The Long Way Home

By S. Faith, © 2017

Words: 23,353
Rating: M / R
Summary: Mark's idea of coping with a difficult situation is… not to cope with it.
Disclaimer: Not my characters.
Notes: This story assumes the timeline of the novels/books, particularly Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries, from which this takes some dialogue.

Chapter 1

June

It had been like a dream. And apparently no more real as one.

He sighed, then let the drape he had pulled aside fall down. The sparkling pinpoints of light that comprised the San Francisco evening skyline was beautiful, but he needed sleep after the long day of travel he'd just had.

But first, some wine, something to eat.

The flat had been stocked at his request with some of the basic necessities. A bottle of red wine sat on the counter, which he uncorked then poured a generous serving. He reached for a second wineglass, but stopped himself. He then turned for the fridge.

Inside was a covered dish that he drew out and placed it into the microwave. He pushed a button labelled Reheat, then leant back against the kitchen counter; he folded his arms across his chest, and waited, and got lost in his thoughts again.

He had only physically been gone from London for a little more than twenty-four hours. Mentally, he had been separated from his life there for a much longer period of time. Disconnected. It had been the only way, really, to make a clean break. To properly erect the wall around his heart again. To forget what he had hoped might be.

Ding.

The dinner plate was a decent steak with a side of potatoes and carrots, and he sat at the table in the relative quiet and worked his way through the meal while he skimmed through a copy of that day's paper. When he finished, he set the paper down and sighed once more.

This was life now, I guess, he thought.

…

The previous February

Deep down, he knew it was nothing.

Deep down, he knew it was not her fault.

But the incident—in which he found his fiancée on the floor with Daniel, who had his hand on her thigh, at their engagement party—had planted the seed of an idea that, now germinated, could not be stopped.

He couldn't make her happy. Not in the way that she needed. Despite what she'd said to him, she would always need a little bit more fun and excitement than he was capable of giving her.

The parallels with his first wife, whom he had caught with Daniel just two weeks after their own wedding, had not escaped him. And that's why it had hurt him so much. He had been hurt so badly after the betrayal of a woman he had never even really loved. How could he bear the thought of the possibility of betrayal of a woman that he loved as much as he loved Bridget?

He did still love her. He always would. But he was not right for her. Not for the long term.

As much as he hated to admit it, she was not right for him, either. She would never fit in with the people that he worked with. Not that this was a shortcoming on her part; it was just a statement of fact. It was just too much to overcome, as he had realised time and time again. Every time that she had come to a work function with him, everything seemed to have turned out disastrously.

In the end, the only word he kept thinking to describe their relationship was 'doomed.'

…

He had the weekend to adjust to the time difference. To pass the time until the rest of his things arrived—at least, the things he needed while he lived here—he went to visit some of the notable sights during the day, and did some legal review in the evenings for the job at hand.

On Monday, he turned up to the first informal meeting with the team with which he was working, feeling confident and ready to take on the difficult caseload. The team, brought together to combat the scourge of human trafficking, had been built by the well-known philanthropist Richard Bernard, and included the best legal minds from around the world. Not exactly joyful work, he mused, but the discussions he had with the group invigorated him and reaffirmed his decision to set aside his own personal travails to work for the greater good.

Work made the days fly by. When they didn't work into the evening, though, Mark was more or less on his own. The flat that he had let seemed very quiet and empty. The lawyers closer to his own age had families at home, and the younger of the group who did not have such attachments tended to go out for dinner and drinks, which Mark declined after the first such night out was nothing but discomfort for him. He felt old enough to be their father, and he had nothing in common with them outside of work.

He had never been all that good at socialising. This particular discomfort was something he was used to, but having nothing at all familiar around him only underscored how solitary a man he really was. Compounding everything, though, was the deep and pervasive pain of missing the woman he had left behind in London, the one he still loved despite all reason and good sense.

…

August

Six weeks after arriving, there was a change to the monotony of the work day; they would all be taking the day away from their legal work and attending a launch party for an awareness campaign related to the work they were doing, which was also sponsored by Bernard. "It'll be nice to get outside," said Dennis, flashing a smile. "I feel like I haven't seen the sun in weeks."

"If the sun deigns to make an appearance," said Yolanda, also smiling. "But I'm willing to chance it."

The sun did indeed shine down upon the attendees; the event planners took a risk in holding the event out of doors at the Palace of Fine Arts, but the risk had been worth it. The weather was pleasant and not overly warm, despite it being August. Mark nursed a glass of wine and wandered ever further away from the bulk of the activities to sit and take in the surroundings from a position on a bench. He very much enjoyed the peace and quiet of the outdoors, the way the sunlight struck the stone structures and lit them up like gold, how the wind rustled through the trees and played along the surface of the water.

"Mark?"

The sound of his own name snapped him out of his reverie, and he turned in the direction of it.

"Oh my God, I thought that was you."

He had to blink a few times to make sure he was seeing what—or whom—he thought he was seeing. He hadn't actually seen her in probably close to five years, but she looked almost exactly the same as when he'd seen her last. Same short, tidy brown hair. Same sort of boxy, unfeminine suits about which he had heard comments on multiple occasions, but that she was somehow able to make work. He got to his feet, smiled cautiously. "Natasha. I never expected to see you here."

She, too, seemed cautious. "Same," she said. "I didn't know you were involved with Bernard's group. What are you—oh, of course. You must be working with the anti-trafficking legal team. I'm working advocating for the children that are rescued."

It made perfect sense, and he nodded.

Natasha's eyes made a broad sweep of the near vicinity. "So… Bridget? She's here with you, surely?"

Hearing her say the name like it left a bad taste in her mouth was like opening a wound for Mark, but he would not let it show. "No. She's not."

"Ah. Keeping the home fires burning, then?"

"Not that, either," he said, feeling his whole body tense. "We're not together anymore."

"Oh," she said. "Well, I'm sorry."

No, you aren't, he thought. In fact, he suspected she was bursting to crow that she had told him so. Mark decided to head any such discussion off. "I'd rather not discuss it, to be honest."

"None of my business," she said, holding up her hands, which surprised him. "So are you living here in the city?"

Mark nodded. "You?" he asked; polite conversation dictated he ask as much.

"Temporarily, for now," she said, lifting her chin very slightly. "I'm still based in New York City, but I'm thinking of relocating here. This is the work I want to continue to do."

Mark found himself nodding again. It was important work. "I understand that completely," he said quietly.

There were many moments of silence before either spoke again, and then it was Natasha who did so. "Well," she said. "I know our… parting was not exactly on the best of terms, but I am pleased to see you again. And I… well, I'm sure it hurt you, the split with Bridget, and for that I am sorry." She smiled again, small and tight. "I'd best get to mingling again."

He was momentarily stunned at her courtesy, and responded, "Nice to see you."

With that she made her way back towards the party. He could only watch her retreat and wonder exactly what to make of the encounter.

He wouldn't have to wonder long. That next weekend, his mobile rang, and it was Natasha.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I got your number from Yolanda," she said. "I'm attending a lecture tonight in Berkeley and suddenly find myself with an extra ticket. Since it's Alexa de los Rios speaking, you were the first person I thought of…"

The 'extra ticket' story was the sort of romantic manipulation she would have used once upon a time—this much he knew in retrospect from Bridget's analyses—but he had to admit he was tempted. He well knew the name de los Rios; he also knew she did not make many public speaking appearances.

"Mark? Are you still there?"

"Oh, yes, sorry," he said quickly, snapping out of his thoughts. "I would very much like to attend. I've admired her for some time, so thank you."

"You're welcome," she said. "I was planning on driving anyway, so I can pick you up. Where are you staying?"

He gave her the address of his flat.

"All right," she said. "See you at five-thirty."

…

Inspirational.

He had not been so inspired by a talk in many a year, and as the lights came up and they made their way out of the lecture hall, he was very grateful for the random encounter at the Palace of Fine Arts that led him to attend that night.

"What do you say, then?"

Mark turned to his companion. "Pardon?"

"Stop for a drink, talk about the lecture?"

His immediate response was to say no, but in all honesty, he welcomed the chance to discuss the points that had been brought up that night, and Natasha was nothing if not a sharp legal mind. "Sure," he said.

They ended up traveling back to the city before finding a bar for a cocktail and a few snacks. Her analyses of what de los Rios had spoken of was insightful and provided Mark with points of view he had not considered. He had apparently also given her a thing or two to think about, things that she had not considered. All in all, it was an evening well spent.

As she pulled the car up in front of his building, he said, "Thank you, again, for thinking of me for this lecture. Invigorating, professionally."

She laughed lightly. "Glad to do it," she said, putting the car in park. "I'll be in town for another week. I'm sure we'll cross paths again."

He found himself pleased at the thought; he had, perhaps, been too long without friendly banter from someone familiar to him. Been too long alone. "Looking forward," he said, then pushed the door open. "Goodnight."

To his surprise, it was nearly half past midnight.

The pleasant night that he'd had got his thoughts to churning, and got him to wondering about his future, wondering if his original plan hadn't been the right one, after all.

…

September brought a lingering sombreness; the cooling temperatures heralded the advent of autumn. The fog and the cool, strangely enough, made him think of London. Made him miss it. He had been so busy that he had given the life he'd left behind nary a thought.

While he was contemplating this turn of the weather just after breakfast on Sunday, the weekend of the equinox, his telephone rang, shrilly interrupting his thoughts.

"Mark, hello! How's your day been?"

"My day?" he asked.

She clicked her tongue, and as she did so he realised what she'd meant. He had, after all, never been one for much fanfare about his birthday.

"It's only just started," he said quickly. "But I don't have any plans, really. It's a rare day off." Before she could comment further, he asked, "How are you?" He glanced at his watch. "Must be about time for supper there… Beef Wellington, or a nice salmon fillet?"

"Beef, of course; you know your father," she said. "More to the point, Mark, I wanted to know when you were coming home."

"Mother," he said gently, pinching the corners of his eyes.

"You know that we worry about you," she said. "We're doing fine, but we miss you."

"I'm fine," he insisted. He could hear voices in the background. A voice, one he recognised. Pam Jones. A creeping suspicion washed over him, confirmed in his mother's next words.

"You young people are so determined to hide how you really are," she said. "Do you know Bridget said the same thing to me? That she was fine? But she looked so sad, drawn… lost…"

He sighed. He knew what this was; it was not difficult to know when Pam and Elaine had schemed in the past for their children. He was not so heartless, though, to not be concerned to hear she was sad.

"That's—" he began, before he cleared his throat; he was in no mood to talk further about the conflicting feelings swirling in his head. It sounded like an obvious excuse; nevertheless, he said, "I've just remembered that I made plans to see a matinee."

After a beat of silence, she said, her voice much cooler, "Oh. Well, enjoy your matinee, then."

"Always nice to hear from you, Mother," he said, suddenly feel guilty for throwing her off. "We'll talk soon."

He put down the phone, then, in contemplation, sipped from his coffee again. He felt suddenly like going out somewhere—perhaps to have something to relay back to his mother, since he didn't like to lie or invent events that didn't happen—and realised that Natasha might also already be returned from New York. He reached for the phone and dialled the number he had for her.

"This is a nice surprise," she said. "To what do I owe this honour?" She was in good spirits, a lightness in her voice as she spoke.

"Checking in to see how things are going with the relocation," he said. "Are you back in San Francisco?"

"Yes, in fact; thanks for asking," she said. "Not too far from you, actually. Beautiful view of the bay."

"Pleased to hear it," he said. "Look, would you care to join me this afternoon? Lunch, or a matinee if I can find some available theatre tickets?"

"Special occasion?"

"Just wanting to take advantage of the local culture," he said. "And truth be told, I need to get out. Feeling a little boxed in, if I'm honest."

"Well, if you can find the tickets, I'd be happy to join you. I appreciate you thinking of asking me."

After a few phone calls, he had secured tickets for Rigoletto at 2pm, and a table for two at the café at the opera house beforehand. He then rang up Natasha again to confirm.

"I'll pick you up at eleven."

"Great," she said, then gave him her address. "I'll see you then."

…

"You asked me earlier if it was a special occasion," Mark said, as he drove Natasha back towards her flat; their lunch and the opera production had been a day well spent. One of his best, if he were honest, since his arrival; perhaps this was why he felt comfortable enough to confide in her. "I didn't tell you the full truth."

"Oh really?" she asked. He glanced over; she was smiling, her dark eyes sparkling. "So what's the deep, dark secret?"

He said, "It's my birthday."

"Your birthday? I had no idea. Happy birthday."

"I had very little to do with it," he said drolly, "but thank you." After a pause, during which he had to navigate troublesome traffic, he continued. "I didn't mention it because it's not a big deal to me, but some people find it odd that I don't really mark it."

"How old?"

"Pardon?"

She laughed. "How old are you?"

He smiled, eyes scanning the road ahead of him. "I thought it was impolite to ask."

"It's impolite to ask a woman," she corrected.

"Sexist," Mark said with a smirk.

"I'll guess, then," she said. "Thirty-five."

He glanced over to her again. "That's overly generous," he said. "Forty-five."

She didn't reply, and when he could he looked at her again. Her expression was odd, somewhere between amusement and tenderness. "That seems about right," she said. "I mean, you can't be where you are in your field at the tender age of thirty-five. What was I thinking?"

He came up to the block on which her building sat, then slid up to the kerb. "Here we are," Mark said. "Your building."

"Ah, so we are," she said, glancing around. "It was a lovely afternoon. Thanks for asking me."

"My pleasure," he said.

She furrowed her brows ever so slightly. "Do you—do you want to come up? Maybe we can, I don't know, have some supper?"

He thought about the offer; it was just about suppertime, he would need to eat, and it was early enough that he could still return home in time to retire at his usual time. And he really didn't want to eat alone again. Even takeaway shared with someone seemed a better prospect than takeaway on his own. "Sure."

…

October

"You're coming to the party, right?"

Mark looked up to see that one of the interns was hovering in the doorway of his office. She was a bright young woman—Young enough to be my daughter, he realised, suddenly feeling ancient—who was in the last semester of earning her law degree. He had not encountered her often, but he seemed to recall her first name was Jennifer.

"Party? What for?"

She grinned. "Halloween. You know?"

He did know, though he hadn't given it much thought. In England, Halloween was not a holiday in which adults ordinarily participated; it was more of a children's holiday. "Ah, no, hadn't planned to."

"Everyone else is coming," she said. "Even your girlfriend."

He looked up in utter confusion. "Girlfriend?"

"Ms Glenville."

He was about to protest, but he realised that he did spend a lot of time with Natasha, nearly every evening, and that she came to the office frequently for them to have lunch together. He hadn't slept with her since their re-acquaintance, but they were otherwise as close as could be to being in a relationship.

"Sorry, Mr Darcy, I didn't mean to offend you," she said, interpreting his silence as disapproval.

"You didn't," he said. "I was just not aware of this party."

Jennifer looked visibly relieved, and smiled again. "You should definitely come. Saturday. Ms Glenville has the details." With that, she stepped away.

He glanced to his desk calendar and saw that the 31st of October was in a week, on a Wednesday, so it made sense that the party would be held the Saturday prior. Picking up his phone's handset, he dialled Natasha's line.

"Mark," she said by way of answering, sounding rushed, hurried. "I was just leaving my office. Did you need something?"

"Nothing important, just wanted to ask about this Halloween party I hear you've committed to attending."

She laughed lightly. "Oh, that. I was going to ask you about it the next time I saw you. I know we don't really do adult Halloween in England, but it's good to socialise outside of the office."

He pondered for a moment, then asked, "Would we have to wear fancy dress?"

"You could just wear a suit and say you're James Bond," Natasha said.

"And who would you be?"

"I've arranged a costume rental assuming you might like the Bond idea. That's all I'll say."

Since Mark's recollection of Bond was basically that he wore bowties to play baccarat, he in no way felt the need to do further research. He was oddly curious as to what her choice of costume was going to be. And occasionally his thoughts would stray to what sort of fancy dress Bridget might have picked. He wasn't proud of the fact that, in the weakness he sometimes felt in the small hours, he mentally imagined Bridget done up in the manner of that iconic Bond beach scene, emerging dripping wet from the ocean in the barest of bikinis, just like Ursula Andress.

…

The party was in Marin, at a home of one of the partners. Mark offered to drive them, and when he turned up for her at her flat at 7pm, she was ready to go. She was dressed in what appeared to be a long white dress, except he realised as she walked towards him that it was actually more like a pantsuit, and wasn't constructed of fabric so much as—well, it reminded Mark of his mother's doilies, if he were to be honest, but he would have never said that to her.

He also noted she seemed to be wearing more makeup than usual, and her hair had been coiffed in a style that he'd never seen her wear before. On her feet, she wore white heeled shoes, making her nearly the same height as he was.

It was a bit more risqué than anything he'd ever seen her in, even though she was wearing clothing beneath the pantsuit that closely matched her skin tone, covering her up. The pantsuit, though, just hung from her thin form the way a dress would have hung from a clothes hanger, rather than cling to her body. For a moment his thoughts drifted to a certain Tarts and Vicars party…

"Well, what do you think?" she asked, beaming a smile; she seemed very proud of her ensemble.

"Nice. Very nice."

"Thanks," she said. "Do you know who I am?"

The question perplexed him for a moment before he realised she was asking if he knew who she was supposed to be. Between the hairstyle, makeup, and outfit, she had a definite 1960s look about her, but he did not know specifically who she was meant to be. He could think of only one fashion plate from the 1960s, and so he said, "Twiggy?"

Her smile fell, and she pursed her lips. "No," she said icily. "It's a replica of an outfit that Diana Rigg wore in a Bond movie. I'm a Bond girl."

"Ah," Mark said, the light dawning. "Of course you are. Come on, let's go, or we'll be late."

Her spirits rebounded during the short drive north over the Golden Gate Bridge, and by the time they arrived she was smiling again. Their host, Caleb Lincoln, greeted them dressed in a black jacket, waistcoat, and cravat, wearing a false beard and a stovepipe hat. "I figured I should just embrace the name, already," he said; the effect was rather funny, as Caleb was a short, squat man. He looked to Mark. "Bond, eh?" Turning to Natasha, he said, "And let me guess… you're Twiggy?"

She shot a glare not to Caleb, but to Mark. "I need a drink," she said.

"Ah, allow me," Caleb said, then wandered away.

He returned shortly with two drinks; the two them began to mingle. To Mark's dismay—yet, somehow, also to his amusement—everyone guessed who he was meant to be instantly, yet guessed her to be Twiggy.

"Why does everyone assume Twiggy?" Natasha said at last, sounding quite frustrated. "I'm not even blonde."

"Oh!" said Jennifer, who was dressed up like Hermione from the Harry Potter films, curly ginger wig and all. "You're a Bond girl!"

"Thank you!" Natasha said, feeling vindicated at last.

"Well, that makes perfect sense, doesn't it?" asked Lincoln. "Bond…" he said as he gestured to Mark, then he gestured to Natasha. "Bond girl!"

"Which one?" asked a muffled voice from behind a hockey mask, someone in a costume that looked straight out of a horror film, fake plastic butcher knife in hand.

"Sorry?"

The hockey mask flipped up to reveal another one of the interns, Patrick. "Which Bond girl?"

Natasha was uncharacteristically flustered. "Well, I, um…"

"Diana Rigg," interjected Jason, who had a reputation for being a bit of a film buff. Natasha seemed pleased to hear him say this name. "She played Teresa 'Tracy' Di Vicenzo. Or rather, Tracy Bond. His one and only wife."

Natasha looked smug. "Yes, of course; her."

Now Jason smirked. "Shortest marriage in film history."

Mark laughed lightly, slipped an arm consolingly around her shoulders. "It's only a bit of fiction."

Once she had a mixed drink in her, she relaxed considerably, and was even a little flirty. Mark switched to sparkling water after the first drink, since he'd be driving back, but the single drink had its intended effect, and he too felt quite relaxed, even happy. He genuinely had a nice time—he felt at home amongst his colleagues.

He was surprised when, as people began to gather up their things for the night, that the time was after midnight. Natasha was still a bit tipsy, so she held on to Mark for balance as they walked back to his car.

"You made a smashing Bond," she said as he helped her into the passenger seat of his car. "Oh. Am I driving?"

"No," he said with a laugh under his breath. "The steering wheel is on the left." He shut the door, then went around to the driver's seat.

During the course of the drive, her hand drifted to rest on his thigh. This made him, strangely enough, ponder thoughts of long ago, about when he'd considered marriage as nothing more than merger. And how well it could actually have worked with her.

How well it might still work.

"Natasha," he said.

"Hmm?"

He glanced over to her. Her dark, shining eyes were upon him. Her fingernails raked the fabric of his trousers just over the knee.

"Would you care to come home with me?"

Another glance her way revealed that she was smirking. "Christ, Mark, I thought you'd never ask."

They didn't say much as he put the car into its assigned space, or on the lift ride up to his flat. The lights were set to the dimmest level when they came in, but going straight to his bedroom made turning them up unnecessary. It was a bit clumsy and awkward, and if he were to be honest, he had a bit of trouble reaching climax, but he chalked it up to the drinks. The release felt great—and he'd needed it.

She certainly had proof she'd been hoping he'd suggest they sleep together; she was prepared regarding protection. He did admire that about her. She planned for contingencies, and she planned well.

…

Six months ago, he never would have believed he would have slept with Natasha again, but here he was, in his kitchen, making a pot of coffee and trying to decide what to make for breakfast. He was pondering that he had no fresh fruit—a morning favourite of hers, this he recalled—when she came into the kitchen wearing a dressing gown of his.

"Morning," she said. Her tone was unsure, or so it seemed to him.

"Morning," he returned. "Coffee's on. I was just pondering breakfast." He looked up and met her gaze. "Did you sleep well?"

She allowed a small smile. "Wonderfully, thanks," she said. "I don't suppose you have any pastry, do you?"

This surprised him. She didn't usually eat things like pastries. His surprise must have shown, because she laughed lightly.

"I do have a treat, once in a while, on special occasions," she mused.

As she poured coffee for both of them, he warmed up a couple of croissants; as he did, he considered what he had been pondering the night before, during the drive back. He brought them and the strawberry jam back to the breakfast nook, where she had taken a seat.

As they ate, he realised that she was watching him, as if gauging a reaction, then said, "I wasn't sure how you'd react the morning after. I know we have not been together like this for a long time, so…"

He knew to what she was hinting. Since he'd been with Bridget. "As you can see, I'm reacting just fine," he said with a small smile.

"Glad to see it." She reached her hand out and traced her fingers over the back of his hand.

"Actually, I've been thinking," he said, "about something we discussed a while ago."

She brought her brows together. "Oh?"

He nodded, raising his coffee to take a sip.

"Don't leave me in suspense," she said playfully. "What did we talk about?"

"Marriages and mergers."

One of her brows cocked up. "And what have you been thinking, exactly?"

"That we make a good team," he said, meeting her gaze, "and that we should make the partnership official."

She glanced down as she began to swirl the coffee in her mug; her lips pursed, but also turned up slightly in a smile. "I think," she said, "that this might possibly be one of your better ideas."

She took the shower first, during which he contemplated telling his mother about this new development. When he emerged from the shower, he found her paging through her day planner… and his. "I'm not seeing any free time that synchs up until December," she said, not looking up. "Still, it gives us time to plan something nice. Is that all right for you?"

"Sure," he said. He didn't really know what else to say. Then again, he shouldn't have been surprised. She took charge. She got things done. She did not wait for others to do it first.

"Perfect."

…

Being too busy herself to handle planning a wedding, Natasha hired someone to do the work for her. Within two weeks everything was in place. How she managed to book a venue for a reception two months hence was beyond him.

He called his mother to invite her and his father.

"I'm sorry, I think I misheard you," she said. "Maybe we have a poor connection. Surely you did not just say 'wedding,' with regards to Natasha Glenville." The tone of her voice suggested that she had not, in fact, misheard him.

"Yes, I did," he said. "I didn't expect you to approve, but I would like you and Father to attend all the same."

There was a long silence—a few seconds, probably, that felt like an eternity—before she spoke. "I'd hoped this wouldn't happen," she said quietly, more to herself than to him, then sighed. "Sorry, Mark, but we won't be attending."

To hear her say this stunned him. He had done plenty in the past that she hadn't approved of—his previous marriage chief amongst them—but she had always stood by his side and supported him.

"I don't understand," he said at last.

"I want to support you in this, Mark, because you're a fully grown adult," she explained. "But this is not a good decision—and you know why I think this—so I can't. I'm sorry."

"I see," he said.

"You can pass on our regrets; if it helps, say that it's too great a journey for us right now, with your father's health," she said. "I have to go. We'll talk soon."

With that, she put the phone down. He was almost grateful for it, because he was not sure he would have known what to say, anyway. He knew exactly what her objection was. Admittedly, he had also found himself thinking of how wedding plans would have been going if Bridget were still his intended bride; she would have taken care of every small detail with the greatest of care (if last minute), changed her mind ten times on her dress, called him in the middle of the night to complain that she couldn't decide between two shades of blue, but loving every moment of it, joy infusing every choice.

He imagined sometimes—often—what it would be like seeing Bridget in a veil and gown, breathless anticipation as she came to join him at the altar. He had especially done so that day, when Natasha had informed him that she had chosen a pale cream pantsuit, and had showed him a photo she had found of her intended outfit. "No lace trim, though," Natasha had said with obvious distaste. "I can't think of anything I'd want less."

…

"So, I hear congratulations are in order."

Aside from work contact for professional reasons, Mark didn't speak much with his colleagues from London. The exception to that was with Jeremy, who would, unprompted, occasionally drop titbits of information about Bridget, which he welcomed.

"Thank you," Mark said.

"Have to say, we're all very surprised here in chambers," said Jeremy with a chuckle. "You seemed so head-over-heels for Bridget—and she for you, though God knows why, ha, ha—and then boom, everything's off, and you head to the States. Ah well. At least she's moved on."

Jeremy dropped that little nugget as if it were nothing. "Moved on?" he asked, trying to be as casual as possible.

Unfortunately, at that moment, one of his children took that moment to apparently assault him; Jeremy let out a guttural cry before admonishing, "Harry! None of that when Daddy's on the telephone!" Breathlessly, he said to Mark, "Look, old chap, have to go. The boys are awfully rambunctious and Mags is out. Talk soon. Cheers."

"Bye," he said to a dial tone before he put the phone back on its cradle, leaving him to wonder what on earth Jeremy had meant. He couldn't ask; he did not want anyone to know he was wondering, especially Bridget. He couldn't stop wondering. Couldn't stop thinking about it. Had she 'moved on' with Daniel? How serious was it?

The way it occupied his thoughts was borderline ridiculous. He had no claim to the higher moral ground when he was the one who had ended it.

…

December

As Mark wandered from person to person, shaking hands and accepting the congratulations of the day, he realised with some regret that the whole reception reminded him of a drinks party, any number of intolerable affairs he had attended in the course of his professional career. Certainly, many of the same people were here today, at least those he knew in California. Natasha—or her planner—had done a wonderful job arranging for the venue, the catering, the bar.

Like those drinks parties, though… deep down inside, he found himself wishing he could just go home.

They had not planned a honeymoon—they were too busy to take that kind of time off for the sake of a sentimental tradition—and had hardly planned a thing for the wedding night itself save for a bottle of champagne to toast in private in the hotel's bridal suite. The champagne was very high quality, though they were unable to finish the bottle; the complimentary chocolate-covered berries sat uneaten. Sex was over quickly, and he found himself left to his thoughts as she did her evening ablutions. He thought of how he and Bridget might have had the whole bottle. Might have relished in the strawberries.

When she returned to the bed, he was feigning sleep. He could tell by the way her breathing changed that she was soon asleep; it had been a long, tiring day. For Mark, though, actual sleep was quite elusive.

This was life now; no going back. He accepted it. But he also could not help wondering how Bridget would react to the news. What she would think of him when she learned. He could not bear to think what her opinion was of him now.

Perhaps for the best, though. Easier to move forward this way.