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“This is fucking bullshit, Bridget Jones!” Richard Finch bellowed, his beefy red face a little too close to her face, despite the desk between them. “It’s bad enough that the report in Kent went tits-up last night-”
“Resoundingly not my fault,” Bridget muttered to herself, remembering the poor dog she had been ‘interviewing’ and its unfortunately-timed, mid-broadcast bout of indigestion.
“-but I can’t keep having you bugger up our live cover stories, be it with your arse-” (a bit unfair, that was months and months ago) “-or a dog’s!” Richard banged a fist on her desk, displacing a few pens and toppling the photograph of Mark she kept there. “If you keep this up, I’m thinking pay cuts, I’m thinking demotion, ” Bridget winced, “I’m thinking Bridget sodding Jones parking her arse behind a desk all day instead of parking it in front of my audience! Is that clear?”
If anyone saw Bridget’s lower lip tremble as she stared up at her boss, expression defiant, and responded with a curt, “Crystal, Mr Finch,” they didn’t say so.
As soon as she’d locked herself away in the ladies’, Bridget let the tears of anger and frustration fall freely. She sat down squarely on the lid of the closed toilet, fishing her phone out from her handbag and dialing. She could do with some kind words, and she knew just the man for it. After several rings, the lovely voice of Mark Darcy greeted her ears, and she sighed with relief, except-
“...please leave a message.” Beep.
“Fucking shit,” she said, then, sniffling, “sorry, Mark, not directed at you, I’ll - I’ll just send you a text,” and she hung up resignedly. As she did, her phone buzzed.
Mark Darcy [10:23]: Sorry, am in a meeting. Is everything alright? Mark.
Bridget Jones [10:23]: richard fucking finch is a knob
Bridget grabbed some loo roll and dabbed at her face, waiting on a reply.
Mark Darcy [10:24]: Ah.
Mark Darcy [10:24]: Would this have to do with last night’s “Freak Broadcast” of which we were not to speak? Mark.
She exhaled, thumbs flexing. If she couldn’t rant in Mark’s ear about it, she could certainly type up her spiel. It wasn’t the same, but it would do for now.
Bridget Jones [10:24]: u neednt append ‘mark’ to messages, i know it’s u
Bridget Jones [10:25]: but yes naturally
Bridget Jones [10:25]: he basically paraded me in front of everyone waving a banner that said
Bridget Jones [10:25]: BRIDGET JONSE IS A FAT INCOMPETENT
Bridget Jones [10:25]: OOPS JONES* obviously
Bridget Jones [10:25]: u’d think autocorrect would pick that up
Bridget Jones [10:26]: anyway
Bridget Jones [10:26]: on top of the crappy dog broadcast last night
Bridget Jones [10:26]: and because im a useless presenter in general
Bridget Jones [10:26]: he was saying he might cut me from the reporting team and stick my lardy arse behind a desk all day instead and i dont want to become a desk jockey and he knows it but i really did try last night!
Bridget Jones [10:28]: :’( :’( :’(
Bridget snuffled, the sound echoing around the ladies’. She felt a little better now, having put it all into words and emoji, talking to lovely, wonderful, caring Mark. She leaned her head against the cubicle wall, waiting patiently for her phone to buzz again.
Mark Darcy [10:30]: Ah.
She wrinkled her nose at his less than satisfactory response, but gave him a moment to finish typing.
Mark Darcy [10:31]: Well darling, I’m sure you didn’t deserve it, lol.
Mark Darcy [10:31]: I must go. Meeting’s finished. Lol. Mark.
Bridget almost dropped her phone (not that it would have mattered, since it was fairly shattered to shit already), incredulous at her fiance’s apparent lack of sympathy.
“Prick!” she shouted at her phone, the curse echoing around the bathroom. A fresh set of tears welled up, and she decided there and then to take the rest of the day off sick, and then she immediately changed her mind, since that would do her no favours in Richard Finch’s eyes.
No, she would buck up, get through the rest of the day, and first thing after clocking off, she would call Tom, Jude and Shaz for an emergency summit.
“This is fucking bullshit, Bridget Jones!” Shaz shrieked, almost spilling her cocktail as she gestured vehemently across the table. Beside her, Jude and Tom nodded fiercely, straws poking out from between their lips as they sipped on their third round of drinks.
“Let me get this straight, Bridge,” Tom began, “first, Richard fucking arsehole Finch-”
“RICHARD FUCKING ARSEHOLE FINCH!” Bridget, Jude and Shazzer chorused, and not for the first time that evening.
“-lambasted you in front of the entire fucking office-”
“LAMBASTED!”
“-and then Mark great-arse but great arsey Darcy-”
“GREAT-ARSE BUT GREAT ARSEY DARCY!”
“-utterly ridicules you via text, of all available mediums!”
Bridget inclined her head, fighting down a burp, “That’s right, Tom, downright shut me down with an ELLE OH ELLE, pozzle- poshi- pos’tively laughing at my misery!”
Shaz and Jude tutted, pushing Bridget’s drink closer to her.
“What an absolute cock.” Jude.
“All men are cocks, Jude.” Shaz.
“Objection!” Tom. “While all men have cocks-”
“Richard fucking arsehole Finch doesn’t, they went with his bollocks-”
“RICHARD FUCKING ARSEHOLE FINCH!”
“-but speaking as a man-”
“Present company excluded, Tom, of course, as always,” Bridget patted his hand reassuringly.
Mollified, Tom grasped her hand. “Since when does great-arse Darcy use text speak, anyway? Thought he had one of those fancy phones with a full QWERTY keyboard on?”
Bridget hiccoughed. “Jeremy has been trying to bring him into this century.” She showed them her phone. “But it’s just given him more ammunition to be a wanker instead of appealing to my- my youthful vigour and-” she hiccoughed again, “he did it multiple times! Wanker! ”
Sure enough, throughout the rest of the day were a few more texts from Mark.
Mark Darcy [17:02]: Tried calling. Are we still on for dinner? Mark.
Mark Darcy [17:27]: Are you at home? I dropped by your office but they said you’d gone home sick? Hope you’re feeling alright, lol. Mark.
Mark Darcy [19:10]: Am home. You are not. I suppose our plans are off for the evening.
Mark Darcy [19:11]: I will miss you, lol. Mark
Mark Darcy [19:15]: Feel free to stop by mine for a nightcap, lol :-) goodnight. Mark.
“Presumptuous - selfish - what a complete and utter cock!” Jude squealed as she read the messages. “Who does he fucking think he is, cheeky bastard! A nightcap? After being such an arse? You ought to give him a piece of your mind-”
“No no, he deserves the silent treatment a bit more,” Shaz interjected, sloshing pink liquid from her glass onto the table as she jabbed her drink in Jude’s direction. “Let him stew.”
“It has been two hours since that last message,” Bridget ventured bravely, suddenly gripped by the drunken urge to burst into tears, again.
“Yes, send the bastard a piece of your mind, lovely Bridge!” Tom cried enthusiastically, “I’ll get the next round. Who’s up for sex on the beach?”
Bridget Jones [21:39]: am i just a JOKE TO YOU?
Mark Darcy [21:42]: Of course not. lol
Bridget showed the table this development.
“Fucking cheeky fucker!” Shaz yelled.
Bridget Jones [22:07]: PRICK!
Bridget’s urban family ushered her from the cab, urging her towards the steps of Mark’s flat.
“Why can’ I jus’ go home to Borough Mark’t,” Bridget was slurring, and was reminded by Jude for the fourth time that the old lady she was subletting it to would probably not appreciate the intrusion. Tom fished Bridget’s keys from her bag and shoved her through the front door.
“He’s probably asleep, Bridge,” he said in a stage whisper, “go bollock him and make him sleep on the couch!”
Jude and Shaz giggled from behind him, and all three gave Bridget reassuring hugs and kisses on the cheek.
“Drink some water, Bridge. Catch up again soon!”
As the door shut, Bridget fumbled for the light switch, making a valiant attempt at getting to the kitchen for a glass of water. She yelped in fright as she walked into the kitchen, not expecting Mark to be slouched on his elbows over the counter, grasping a mug of tea in one hand and cradling his head in the other.
“Evening, Bridget,” he murmured.
“You!” she managed.
Mark blinked.
Struggling to find the right words, Bridget was able to squawk, “Why do you keep ridiculing me?!” and then turned on her heel, her quest for water forgotten. Mark stammered inarticulately, almost tripping over his own feet as he followed her upstairs to the bedroom.
“Wait. Bridget-”
She shut the door in his face. He could hear her fumbling with the lock and eventually giving up; after counting to ten, he grasped the door handle and let himself in.
Truly, Bridget was a sight to behold. Confused and hurt as he was, Mark regarded her adoringly, unable to bring himself to be annoyed at her petulant expression. She had plonked herself on her side of the bed, knees drawn up to her chest, her shoes kicked carelessly about the floor. Pointedly avoiding his gaze as he entered, she curled up into a tighter ball. Mark sat on the opposite end of the bed, wary of incensing her further.
After a moment, she mumbled, “You’re a bastard,” into her knees.
“I’m sure you’re right,” Mark replied, brows knitted together in consternation, “but why?”
No answer.
“Bridget, you know I find emotional declarations... difficult; please, was it something I said?” He shifted onto the bed fully, facing her. “Or something I didn’t say?”
She huffed, her jaw clenching. “I have a miserable day that you know I was dreading,” she unfurled herself and - a bit unsteadily - scooted a little closer to him, “because of last night’s utter shitstorm of a broadcast, and you have the - the bollocks, ” she prodded him square in the chest, “to mock me for it! Had to run crying to lovely Tom, and lovely Shaz, and lovely Jude,” she hiccoughed, “and even they thought you were better than that. Arsey Darcy.”
Mark’s face fell at that. “Bridget.”
She fell back, turning her face away. “Oh yes, great arse, but you’re a great arse, Mark Darcy!”
“I'm afraid I still don't understand," Mark whispered, looking - and feeling - very much like a kicked puppy.
At his admission, Bridget screwed up her face and blew a raspberry at him. Her eyes filled with tears for the umpteenth time that night (she was still far from sober) and she buried her face in the pillows behind her.
“Lol, lol, lol, lol,” she screeched into the fabric, the downy pillows muffling her yells. “Hilarious! What a puerile specimen, lardy arse,” she paused to hiccough and sob pathetically, “lol, lol, even my fiance thinks I’m a joke!”
Mark flinched. “I don’t...” He shifted across the bed, inching closer to the prone, drunken mess. "Bridget, please," he said quietly from behind her, not daring to cuddle up too closely, "tell me what I've done wrong."
Bridget grunted, her voice dropping an octave. "Oh, hope your bastard boss didn't tell you off too sternly bridge, hyuk hyuk, lords knows your lardy arse didn't deserve it, hyuk!" She turned his face toward him, her nose scrunched up mockingly against the pillow, "Love you Bridget, hyuk! Come by and be at my beck and call because I know you’re just arse over tit for me, hyuk hyuk, big barrister man!"
Mark’s brows knitted impossibly closer together. “Are… is that meant to be me? I don’t - I don’t very well hyuk, Bridget-”
She thumped him pathetically on the chest, galled, and buried her face back in the pillow. “Yes you do, lol,” she hissed into it.
Mark stared at the back of her head for what felt like an hour, his mind ticking over. Bridget’s sobs died down, her breathing becoming more even. Worried she would fall asleep, he stroked her shoulder gently, and then it hit him.
“Lots of love,” he murmured.
Bridget lifted her face from the pillow, recoiling at the makeup decorating the spot where her face had been. “What?”
"L - O - L," Mark enunciated each letter. "I believe we're both labouring under a terrible misapprehension."
Bridget, alcohol- and crying-jag-addled, could only look at him hazily. “What?” she said again.
“Don’t say ‘what’, Bridget, say pardon.”
“Bugger off.” She made a move to leave the bed, but Mark placed a firm hand on hers.
“Jeremy led me to believe the acronym LOL meant ‘lots of love’, but I suspect that’s not what it means to you,” Mark said mildly, fighting the urge to smile. “Am I right?”
Bridget stared at him for a good minute.
“Am I right, Bridget?” he asked, very, very gently.
She threw her arms up in the air, falling back onto the bed completely.
“This is fucking bullshit, Bridget Jones,” she groaned, mostly to herself, eyes closed.
Mark grinned.
“Laugh out loud,” Bridget said heavily, eyes still closed, “it fucking means laugh out loud, you technologically incompetent arse!”
Chuckling, Mark lay himself alongside her. He ran a hand across her belly, sprawling a leg over hers as he pressed into her.
“For what it’s worth, I am sorry,” he murmured into her ear.
She shifted away from him half-heartedly. “You’re still a technologically incompetent arse,” was all she could grate out, a little distracted by the kisses Mark was busy placing along her neck and jaw, and by the way his hand was brushing away from her stomach in a decidedly ungentlemanly direction.
“Oh, yes,” he conceded, “but I’ve a great arse.”
She swatted his wandering hand away at that. “Cheeky.”
“Such is the nature of an arse.”
Bridget giggled, turning so they were face-to-face. She ran a hand through his hair. “Keep up the sass, Mr Darcy, and you’ll only get yours handed to you.”
A grin split his face. “I’d like to see you try, Miss Jones.”