It was all so bloody tiresome being nice all the time. Smile at this, laugh at that, don’t ever say a mean word about anyone. How insanely dull. But it had to be done, Bridget reminded herself many times every day. She would not lose Hartley this time, even if it meant a personality bypass in the process. There was, of course, nothing wrong with Bridget’s personality – people admired her for her honesty and humour. But she would be Snow White for a few months if that’s what it took to get a bloody ring on her finger.
That bitch Lucy had, by all accounts, been sweeter than sweet. Claudia had chirruped on like a deranged nightingale about how lovely Lucy had been and how she simply couldn’t believe she would be behind the photographer incident. Bridget wondered if Claudia was having a dig at her; perhaps she suspected Bridget had played a part. Doubtful, given that Bridget had been sure to keep up the saintly act in front of Claudia too. It was imperative that Hartley saw what a good friend she was and that she hadn’t minded in the slightest that her very best friend had welcomed Lucy into their group.
‘Oh yes, I gather she was a lovely girl,’ Bridget told Claudia. ‘I can’t quite believe what she did. Poor darling Hartley.’
Bridget’s plan seemed to be working, albeit much slower than she would have liked. She had caught Hartley at just the right time. He was vulnerable and a little lonely and had welcomed Bridget, his fellow newly-single friend. But he had seemed wary at first of being anything more than friends. Bridget had been sure to let him think romance was the last thing she wanted too. But she had sensed a slight change in him over the last few days. Bridget had arranged dinner at the Ivy Club with Claudia and Charles – double dating, just like the old times. If there was a book to be written on sweetness and light, Bridget would be the author after that night. She asked Charles all about his deadly dull job as a trader and complimented Claudia on everything from her nails to her last-season Mulberry raincoat. When, a little merry at the end of the evening, she took Hartley’s hand while leaving the restaurant, he responded by tightening his grip. And when he dropped her off they kissed on the lips. Bridget wondered if he had read the magazine she had left at his house. She had popped in to drop off a batch of delicious home-made cookies for him to try. (Her baker friend had made them but acting like a cross between Little Bo Peep and Nigella Lawson was her game plan.) And before leaving she had left several magazines, telling him they were for the waiting room of the Balmyle Foundation – often there were a few homeless types who popped in for a cup of tea, wasters that they were. This might cheer them up, she had told Hartley. And she had carefully left one of the magazines open at an article on the benefits of being a dad before the age of thirty-five. Subliminal messages, subtle prodding in the right direction was all he needed.
When she dropped off the cookies, Hartley had told her over coffee that he was glad she had been around.
‘You’ve been lovely to me, Bridget, a real rock. Thank you.’
‘Oh darling Hartley, what are friends for?’
‘You seem somehow different from before, Bridge. I don’t know. More gentle, perhaps.’
Bingo! Bridget had been waiting for this opportunity. The key was to make him think that she was never really as bad as he had imagined, that it was somehow in his head.
‘Perhaps you are right, Hartley. But also, maybe you saw in me what you wanted to see when we dated. Sometimes, when we want a relationship to end, we make ourselves think our partner is not right for us…’ Bridget left the thought hanging in the air like a wisp of smoke meandering to the ceiling, before cutting in. ‘Who knows, sweetie? So long as you know I am always here for you.’
Hartley smiled back at Bridget. Indeed, she did seem so warm, so giving compared to the Bridget he remembered. Perhaps she was right. Maybe she hadn’t been so bad. She was so sweet to her friends, so keen to make everyone happy. She was always asking how he felt, how his mother was bearing up in Scotland alone. Hartley knew it made a great deal of sense to be with Bridget. But sense did not equate to love, the kind of raw emotion and passion he had experienced with Lucy. But look what that had brought him – utter devastation. Bridget had either changed or he had misjudged her.
Hartley had been a wreck after Scotland. He was still at a loss to explain what had happened. He felt so lonely and hated the prospect of having nothing but his own thoughts and company. So many times he had wanted to pick up the phone and call Lucy, to ask her what had happened. He had called once but hung up when he heard her answer message. Every day he hoped desperately to see her name flash on his phone. He longed to hear her voice.
He was thankful Bridget had been there for him when he was down. She reminded him that Lucy hadn’t contacted him to explain the situation. She didn’t say it unkindly, pointing out that poor Lucy must be mortified. After all, the evidence pointed so clearly towards her. Hartley had to admit Bridget had a point. Even when the story about Lucy’s background had broken, Bridget hadn’t judged, telling him that perhaps she was just embarrassed about her past – even though it didn’t make her a terrible person. Hartley had read the article with an overwhelming sadness. He didn’t care what Lucy was or what her family had, but the girl staring up at him from the newspaper seemed so remote now. They had shared so much during their time together and yet Lucy had never told him she and Max had different fathers, or so many other things. Perhaps he never really knew her.
A few days before the story appeared, Hartley had kissed Bridget. Poor lonely Hartley needed a woman in his life and it wouldn’t be long before he wanted more than a kiss. Then there would be no going back.