disclaimer: It all belongs to the strange mind of Helen Fielding. Strange in a good way, of course.

Inspired by a British series this time, I was pummeled by plotbunnies in the shower one night… "What if Bridget had overslept the day after Christmas?"

There was something very familiar about the tall man standing near the apples, something she couldn't quite put her finger on, but familiar all the same. She could only see him from the back, and in partial profile as he turned his head; his hair was greying at the temples and was in good shape for his age (she'd guess late forties; not much older than herself). He was wearing a suit jacket with a turtleneck as was fashionable when they were both much younger. He suddenly turned, as if aware of her gaze upon his back, and their eyes connected.

She caught her breath suddenly. It was a man she had not seen in probably fifteen years, and their last encounter, which had started out pleasantly enough, had not ended that way. He looked at her as if he had seen a ghost, a vaguely blank, startled look on his face.

Her mouth formed a tight, courteous smile. "Hello, Mark."

It was when she spoke that he finally snapped out of his shock. "Bridget."

Strange to see him again after all of this time, surrounded by produce at the local market, of all possible places and all possible times, when she was not dressed as she would be for work but for weekend lounging about the flat, in trainers and trackie bottoms.

"You're looking well," he continued after a moment, being much nicer to her than she had any reason to expect, and on more than just the obvious level. Her blonde hair was now overrun with stiff pale grey strands which she'd tried valiantly to colour, but they were hard to keep up with. Her hairstyle hadn't changed over the years, just brushing the top of her shoulders while loosed but she often pulled it back into a ponytail, as it was now. The lines and creases of her face had deepened with far more frown lines than laugh lines, much to her dismay. Gravity had been kind, but just like her mother before her, her jawline had softened with age. At least her vanity was somewhat placated at not having to wear bifocals for distance, though she kept her reading glasses tucked away in her handbag for emergencies.

"Thank you, so do you." And he did. Aside from the grey temples, the tiniest hint of a broadening waist, and the slight sagging along his jaw, he looked older but not significantly different.

They stood there awkwardly for a moment more, she shifting her hand basket from one hand to the other, he tucking his hands into his coat pockets. She didn't know what to say that wouldn't sound terribly familiar or personal; after all, they hadn't been particularly close to begin with, and she hadn't seen him, talked to him, heard from him in a decade and a half.

He cleared his throat nervously, bringing her out of her reverie, then smiled politely. "Well. It was nice to see you again. Goodbye." He turned as if to depart.

"Have you just come back to England, then?" she abruptly asked; for some reason she found she did not want him to go.

He looked back to her. "Yes, actually." It had been immediately evident in his voice that he had not been back for very long. One does not live in New York City for fifteen years and not pick up a bit of an accent.

"Welcome back, then," she said warmly.

He smiled again, this time more genuinely. "Thank you." After a beat, he asked, cocking his head to the side, "Look, would you… like to grab a cup of coffee?"

Surprised by the offer, she blurted, "I have plans."

"Ah."

She quickly added, so not to sound like she went around inventing stories to get out of coffee dates, "I promised to meet Shazzer for a girls' day out. Er. Sharon."

"I know who you mean." He smiled again. She'd forgotten what a handsome smile he had. "Some things don't change, do they?" He'd spied the contents of her basket: Milk Tray and chardonnay. She was instantly embarrassed, but he stood there grinning, as if he were reminiscing that birthday evening and Shaz's declarations that wine and chocolate were the only food items she'd want if stranded on a remote desert isle.

She realised at that moment that she wanted nothing more than to have coffee with Mark Darcy. They'd had a pretty strong attraction to each other once, even if it had gone nowhere because of what he'd done to Daniel, both stealing Daniel's fiancée and then beating him to a pulp in the street. Not that there was any love lost with Daniel; she hadn't seen him in almost as long and didn't care to, the lying bastard. Many years had passed though and there'd been a lot of water under the bridge; being back after so long away, Mark could surely use a friend. "Hold on. Let me—let me give Shaz a call. I can meet her later than we'd planned." Bridget pulled out her mobile phone, leaving a brief message on Shaz's phone that she'd be late, not bothering to explain why. "There."

"Marvelous. Let me find Ella so we can get checked out."

She blinked. "Ella?"

"My daughter."

"Ah." She had a vague remembrance of her mother wailing (practically sack cloth and ashes) when Mark and Natasha had spawned. Ugh – she didn't even like saying her name. How best to ask after that woman without outright asking? "Just you and Ella here, then?"

"Just Ella and me." He wasn't giving up information easily and exactly as she remembered, he was impossible to read. A young girl of about fifteen appeared around the corner from another aisle and his face suddenly brightened. "El! Come here, I'd like you meet Bridget—er—" (he turned to Bridget) "—is it still Jones?" he asked uncomfortably.

Bridget nodded, pulling her lips tight, feeling somewhat pathetic.

"Bridget, this is Elaine, my daughter. Everyone calls her Ella."

After his mother. How sweet. She was truly a beautiful girl: slender in frame, long, sleek brown hair, wide hazel eyes, and her father's smile. She held out her hand and they shook, then gave her father a peculiar look; without words he replied with an almost identical look. Perhaps secret father-daughter language?

"It's very nice to meet you, Ms Jones." Well-mannered to boot, Ella spoke in a distinct American accent, though not nearly as strong as Bridget might have expected from her Manhattan upbringing. Since Bridget's only real exposure to a "New York City" accent was via television, she suspected her perception was probably skewed. "Dad, I promised Betsy I'd meet her for the two o'clock movie, it's one-thirty now…" She stared at him as if he were incapable of telling time.

"Yes, El," he addressed his daughter indulgently, then explained to Bridget, "That's why we came to the store. The cinema's just 'round the corner; I was walking her so that I could meet her new friend, and Ella wanted to buy some candy to sneak in her handbag."

Ella piped in, "Cadbury is way better here." She smiled at Bridget affectionately, which Bridget found unusual, until she remembered the Milk Tray in her basket. Sisters in chocolate, or something to that effect.

"Ah." She indicated her quarry. "These are for my best friend and me, for our movie night later."

"Whatcha gonna watch?" she queried, tilting her head slightly, a perfect (if younger and female) imitation of her father.

Bridget chuckled. "My friend Sharon gets to choose this time, so it will likely be something that's older than you are."

"That's cool. Come on, Dad, let's go!" She turned on the ball of her foot and headed towards the registers.

He looked to Bridget. "Such is life with a fifteen year old girl. Shall we?"

…

After successfully depositing Ella at the theater and meeting Ella's new best friend Betsy (who asked Bridget if she was Ella's mother, mortifying Bridget, but amusing Mark), they headed for a café just a few blocks from the theatre. She hadn't been to this one in an age, owing to cutting back on the number of chocolate croissants in her diet.

It was a place Mark seemed to be familiar with as well, for his face glossed over with an air of sentimentality. "Wow. I haven't been here in… well, since before New York."

She didn't reply, simply read the menu board as if she hadn't already memorised the damned thing over the course of the years.

They sat at a small table by the window, he with a cup of black coffee, she with a cappuccino, and biscotti for each of them. She didn't know where to start, so it was a relief that he began speaking. "Are you still living in that flat over the Globe?"

She was taken aback. "Yes, actually, I do. God. I can't believe you remember that." He shrugged as if to suggest he just had a savant talent for remembering where people lived. "How about you, Ella…?"

"Well, I never gave up the Holland Park house, so we're back there. Good investment."

She felt it was another dodge on the Natasha issue, but she let it slide and simply nodded, not that she could comprehend maintaining a house in Holland Park as well as a flat in Manhattan. She noticed then that his left ring finger was quite bare, looking like it had been unadorned for some time. Hm. Very telling. "So. What brings you back to England?"

"Many reasons. Primarily my father's health, which has been declining in recent months."

"I'm sorry to hear that." She thought of her mother, gone these past seven years after an accident in Kenya, and her father following shortly thereafter. She could not help but thinking with amusement that she might have known about Mark's return if her mother was still here. Resolving to steer the conversation away from mortality, she asked, drawing in a breath, "So. Are you back for good?"

"I am. It's been a big change for Ella. She was a little resistant at first, but now that she's here… she's enjoying the attention she's getting, being the American girl in school."

"She seems to be adjusting well, then?"

"Yes; thankfully she's more extroverted than I was at that age. Takes after her mother." He laughed lightly. "And my parents? Ecstatic to have their only granddaughter so close."

"I'll bet they are. How about work? Still doing human rights law… things?"

He chuckled, nodding. "Jeremy's taking me back as a senior partner even though I've become a little rusty on English law. Yourself? Still in television?"

"Yes. Heading up 'Sit Up Britain' now."

He looked impressed. "Still doing on-camera location spots?"

She snorted a laugh. "Oh God no. They've got the whippersnappers on air. I'm just the cat wrangler now."

His eyes softened a bit, then he laughed. "No more sliding down fire poles for you, I suppose."

Memories of Lewisham came flooding back in a humiliating rush. "I'd probably crack a hip on touchdown."

"Oh, come now. You look just as I remember you." Still had that odd, soft look in his eyes. She'd forgotten what nice eyes he had, too.

"That's nice of you to say." She sipped her coffee. Curiosity about the harpy finally overwhelming her, she decided to just ask outright. Almost. "What about…?"

"'What about' what?"

She rolled her eyes. "You know."

He furrowed his brow. "I'm afraid that I don't."

Either he was being difficult, or clueless. "Are you… you know… still married?"

He didn't say anything right away; when he did it was a terrible attempt at levity. "Ah. I appreciate your attempt at delicacy." He turned his eyes to look out the window. "To answer your question, no, haven't been for a while now. We stayed together until a few months after Ella's birth, and then she left me for some alpha male defense attorney." He stopped to hold his coffee up as if to drink, but decided against it at the last moment. "She let me have primary custody without a fight, but she did get El every other weekend until she turned fifteen… it's mostly why we stayed in America so long." He finally took that drink. "Anyway. After two failures, a man is disinclined to try again."

Instant regret. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable, Mark."

He shook his head, his eyes focused into his cup. "It's not as if I invested or lost a whole lot, emotionally. I certainly don't miss her, or regret that we split. It's not like we were soul mates." She thought it strange how his somber tone was at odds with the indifferent words he spoke; perhaps it was just his way of coping with the loss, even still. He continued to examine his java before asking, "Are you… involved with anyone?"

She'd had the occasional shag with men far too young for her, virtually guaranteeing that none of them were destined to stick around. "No."

He looked up to her. "What happened with Daniel?"

She burst forth with a short, sharp laugh. "I never took him back. He wanted me because, and I quote, 'if I can't make it with you, I can't make it with anyone.' I left him there in the street the night you knocked him out." She thought of that night, her birthday, when she'd shouted at Mark for punching out Daniel. The last she'd seen him until now.

Mark set his cup down, his face flushing red, brows knit, his voice very quiet. "That was a terrible thing for him to say."

"I'm glad I'm not the only one to think so," she said, "but at least it made the decision to leave him lying there that much easier." She took a drink of cappuccino, which had finally cooled enough to do so, then laughed lightly. "Huh. No wonder whatever-her-name-was left Daniel for you. Wisest move she ever made, I'm sure."

Confusion flashed in his eyes. "What? What are you talking about?"

"I know the truth, Mark," she said conspiratorially, smiling patiently. "You don't have to be ashamed; it was a long time ago."

His discombobulation looked sincere. "I'm not ashamed; I just don't have the faintest idea what you mean."

Her face lengthened with disbelief. "So you're telling me you don't remember stealing Daniel's fiancée away, breaking his heart…?"

He looked utterly stunned. "Wherever did you hear such a thing?"

"Daniel told me." As she said it, a feeling of foreboding invaded every fibre of her being.

He stared into his cup again, and it was a minute or two more before he spoke again. "Oh, Bridget, you have been gravely misled." He had turned quite pale. "There was no fiancée. Daniel slept with my wife. That's what ended my first marriage."

"Oh." Her voice was barely a whisper. She felt tremendously small, horrified to realise that her animosity towards him had been based on misinformation. No; 'misinformation' was too kind a word. She had been outright lied to. Apologies bubbled up in her mind but remained unspoken because she had no idea how to finish them. Was it that she was sorry she believed Daniel? Sorry she didn't discover the truth a whole lot sooner? Sorry she'd overslept the fateful morning of the Ruby Wedding, missing one last chance to talk to him before he'd left for New York? Sorry she'd never gotten to tell him she liked him too?

Sorry she'd never even gotten the chance to kiss him, just once?

"Well," he said with a short, insincere laugh. "That explains everything."

She pursed her lips, suddenly losing her appetite for her coffee drink. "Yes, it does," she said quietly. No wonder he wanted to beat the living hell out of Daniel every time he saw the man. She raised her eyes to meet his. "Mark, I didn't know…"

"I see that now."

She did offer a simple, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault." He finished his coffee, setting the empty cup down delicately, pushing it aside.

"I hope I didn't spoil your day," she offered lamely.

He shook his head. "No. I've enjoyed seeing you again. Very much. Bombshells notwithstanding." He gazed out the window again, then back to Bridget. "I must go. I'll get the bill on my way out."

She watched quietly as he rose and left.

…

"So why did you ditch me, Bridge?"

She walked into Shaz's place with the procured Milk Tray and chardonnay, handing them to her friend. "You're going to think I made it up. It's just too bizarre for words." Slipping out of her jacket, she fell down onto Shaz's sofa. "I need a drink… and chocolate. God. I wish Tom and Jude were here like old times." Jude and Richard – no longer Vile, as they'd been married for over a decade so far – lived in Rome now. Tom had been in San Francisco for the last five, happily cohabitating with his boyfriend, a customs agent he'd met upon arrival.

"This sounds pretty serious." She popped the cork, pouring then handing Bridget a very full glass. "Well, 'fess up!"

After a prolonged sip of her wine, she told Shaz, "I ran into Mark Darcy at the market."

Shaz screwed up her face with concentration, then the light dawned. "Wait. The 'just as you are' guy? The one who moved to America?"

Bridget nodded. "He's back in England with no wife and a fifteen year old daughter."

Shaz whistled.

"His daughter went to a movie and we went and had coffee together."

"Well well!" said Shaz, raising her eyebrows.

"It was nice, and then he told me," she explained with a heavy sigh, "that it was Daniel who'd slept with his wife. Mark didn't shag Daniel's fiancée at all. There never was a fiancée."

Shaz's mouth hung open; Bridget did not need to itemize the implications of Daniel's deception. "Aw, Bridge. While socially awkward, he had some potential."

"I know. And after it was out there, hanging over the table between us, he just… got up and left." Again she sighed heavily, stuffing chocolate into her mouth.

"What, in the middle of coffee?"

"Not technically, as he had finished. But it was a weird way to end things."

Shaz patted her knee. "I'm sorry," she offered.

Bridget felt tears abruptly well in her eyes, and she blinked them away, muttering under her breath, "I hadn't even thought of the haughty arse in forever, and now it feels like he's shagged and dumped me."

Shaz put one arm around Bridget's shoulder; the other hand reached for the remote control. "Have more chocolate. Have more wine. Mr Darcy will make it all better."

…

Another day at work, another night alone in the flat. Aside from the occasional movie night with Shaz, this had been the routine – comfortable, familiar – for many a year. Evenings drinking and smoking at the likes of Electric and 192 had lost their luster long ago, and frankly, she couldn't keep her eyes opened much past eleven P.M. any more. She had at one point considered a pet to combat the loneliness, but with recurring nightmares involving Alsatians, she had decided against it. So, like many a night previous, Bridget settled in with a microwave dinner and a glass of wine, shaking her hair free of the ponytail, sighing.

Unexpectedly, the entryphone began to squeal. An antiquated system when she moved into the place many years ago, the entryphone was on the verge of dying, often times not working at all or ringing when no one was there. As she was not expecting anyone, she figured it was the latter, but she picked it up nonetheless. "Hello?"

A tinny voice echoed through the earpiece. "This is my daughter's doing."

"What? Who is this?"

"It's Mark." He paused. "Mark Darcy."

"Oh." She was far more flustered than she had any right to be, remembering the last time he'd shown up (positives as well as negatives), and was unsure she wanted to risk a repeat, though she really did want to have the inelegant parting at the café resolved. Really, though, did the man not believe in telephones?

"May I come up?"

"Yes, of course. Sorry."

She buzzed him in, thankful that the place at least was for the most part tidy. She had just enough time to make sure there were no errant pizza boxes or cans of diet soda before she heard a short, firm knock at the flat door. She went down to let him in, struck with a moment of déjà vu. "Hi. Come in."

"Thank you."

She stepped back to let him pass, then followed him up the stairs, into the living room. "So what brings you here?"

He smiled, hands in his coat pockets again. "I came to apologise for the way I left you at the café the other day. I was a little brusque and I'm sorry."

"Well. Um. Thank you."

His eyes connected with her kitchen table and he looked deeply embarrassed. "Oh, I've interrupted your dinner. Sorry; I won't keep you any longer."

"No, it's all right. It's nothing that can't reheat." Remembering her manners, she asked, "Would you like something to drink?"

"I'll join you in a glass of wine, thanks."

She went over to the kitchen area, pulling a glass down from the cupboard and pouring wine for him. When she turned around, she found that he had followed her into the kitchen, bringing with him her glass of wine from the table. "Thanks," he said, accepting the beverage, raising in a gesture of toast, then taking a sip. He looked around the flat with an almost nostalgic look in his eyes. "It's been a long time since I saw this kitchen."

"It has." What more could she say? Sipping from her own glass, she asked, "So… what does this have to do with your daughter, exactly?"

He laughed lightly. "Ah yes, Ella. She asked how it went, so I told her how disastrous our coffee date turned out, and she insisted I come and apologise. I've heard of nothing else for two days."

She smiled. "That's quite persistent of her."

"Indeed. She's like a pit bull sometimes. But don't think I was reluctant to do so. I knew Ella was right. I was kind of a shit, getting up and leaving like that." He sipped again.

Bridget laughed. "I'm sorry to laugh but… did she actually say that?"

"No… but I was." He considered her a moment more, swirling the wine in his glass. "May I be totally honest with you?"

"Of course," she said, suddenly not at all certain she wanted him to be.

He said reluctantly, "Ella really likes you."

That was the big confession? "What? Your daughter barely knows me."

He began to pace a bit, perhaps working out how best to connect the dots for her, because they were certainly obscure at this point. "You have to understand that Ella and I have always been open about things. She knows that Natasha and I are ill-suited for each other, even though we both love her and she – Ella, that is – wants nothing more than to see her father happy. She sent me here to…" He stopped, sighed, deciding to change tack, his whole manner of speaking softer, less like a courtroom oratory. "Ella has a favourite story about her father, Bridget, all about blue soup and green omelet, and how much I liked you, how I'd wished that Daniel had never shown up…"

Her head swirled, and she didn't think it was the wine. The exchange of looks between father and daughter in the market suddenly made sense.

He continued. "…how the only positive thing about the way fate unfolded was that I ended up with a great daughter. So you see… Ella knew all about you long before she ever met you, and she wanted me to do more than apologise."

"Mark. What are you saying?"

"This is foolish, adolescent even, but…" He took in a deep breath, a plaintive look in his eyes. "Bridget, I still like you. When I saw you in the market, it hit me: I haven't really stopped."

Blindsided. That's how she felt.

"What?" she gasped almost soundlessly. "Why on earth did you never call me, then?"

"I probably should have, but I'd thought you'd made your feelings pretty plain that night and I don't much care for beating a dead horse. So I pushed it down, focused on raising my daughter instead, keeping busy with work… but I never stopped wondering." He looked deeply apologetic. "Weeks became months, months became years… I don't mean to make excuses. That's just the way it was. Which I regret."

Bridget was instantly all too aware of her own complacency in life, and she was not at all proud of it. Strangely, she understood. She supposed if she'd tried hard enough she could have gotten her mother to get his address or phone number from his mother after he'd gone, and at least pursue a friendship once she'd excised Daniel from her life. So many things she'd never seen or done, like visit exotic locales like Thailand, write freelance columns in her pyjamas… or had a chance with a nice, normal man who liked her as she was.

Quietly, she asked, "So you came here for what, exactly?"

He drained his wineglass. "Part confessional, part… well, I suppose I've been in America too long, but: part 'laying my cards out on the table'."

She understood fully. It was her move.

"Ah," she said, looking away, overwhelmed with an array of emotions.

After a moment of uneasy silence, he set his wineglass by the sink. "Well. Looks like you might need some time to think—"

She began to shake her head, not looking to him.

All trace of liveliness gone from his voice, he said, "I'll be on my way then."

He was about three steps from the staircase leading out of the flat when she snapped her head up to look at him. "Mark, wait. Don't go."

He turned back to her, hope imbuing his eyes.

"Really?" she asked.

"What?"

"You've really wondered all this time?"

He nodded.

When she spoke at last, a smile finally emerged. Maybe she still had a shot at one out of those three. "That has to be the nicest thing I've ever heard." As much as she hated to think about all those wasted years now, a small part deep down inside had always wondered too, though any sincere hope had long since been extinguished until now. They looked at one another for many quiet moments until she asked softly, "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

He smiled. "I'd like that very much." She nodded, heading into the kitchen while he slipped out of his overcoat. He rejoined her just as she'd begun pawing through her freezer for something to make for him.

"This is so embarrassing," said her voice from inside the fridge. "I've only got Tesco microwave meals right now."

She felt a hand cover her own, gently closing the door of the freezer as she stood back to raise uncertain eyes to meet his. "How about I take you out to a proper dinner, then?"

Her head nodding of its own accord, she said, "All right."

He raised his hand from hers to stroke her cheek with the backs of his fingers as she turned to face him. He asked in a whisper, "Bridget, may I—?"

She could only nod again as he lowered his head towards hers, his fingertips simultaneously finding her chin, lifting gently before he tenderly, briefly pressed his lips to hers. Quite nice. She opened eyes she didn't remember closing and realised that the long-latent powder keg of attraction had been veritably reignited; she could not look away from him. As he drew her into an embrace and kissed her fully, it was obvious he felt very much the same.

"Mark," she said breathlessly after a few minutes of heady snogging, very much aware of the kitchen counter pressed into her lower back, "Hold on."

He stopped, stepping back to give her some space, looking to the ground embarrassedly. "Sorry. Got a bit carried away. Forgive me."

"No, that's not it." She sighed, smoothing her hair down. "It's just… really too bad," she said, her voice filled with sadness.

He nodded, but said, "I think it's time not for regret, but for moving forward. Let's have dinner; we'll see where things go from there, no pressure…"

She shook her head and he stopped talking. Although he was right, that wasn't what she meant, either. "Mark, I'm not exactly thirty-three anymore," she said dejectedly. "The parts of me that used to ripple at least a little bit… well, now they out and out wobble."

He looked at her. In a thoughtful tone he asked, "Why would that matter?"

She blinked in disbelief, then smiled again. "I take back what I said before. That was the nicest thing I've ever heard." She walked up to him again, this time taking his hand tenderly in hers. "Yes. I think I'd like dinner with you very much indeed."

…

Dinner was wonderful; it was as if no time at all had passed since they'd cooked that inventive birthday feast together. They'd talked like old friends, very warm, easy and comfortable. As his car glided up to the kerb and idled in front of her flat, she realised she didn't want the night to end just yet, so she asked him if he'd like to come up for coffee.

"I'd like nothing more," he said, then added wryly, "It's a good thing I have permission to stay out late on a school night."

Opening the door into the flat, she invited him to sit on the sofa as she prepared some Sumatran blend decaf, feeling fortunate to find an unopened packet of biscuits. She remembered what he'd ordered the other day, and asked of his coffee, "Black?"

"That would be terrific, thank you," he called from the sofa.

She carried a small tray with the biscuits and coffee, set it on the coffee table, then took a spot next to him. He took his and drank, then nibbled on a biscuit.

"Well," she said, picking up her own coffee cup, "I think your Ella will be pleased. I thought dinner tonight was quite a success as apologies go. I had a lovely time. Thank you."

"Do you think there might more opportunities in future to make my daughter happy?"

"I most definitely do," she said.

"Excellent," he said.

They both had very bright smiles on their faces, but as the smiles receded, their gazes remained locked; at once Bridget realised that what she really wanted had nothing at all to do with drinking coffee. At almost the same moment, he reached to set his cup and biscuit down, then took hers from her hand and set it down beside his. He looked to her again, then clasped his hand over hers.

"I said 'no pressure', and I meant it, but…" he began in a quiet voice, "I'd really like to kiss you again."

She answered by beating him to the punch, leaning in to kiss him. He responded by enfolding her in his arms, reciprocating the kiss and then some. He was a magnificent kisser, and she didn't think it was just that she hadn't been kissed in a while; he truly had a talent. He tasted deliciously of strong coffee and sugary biscuits, his chin ever so slightly bristly, his hands moving gently on her back. He then released his embrace just enough to brush his thumbs along the sides of her breasts though the fine knit of her cotton jumper.

Suddenly she erupted in a fit of giggles, much to his consternation.

"I didn't realise you were… ticklish."

Clearly it was not the reaction he was going for, and she was instantly contrite. "Mark, I'm so sorry," she began, still chuckling, "I just… I don't know, half-expect my parents to walk in, switch on the brightest lamp in the room, and shout at me for snogging on the sofa. I feel like a bloody school kid…"

"Ah." He smiled, reaching forward to smooth down her hair, then to softly stroke her cheek. "You are anything but. And thank God for that."

She looked into his eyes again, placing her hand atop his; the years seemed to melt away in an instant. "I never had a chance to tell you – I liked you too."

"You did?"

She couldn't keep the grin off of her face. "Well… do."

He drew her near again, hands on her waist, face brushing against hers again. "I'm not moving too fast for you, am I?" he queried earnestly.

She closed her eyes, very much liking the feel of his breath along her cheek. "I hardly think fifteen years qualifies as 'too fast'."

He chuckled. "May I…?"

"Mark, you really don't need to keep asking."

"If you insist."

He kissed her again, hands moving to caress her hips, then upward, and this time she did not giggle. Her head went quite swimmy.

"So, Mark," she managed, "how late is your curfew again?"

He laughed low in his throat.

Inspired by a line from the British series "As Time Goes By". In the fourth episode of series one, Lionel comments that because he was older now (30 years, if you're not familiar with the series), parts of him that used to ripple now wobbled. All I could think of was "I have a very high regard for your wobbly bits"… and this little thing was born.