A Brand New Decade
Part 3 of 3

By S. Faith, © 2009

Words: 10,859 (total; in three almost-equal parts)
Rating: M / R (mostly due to the f-bomb)
Summary, Disclaimer, Notes: See Part 1.

She had been lying on the sofa all night, drowning in self-pity and feeling a failure, when he came in. He sat down beside her, looked to the television, then looked to her. "Something wrong?" he asked, putting his hand on her arm.

She shrugged, not looking away from the screen.

"Bridget, tell me what's wrong."

"Same thing that's always wrong," she mumbled. "I've spent a year's wages on pregnancy tests, and I can't manage to get one of them to turn blue."

"Darling," he said. "It will happen when it's meant to happen."

"But what if it never happens?" she said, looking at him at last, tears springing to her eyes.

He drew his hand away; she could see the sinews moving in his jaw, highlighted by the blue haze of the telly. "Why not stop worrying about it, and focus on something you do have more control over?"

"Like…?" she prompted, though she already knew what he was going to say.

"Like our wedding," he said. "It's been almost seven years, Bridget, since we got engaged. Seven. It's starting to feel like maybe you don't want to…" He drifted off.

"Of course I want to," she said, pushing herself up.

"That isn't what I mean. It feels like you don't want to be a wife if you can't be a mother," he explained. Her vision went blurry; her lower lip began to tremble. "I don't want to continue on like this, stuck in limbo for the rest of our lives. I want you as my wife, regardless how long it takes for the baby to come." He took her hand. "It's simple enough to go down to a registrar and make it legal—"

"Mark," she said, a tear plopping onto her cheek. "Don't do this to me right now."

He gazed at her with great intensity. "If not now, Bridget, then when?"

She didn't answer. He released her hand, then stood up.

"Mark?"

He was heading for the door.

"Don't go," she said.

"I can't be here right now, Bridget," he said without turning around. "You've made it clear how you feel; I won't keep bothering you about it. Good night. Goodbye."

The finality with which he said 'goodbye' as he left made her stomach sink. She cried herself to sleep. A few days later, she called, but he did not answer. When he didn't call back that night, or the next, or the week after that, she figured she'd finally ruined things for good.

………

"I hope you had a good birthday," said Jude, her voice muffled by Bridget's hair as they embraced.

"It was an excellent birthday," she said, feeling emotional again. "I really don't feel like I deserved it."

"You always do," Jude said as she pulled away, and smiled. Everyone was preparing to leave at the same time; it wasn't terribly late, but tomorrow was Monday, and the children needed to be in bed (Magda had lamented that she'd be lucky to get them sleeping by ten, with all of the sugar coursing through their veins).

"It was, then, a major success," said Bridget, as she felt Tom embrace her from behind, then Shaz, too. "Thank you all."

"Thank you for being born," said Tom, pecking her forehead as she laughed, "so we could have a really good excuse to throw this party."

"Thank her parents for having sex, then," joked Simon.

Bridget managed a smile, though felt herself slide into a slight depression, thinking of sex and babies… and Mark. "Right, there you go."

"I've put all of your gifts in the boot." It was Mark, dressed in his overcoat, his features inscrutable as usual. "Whenever you're ready."

"I'm ready," she said; she had already said goodbye to everyone else, and took a moment to slip into her coat. Mark, ever gallant, helped her into it. "Thanks again, everyone."

As Mark preceded her out, Magda came up and gave her one last hug. "Hope everything works out," she whispered.

"Me too," Bridget whispered back.

Once they were outside, walking to his car, they reverted to silence. When they got to the car, he opened the door for her. It wasn't until he was behind the wheel that he spoke. "Your flat, then?"

She wondered for a moment if it was a good idea to have their long overdue talk anywhere but neutral ground; perhaps a coffee shop or a pub would do better. "That's fine with me," she found herself saying instead, "if it's fine with you."

"It's fine with me," he said. He then turned the key in the ignition and within a moment they were off.

The presents had all fit within two rather large carrier bags, and Mark carried them up to the top floor flat, setting them down just at the top of the stairs before slipping out of his coat.

"Do you want me to make some coffee?" she asked, hanging up her own.

"No, thank you," he said. "Come. Let's sit."

She felt like she was being taken to task like a naughty schoolgirl, at least until he placed his hand tenderly on her waist and led her towards the sofa.

She waited for him to talk, because clearly he had something he wanted to say. She was not wrong. He took her hand in his, met her eyes with his. "First off, I want to apologise for walking out that night. I should not have left you in that state. It was wrong, and I'm sorry."

She pursed her lips to keep them from trembling. "You should not have left me, full stop. Three months, Mark, without a word."

"I'm sorrier for that than I can ever say," he continued. "Please let me finish." He took in a great breath. "I hope that I can make you understand the source of my frustration. I felt like you didn't really want to marry me, didn't want me, if we couldn't have a baby."

"Oh Mark," she said. "That's not true."

"I know that, logically speaking," he said. "But it doesn't mean I didn't doubt myself, somehow."

She nodded. "It's all I've thought about, the closer I've gotten to forty. It was like I finally had what I'd always wanted just within my reach, but somehow couldn't make it work." She sniffed. "It wasn't you. You were more patient than any other man would have been. It was me. I felt a failure. I was a failure."

"That, my darling, is where you are wrong." The sound of 'darling' from his lips was emotionally overwhelming. She took in a deep breath.

"How can you say that?" she said. "I couldn't get pregnant. I kept putting off the wedding."

"This is where your reasoning is faulty," he said gently.

She drew her brows together.

"I had a scheduled check-up a few days after I… saw you last. I decided to mention to my doctor that we'd been trying in earnest for a couple of years, at least. He decided to run some tests on me."

She was suddenly alarmed. She was certain he was going to tell her he was dying, and he had spent these three plus months putting his affairs in order. "You're okay, I hope."

"You don't have to look like that," he said; it seemed he had read her mind. "I'm fine, except for wishing I'd done it sooner. It was me, all along."

"I don't understand."

"Sperm, Bridget," he said. "If there's no sperm, there's no chance for a baby."

She brought her free hand to her mouth. She wanted to cry. She would never be able to have a baby with him. "Oh my God, Mark."

He squeezed her hand. "You don't have to look like that, either."

"You're taking it awfully well," she said. "Why didn't you tell me sooner? My God." She thought of him bearing this bad news all on his own, when she could have been there for him, comforting him. She hated herself; she could have at least reached out to him.

"I had more tests. I wanted to know the cause."

"And?"

At last he smiled. "Blocked ducts. Corrected by surgery."

She blinked in her surprise.

"I've started running again," he continued, "and taking vitamin supplements. I've also… cut back my workload. Cut back my stress levels."

"That's good."

"It's been two and a half months, Bridget," he said plaintively. "My tests… the count is good now. Nice and high. And motile." She swore he was going to cry. "I think I can fix one thing, if you're willing to take steps to fix the other."

It was the strangest re-proposal she had ever heard, but she wasn't about to say no. "I guess I can make some phone calls in the morning," she said calmly. "How hard can it be to arrange a wedding, anyway?" It was only then that a smile burst out across her face.

His short, sharp laugh bespoke his utter relief, and he pulled her into his arms, his hand cradling the back of her head. She wrapped her arms around him and pulled herself up against him. "It was stupid and wrong for me not to see you sooner," he said, "but I didn't want to come to you before the problem was solved."

"You're right," she said. "It was stupid and wrong for you to stay away. I forgive you, though." She pulled back and met his eyes, a smile still on her face. On impulse, she pressed her lips to his, kissing him passionately until a thought raced through her mind, and she reared back.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Wanted to make sure… well, you know. Everything was all… good to go."

He realised what she meant, and he started to laugh. "If you mean am I ready to make good on my end of the deal as soon as tonight… yes. I'm ready." He ran his fingers through her hair, admiration for her new cut evident in his eyes. "You really do look amazing."

"My bedroom is in less than amazing condition," she said. "If I'd've known—"

"Bridget, your bedroom is always in less than amazing condition," he teased. "That's not what interests me about it." He leaned forward and kissed her again. "Of course, our bedroom will be a sight to behold."

"Mm," she said, smiling, kissing him again. "I'm looking forward to upgrading."

He laughed, and with that, he stood, tugging her hand and pulling her to her feet before sweeping her up under the knees and into his arms.

"Come, love," he said. "We have work to do."

She chuckled as he walked with her in his arms back to her room.

………

"As much as I loved seeing that dress on you," Mark said the next morning over coffee in bed, "I rather loved seeing you out of it more."

She felt herself blush, then reached out to run her fingers over the grey in his temple. He hadn't been kidding when he said he'd been running again; he was better toned than he'd ever been, and had stamina to put her to shame. She was thankful she could work from home, as she wasn't sure she could face commentary about the state of her gait today. "You know," she said with mock-seriousness, "I'm not a young girl anymore. It may take us a few tries to, you know, get it right."

He chuckled. "I'm willing to stick it out, as the case may be." Turning serious, he said, "If we're not successful right away… well, there are tests they could do on you, and other methods of impregnation if the traditional method isn't quite hitting the mark."

She smiled. "I'd prefer to keep it out of the lab if we can at all avoid it."

"I know. I just don't want you to lose hope," he said. "I did a lot of reading during my treatment."

"I don't doubt it," she said, leaning back into the pillow, dropping her hand back down to drape over her stomach and gazing up to him.

He reached over her to set his now-empty cup down on the nightstand, then resumed looking at her. "I'm glad," he said. "Glad I'm not a slave to a schedule anymore."

"You do seem happier."

"Oh, that's not what's making me happy," he said. "This makes me happy." He put his hand over hers before sliding it around to her hip as he leaned forward and kissed her again.

Bridget was very, very glad she could work from home, though an initial check-in at one p.m. did garner some commentary from her boss.

………

Plans for a wedding came together very quickly, helped by Mark's connections in the legal world; they had a licence within a week. The date was set for New Year's Day—a new year, a new beginning, and, teased Mark, he would not be likely to forget their anniversary that way—and Bridget was surprised at how little stress she felt about the whole thing happening at last. Her mother arranged for the church in Grafton Underwood, and it was decided that the ceremony would be simple and intimate, with only family and friends. Afterwards, they would go to the Darcys' estate for a wedding dinner.

Remembering her earlier frustration with dress shopping, she decided to find a seamstress to make a dress out of ivory silk for her, one that mirrored the lines of the dress she'd worn to her fortieth birthday party, the one Mark had liked so much. She didn't tell him; she only said she had a dress. That was good enough for him.

Bridget moved into Mark's house in early December. It was strange thinking of the place as hers too; he told her that if she preferred, they could look for somewhere new to live, somewhere they could call truly theirs. She nodded, thankful for his thoughtfulness, but she thought given enough time and perhaps a bit of a design budget, she would feel quite comfortable there. Besides, it wasn't as if the flat would totally be out of her life; Shazzer begged her to sell it to her, and she agreed. Mark joked that she could still visit it on weekends and holidays.

………

Christmas Day, one week until the wedding, and Bridget woke up feeling somewhat nervous and uneasy. Mark was gone, undoubtedly on his run; she was sure he had intended to return to her before she awoke. The fact that it was Christmas was not about to stop him, and she intended on trying to work up to joining him before too long. After all, it had worked wonders for him.

Smiling at the thought, she sat up. The big bed in his—their, she self-corrected—insanely white room felt more and more homey every day, and he did promise she could buy some new things to decorate after the wedding. As she sat up, though, she realised that she had to pee in the worst way.

She stood up, thinking about her previous obsession with pregnancy tests, that building hope inevitably followed by crushing defeat. She shook her head. She was not going to start that vicious cycle all over again. She had a couple of tests at the ready if needed, but had sworn to herself that she would only try one if she was unaccountably moody, or late by more than a few days—

She blinked, suddenly realising that she actually was late by more than a week. The last thing she wanted, though, was for Mark to return to find her in a funk when three minutes' worth of time had told her she had been imagining things again.

But what if I'm not? she thought. What if I could give him the best Christmas present he would ever want?

She scrambled to her feet and went into the loo. She fished out one of the tests and, with a well-practiced posture, euphemistically got the test to working. She set it down on the box on the sink, then, after finishing her business, sat on the closed toilet seat, watching the minute hand on the ornate little clock, becoming almost mesmerised by it until she realised five minutes had passed.

She picked up the test with an enormous lump in her throat.

Then she saw the result.

………

Mark didn't come home for a good half-hour afterwards. She had settled herself back under the sheets and, when she heard his footfalls on the stairs, feigned sleep.

She heard the door open then close, then felt the bed sink as he sat beside her. His fingers brushed against her temple, undoubtedly pushing her hair out of her eyes. "Happy Christmas, sleepyhead," he said tenderly. She smiled, then turned over to look at him. He looked so sexy all dishevelled and sweaty after his jogs. "I'm just back from a jog and could use to take a quick shower, if you'd like to join me. Then we can have Christmas morning—breakfast, gifts, and so on—before the drive to Grafton Underwood."

She smiled. "Yeah. I'd like that." She reached out and tugged on the front of his shirt, which was quite damp with sweat. He leaned forward and kissed her before sitting up again.

"I'll get the water going," he said, then rose. "Trust me, you don't want me anywhere near you after a run." He went into the loo.

"I don't know," she called back, pushing the sheets off of her. "All wild and masculine is pretty damned attractive."

He didn't say anything at first; when he called her name, his voice was devoid of all previous good spirits.

"Yes?"

When she entered the loo, she saw he had the test's box in his hand. "Bridget. Where did you get this?"

"From the cupboard. I had a few from… before."

"Bridget," he said sternly. "I told you not to obsess about this. It might take time, and I don't want you writing off our efforts or getting discouraged due to one negative reading."

"But Mark—"

"Please, love. No 'but's. Negative feedback is not healthy—"

Unable to contain herself any longer, she burst out with, "But it wasn't negative."

It was not exactly what she'd had in mind for breaking the news about a potential future offspring.

His mouth hung open. "It wasn't negative?"

She grinned. "Yes."

"Yes, it wasn't negative, or yes, it was negative?"

"Let me put it more plainly," she said. She fished the test from where she'd hidden it (in the pocket of her robe hanging on the hook), and showed him.

The longer he looked at it, the whiter he got; it was very likely that he might faint. She tugged his hand to get him to sit down on the closed toilet lid. "Mark?" she asked, stroking his hair tenderly. "Mark?"

"We'll need to go to the doctor's tomorrow," he said, kind of in a haze, his voice flat, almost robotic. "Get confirmation."

"Tomorrow's Boxing Day," she reminded. "Then it's the weekend. How about Monday?"

He looked to her at last, blinking rapidly. "We'll find someone before Monday." He snapped out of his shock at last and jumped to his feet, embracing her and holding her tightly, seemingly forgetting that he was dressed in damp jogging clothes. "Oh my God," he said, breathing into her ear. "It's a miracle."

The only miracle involved was a man who loved her and was unwilling to give up on her, on them… but she said nothing, only felt tears spring to her eyes as she hugged him in return.

………

Mark's broad grin on Christmas Day was assumed to be in place because he would finally be marrying Bridget after seven long years of waiting; they decided not to say anything until they were certain.

Within a day or two, the doctor was able to confirm what the thin blue line had suggested.

The wedding dinner on New Year's Day brought more good news than the attending guests were expecting, though Bridget's refusal of champagne on her wedding day should have been their first clue.

The first entry in her gilt-edged journal described the very best day of her life.

The end.