Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding
Jude. "And he had a penis that was so enormous he couldn't sleep with anyone."
"What? I thought you said she slept with him," said Shazzer, keeping one eye on the television.
"She slept with him but she didn't do it," explained Jude.
"Because she couldn't because his thing was too big," I said supportively of Jude's anecdote. "What a terrible thing. Do you think it goes by nationality? I mean do you think the Turks ... ?"
"Look, shut up," said Shazzer.
For a while we all fell silent, imagining the many penises tucked neatly into shorts and thinking of all the games of many different nationalities in the past. Was just about to open my mouth, but then Jude, who seemed to have become rather fixated for some reason, piped up, "It must be very weird having a penis."
"Yes," I agreed, "very weird to have an active appendage. If I had one I would think about it all the time."
"Well, yes, you'd worry about what it would do next," said Jude.
"Well, exactly," I agreed. "You might suddenly get a gigantic erection in the middle of a football match."
"Oh for God's sake!" yelled Sharon.
"OK, keep your hair on," said Jude. "Bridge? Are you all right? You seem a bit down about something."
I looked nervously at Shaz then decided this was too important to let lie. I cleared my throat for attention and announced: "Rebecca rang Mark up and asked us on a mini-break this weekend."
WHAT?" Jude and Shaz exploded simultaneously. Was really glad the seriousness of the situation was fully appreciated. Jude got up for the Milk Tray and Shaz fetched another bottle from the fridge.
"The thing is," Sharon was summing up, "we've known Rebecca for four years. Has she ever once in all that time invited you, me or Jude on one of her posh house-party weekends?"
"No." I shook my head solemnly.
"But the thing is," said Jude, "if you don't go then what if he goes on his own? You can't let Rebecca get him in her clutches. And also it's obviously important to someone in his position to have someone who's a good social partner."
"Hgumph," snorted Shazzer. "That's just retrospective bollocks. If Bridget says she doesn't want to go and he goes without her and he gets off with Rebecca then he's a second-rate charlatan and not worth having. Social partner - pah. We're not in the 1950s now. She's not cleaning the house all day in a pointy bra then entertaining his colleagues like some trophy Stepford wife. Tell him you know Rebecca's after him and that's why you don't want to go."
"But then he'll be flattered," said Jude. "There's nothing a man finds more attractive than a woman who is in love with him."
"Says who?" said Shaz.
"The baroness in The Sound of Music," said Jude, sheepishly.
Unfortunately, by the time we turned our attention back to it the game appeared to be over.
Next thing Mark rang.
"What happened?" he said excitedly.
"Um . . ." I said, gesturing wildly at Jude and Shazzer who looked completely blank.
"You did watch it, didn't you?"
"Yes, of course, football's coming home, it's coming." I sang, vaguely remembering this was something to do with Germany.
"So why don't you know what happened then? I don't believe you."
"We did. But we were..."
"What?"
"Talking," I finished lamely.
"Oh God." There was a long silence. "Listen, do you want to go to Rebecca's?"
I looked from Jude to Shaz, frantically. One yes. One no. And a yes from Magda.
"Yes," I said.
"Oh great. It'll be fun, I think. She said to bring a swimsuit."
A swimsuit! Doom. Dooooooooom.
On way home, discovered same lot of workmen tumbling pissed out of pub. Put nose in air and decided did not care whether they whistled or not but just as walked past was huge cacophony of appreciative noises. Turned round, pleased to give them a filthy look only to find they were all looking the other way and one of them had just thrown a brick through the window of a Volkswagen.
Saturday 22 February
9st 5 (honing), alcohol units 3 (best behaviour), cigarettes
2 (huh), calories 10,000 (probably: suspected Rebecca sabotage), dogs up skin 1 (constantly).
Gloucestershire. Turns out Rebecca's parents" "country cottage" has stable blocks, outbuildings, pool, full staff and its own church in the "garden'. As we scrunched across the gravel, Rebecca - snooker-ball-bottomed in jeans in manner of Ralph Lauren ad - was playing with a dog, sunlight dappling her hair, amongst an array of Saab and BMW convertibles.
"Emma! Get down! Hiiiiil" she cried, at which dog broke free and put its nose straight up my coat.
"Mwah, come and have a drink," she said welcoming Mark as I wrestled with the dog's head.
Mark rescued me, shouting, "Emma! Here!" and chucking the stick, so the dog brought it back, tail wagging. "Oh, she adores you, don't you, darling, don't you, don't you, don't you?" Rebecca cooed, fussing the dog's head like it was her and Mark's first-born baby.
My mobile rang. Tried to ignore it.
"I think that's yours, Bridget," said Mark. I took it out and pressed the button. "Oh, hello, darling, guess what?"
"Mother, what are you ringing me on my mobile for?" I hissed, watching Rebecca leading Mark away.
"We're all going to Miss Saigon next Friday! Una and Geoffrey and Daddy and I and Wellington. He's never been to a musical before. A Kikuyu at Miss Saigon. Isn't that fun? And we've got tickets for you and Mark to join us!
Gaah! Musicals! Strange men standing with their legs apart bellowing songs straight ahead.
By the time I got into house Mark and Rebecca had disappeared and was nobody around except the dog, which put its nose up my coat again.
4 p.m. Just back from walk round 'garden'. Rebecca kept installing me in conversations with men, then dragging Mark off miles ahead of everyone else. Ended up walking along with Rebecca's nephew: sub-Leonardo DiCaprio lookalike, hunted-looking in an Oxfam overcoat, whom everyone referred to as 'Johnny's boy'.
"I mean, like, I do have a name," he muttered.
"Oh don't be absuuuuuuuuuurd!" I said, pretending to be Rebecca. "What is it?"
He paused, looking embarrassed. "St John."
"Oh." I sympathized.
He laughed and offered me a fag.
"Better not," I said, nodding in Mark's direction.
"Is he your boyfriend or your father?"
He steered me off the path towards a mini lake and lit me a cigarette.
Was v. nice smoking and giggling naughtily. "We'd better go back," I said, stubbing cigarette out under my welly. Others were miles ahead, so we had to run: young and wild and free, in manner of Calvin Klein adverts. When we caught up Mark put his arms round me. "What have you been doing?" he said into my hair. "Smoking like a naughty schoolgirl?"
"I haven't had a cigarette for five years!" tinkled Rebecca.
7 p.m. Mmm. Mmm. Mark just got all horny before supper. Mmmmm.
Midnight. Rebecca made a great fuss of putting me next to "Johnny's boy" at dinner - 'You two are getting on sooooooo well!!' - and herself next to Mark.
They looked perfect together in their black tie. Black tie! As Jude said, was only because Rebecca wanted to show off her figure in Country Casuals gear and evening wear like Miss World entrant. Right on cue she went, "Shall we change into our swimwear now?" and tripped off to change, reappearing minutes later in an immaculately cut black swimsuit, legs up to the chandelier.
"Mark," she said, "would you give me a hand? I need to take the cover off the pool."
Mark looked from her to me worriedly.
"Of course. Yes," he said awkwardly and disappeared after her.
"Are you going to swim?" said the whippersnapper. "Well," I began, "I wouldn't want you to think I'm not a determined and keenly motivated sportswoman, but eleven o'clock at night after a five-course dinner is not my most swimmy time."
We chatted for a while, then I noticed t
"Shall we go and have coffee?" I said, getting up. "Bridget." Suddenly, he lurched drunkenly forward, and started trying to kiss me. The door burst open. Was Rebecca and Mark.
"Oops! Sorry" said Rebecca, and shut the door.
"What do you think you're doing!" I hissed, horrified, at the whippersnapper.
"But ... Rebecca said you told her you really fancied me, and, and..."
"And what?"
"She said you and Mark were in the process of splitting up."
I grabbed the table for support. "Who told her that?"
"She said" - he looked so mortified I felt really sorry for him -"she said Mark did."
Sunday 23 February
12st 4 (probably), alcohol units 3 (since midnight and is only 7 a. m.), cigarettes 100,000 (feels like), calories 3,275, positive thoughts 0, boyfriends: extremely uncertain figure.
When I got back to room, Mark was in the bath so I sat in nightie, planning my defence.
"It was not what you think," I said with tremendous originality, as he emerged.
"No?" he said, whisky in hand. He started striding around in his barrister mode, clad only in a towel. Was unnerving, but unbelievably sexy. "Had you a marble stuck in your throat, perhaps?" he said. "Was "St John" being, rather than the trust-funded teenage layabout he appears, actually a top ear, nose and throat surgeon attempting to extract it with his tongue?"
"No," I said, carefully and thoughtfully. "That is not what it was either."
"Then were you hyperventilating? Was "St John" - having garnered the rudiments of first aid into his marijuanaaddled brain, perhaps from a poster on the wall of the many drug rehab units he has visited in his short and otherwise uneventful life - trying to administer the kiss of life? Or did he simply mistake you for a choice morsel of "skunk" and find himself unable to . . ."
I started to laugh. Then he started laughing too, then we started kissing and one thing led to another and afterwards we fell asleep in each other's arms.
In the morning, woke up all rosy thinking everything was OK but then looked around and saw him already dressed, and knew was not anywhere near OK.
"I can explain," I said, dramatically sitting bolt upright. For a moment we looked at each other and started laughing. But then he turned serious.
"Go on, then."
"It was Rebecca," I said. "St John told me Rebecca told him that I told her I fancied him and..."
"And you believed this bewildering catalogue of Chinese whispers?"
"And that you told her we were..."
"Yes?"
"Splitting up," I said.
Mark sat down and started rubbing his fingers very slowly across his forehead.
"Did you?" I whispered. "Did you say that to Rebecca?"
"No," he said eventually. "I didn't say that to Rebecca, but. . ."
I daren't look at him.
"But maybe we..." he began.
The room started to go blotchy. Hate this about dating.
One minute you're closer to someone than anyone in the whole world, next minute they only need to say the words "time apart', "serious talk" or "maybe you..." and you're never going to see them again and will have to spend the next six months having imaginary conversations in which they beg to come back, and bursting into tears at the sight of their toothbrush.
"Do you want to split up ... ?"
There was a knock at the door. Was Rebecca radiant in dusky pink cashmere. "Last call for breakfast, folks!" she cooed and didn't go.
Ended up breakfasting with mad unwashed hair, while Rebecca swung her shiny mane and served kedgeree.
On the way home we drove in silence while I struggled not to show how I felt or say anything wet. Know from experience how awful it is trying to persuade someone you shouldn't split up when they have already made up their mind, and then you think back over what you said. And feel such an idiot.
"Don't do this!" I wanted to yell when we stopped outside my house. "She's trying to pinch you and it's all a plot. I didn't kiss St John. I love you..."
"Well, bye then," I said dignifiedly, and forced myself to get out of the car.
"Bye," he muttered, not looking at me.
Watched him turn the car round really fast and screechily. As he drove off, I saw him angrily brush his cheek as if he was wiping something away.
4 Persuasion
Monday 24 February
15st (combined weight of self and unhappiness), alcohol units 1 - i.e. me, cigarettes 200,000, calories 8,477 (not counting chocolate), theories as to what's going on 447, no. of times changed mind about what to do 448.
3 a.m. Don't know what I would have done without the girls yesterday. Called them instantly after Mark drove off, and they were round within fifteen minutes, never once saying 'I told you so.'
When Shazzer bustled in with armfuls of bottles and carrier bags, barking, "Has he rung?" was like being in ER when Dr Greene arrives.
"No," said Jude, popping a cigarette in my mouth as if it were a thermometer.
"Only a matter of time," said Shaz brightly, unpacking a bottle of Chardonnay, three pizzas, two tubs of HagenDaaz Pralines and Cream and a packet of fun-sized Twixes.
"Yup," said Jude, putting the Pride and Prejudice tape on top of the video, together with Through Love and Loss to Sel Esteem, The rive Stages of Dating Workbook, and How to Heal the Hurt by Hating. "He'll be back."
"Do you think I should call him." I said.
"No!" yelled Shaz.
"Have you gone out of your mind?" bellowed Jude. "He's being a Martian rubber band. The last thing you must do is call him."
"I know," I said huffily. I mean surely she didn't think I was that badly read.
"You let him go back to his cave and feel his attraction, and you move back from Exclusivity to Uncertainty." "But what if he . . . ?"
"You'd better unplug it, Shaz," sighed Jude. "Otherwise she'll spend the whole night waiting for him to ring instead of working on her self-esteem."
"Noooo!" I cried, feeling like they were going to cut my ear off.
"Anyway," said Shaz brightly, pulling the phone out of the wall with a click, "it'll do him good."
Two hours later was feeling quite confused.
"'The more a man likes a woman the more he will avoid getting involved'" said Jude triumphantly, reading from Mars and Venus on a Date.
"Sounds like masculine logic to me" said Shaz.
"So chucking me could actually be a sign that he's really serious about the relationship?" I said excitedly.
"Wait, wait." Jude was staring hard at Emotional Intelligence. "Was his wife unfaithful to him?"
"Yes," I mumbled through a mouthful of Twix. "A week after their wedding. With Daniel."
"Hmmm. You see it sounds to me that he was also having an Emotional Hijacking, probably because of an earlier emotional 'bruise' that you have inadvertently hit. Of course! Of course! That's it! That's why he overreacted to you snogging the boy. So don't worry, once the bruise has stopped sending his whole nervous system into disarray he'll realize his mistake."
"And realize he ought to go out with someone else because he likes you so much!" said Sharon, merrily lighting up a Silk Cut.
"Shut up, Shaz," hissed Jude. "Shut up."
It was too late. The spectre of Rebecca loomed up, filling the room like an inflatable monster.
"Oh, oh, oh," I said, screwing up my eyes.
"Quick, get her a drink, get her a drink," yelled Jude. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Put Pride and Prejudice on," gabbled Shaz, pouring neat brandy into my mouth. "Find the wet shirt. Shall we have the pizzas?"
Was a bit like Christmas, or more like when somebody dies and with funeral and all the fuss nothing is normal so people do not notice the loss because they are so distracted. It is when life goes back to what it was without the person that the trouble starts. Like now for example.
7 p.m. Wild joy! Got home to find answerphone light flashing.
Try me again later. Hmmm. So presumably that means not to ring him.
7.13 p.m. He hasn't rung. Unsure what is correct procedure now. Better ring Shaz.
On top of everything else, hair has gone mad as if in sympathy. Bizarre the way that hair is normal for weeks on end then suddenly in space of five minutes goes berserk, announcing it is time to cut in manner of baby starting yelling to be fed.
7.30 p.m. Played the message over the phone to Shaz and said, "Should I call him back?"
"No Let him suffer. If he's chucked you and changed his mind he's got to prove he bloody well deserves you." Shaz is right. Yes. Am in v. assertive mood re: Mark Darcy.
8.35 p.m. Oh, though. Maybe he is sad. Hate thinking of him sitting in his Newcastle United tee-shirt being sad. Maybe I should just ring him and get to the bottom of it.
8.50 p.m. Was just about to ring Mark and blurt out how much I liked him and it was all just misunderstandings but fortunately Jude rang before I had time to pick up the phone. Told her about the brief but worryingly positive mood.
"So you mean you're in Denial again?"
"Yes," I said uncertainly. "Should I ring him tomorrow maybe?"
"No, if you want to get back together, you've got to leave it unsullied by scenes. So wait four or five days till you've recovered your composure, then, yes, there's nothing wrong with giving him a light, friendly call just to let him know everything's OK."
11 p.m. He hasn't rung. Oh fuck. Am so confused. Whole dating world is like hideous game of bluff and double bluff with men and women firing at each other from opposite lines of sandbags. Is as if there is a set of rules that you are supposed to be sticking to, but no one knows what they are so everyone just makes up their own. Then you end up getting chucked because you didn't follow the rules correctly, but how could you be expected to, when you didn't know what they were in the first place?
Tuesday 25 February
No. of times driven past Mark Darcy's house to see if there are any lights on 2 (or 4 if count both ways). No. of times dialled 141 (so cannot trace my number if he 1471s) then rang his answerphone just to hear his voice 5 (bad) (v.g. for not leaving message though). No. of times looked Mark Darcy's number up in phone book just to prove to self he still exists 2 (v. restrained), percentage of outgoing calls made from mobile to keep line clear in case he rings 100. Percentage of incoming callers creating angry resentment for not being Mark Darcy - unless ringing to talk about Mark Darcy - and urged to get off the phone as quickly as possible in case blocking call from Mark Darcy 100.