Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason by Helen Fielding
8 p.m. Magda just called to ask how the weekend went. Ended up blurting out the whole story.
"Listen, if you take it from him one more time you're going in the naughty chair! Harry! Sorry, Bridge. So what does he say about it?"
"I haven't spoken to him."
"What? Why not?"
Explained about the answerphone message and the whole rubber band/emotional bruise/liking me too much theory.
"Bridget, you are literally unbelievable. There's nothing in the entire story to suggest he's chucked you at all. He just got in a bad mood because he caught you snogging someone."
"I wasn't snogging someone. I was being happened upon against my will!"
"But he's not a mind-reader. How's he supposed to know what you feel? You have to communicate. Take that out of his mouth now! You're coming with me. You're coming upstairs with me to the naughty chair."
8.45 p.m. Maybe Magda is right. Maybe I just assumed that he was chucking me and he didn't mean that at all. Maybe in the car he was just upset about the whole snogging thing and wanted me to say something and now he thinks I am avoiding him! Am going to ring. That is the trouble with modern (or ex) relationships, there just isn't enough communication.
9 p.m. Right, am going to do it.
9.01 p.m. Here goes.
9.10 p.m. Mark Darcy answered by barking "Yesssss?", in incredibly impatient voice with all noise in background.
Crestfallen, I whispered, "It's me, it's Bridget."
"Bridget! Are you mad? Don't you know what's going on? You haven't called me for two days and now you ring me in the middle of the most important, the most crucial- Noooooo! Nooooo! You stupid, bloody ... Jesus Christ. You stupid - right beside the ref. That was a foul! You'll be ... he's booking him. He's going off. Oh Jesus - look, I'll call you back when it's over."
9.15 p.m. Of course knew it was some kind of TransUniverse final or whatever it is, had just forgotten owing to emotional thought-bog. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.
9.30 p.m. How could I be so stupid? How? How?
9.35 p.m. Oh goody - telephone! Mark Darcy!
Was Jude.
"What?" she said. "He didn't talk to you because he was in the middle of a football match? Go out. Go out immediately. Don't be in when he calls back. How dare he!"
Immediately realized Jude was right and if Mark really cared about me football would not have been more important. Shaz was even more emphatic.
"The only reason men are so obsessed with football is that they're bone idle," she exploded. "They think by supporting some team or other and making a lot of noise they've actually won the match themselves and deserve to have cheering and clapping and a great fuss made of them."
"Yes. So are you coming round to Jude's?"
"Er, no . . ."
"Why not?"
"I'm watching the match with Simon."
Simon? Shazzer and Simon? But Simon is just one ofour mates.
"But I thought you just said ... ?"
"That's different. The reason I like football is it's a very interesting game."
Hmm. Was just leaving the house when phone rang again.
"Oh, hello, darling. It's Mum. We're having the most marvellous time. Everyone adores Wellington! We took him to the Rotary and..."
"Mother," I hissed. "You can't parade Wellington around like some sort of exhibit."
"Do you know, darling," she said icily, "if there's one thing I really don't like it's racism and bigotry."
"What?"
"Well. When the Robertsons were up from Amersham we took them to the Rotary and you didn't say anything about that, did you?"
I gawped, trying to untangle the web of warped logic. "Always putting everyone in little boxes, aren't you, with your 'Smug Marrieds' and 'Singletons' and coloured people and homos. Anyway, I was just ringing about Miss Saigon on Friday. It starts at seven thirty."
Oh Christ. "Er ... !" I said wildly. Sure I didn't say yes, sure of it.
"Now come along, Bridget. We've bought the tickets." Resignedly agreed to bizarre jaunt, making gabbling excuse about Mark working, which completely set her off.
"Working, durrr! What's he doing working on a Friday
night? Are you sure he's not working too hard? I really don't think working..."
"Mum, I've really got to go, I'm late for Jude," I said firmly.
"Oh, always rushing about. Jude, Sharon, yoga. I'm surprised you and Mark have got any time to see each other at all!"
Once round at Jude's flat, the conversation moved naturally to Shazzer and Simon.
"But, actually" - Jude leaned forward confidentially, even though no one else was there -'I bumped into them in the Conran Shop on Saturday. And they were giggling together over cutlery like a pair of Smug Marrieds."
What is it about modern Singletons that only way they can have a normal relationship is if it isn't supposed to be a relationship? There's Shaz who isn't going out with Simon doing what couples are supposed to do, and me and Mark who are supposed to be going out not seeing each other at all.
"If you ask me people should not say "just good friends" but "just going out with each other"," I said darkly.
"Yup," said Jude. "Maybe the answer is platonic friends combined with a vibrator."
Got back to remorseful message from Mark saying he had tried to ring straight after the match but phone was permanently engaged and now I was out. Was just wondering whether to call him back when he rang.
"Sorry about earlier," he said. "I'm just really down about it, aren't you?"
"I know," I said tenderly, "I feel exactly the same." "I just keep thinking: why"'
"Exactly!" I beamed, huge rush of love and relief washing over me.
"So stupid and unnecessary," he said, anguished. "A pointless outburst with devastating consequences."
"I know," I nodded, thinking, blimey, he's taking it even more dramatically than me.
"How can a man live with that?"
"Well, everyone is only human," I said thoughtfully. "People have to forgive each other and ... themselves."
"Chuh! It's easy to say that," he said. "But if he hadn't been sent off we'd never have been subjected to the tyranny of the penalty shoot-out. We fought like kings amongst lions, but it cost us the game!"
I gave a strangled cry, mind reeling. Surely it cannot be true that men have football instead of emotions? Realize football is exciting and binds nations together with common goals and hatreds but surely wholesale anguish, depression and mourning hours later is taking ...
"Bridget, what's the matter? It's only a game. Even I can see that. When you called me during the match I was so caught up in my own feelings that ... But it's only a game."
"Right, right," I said, staring around the room crazily.
"Anyway, what's going on? I haven't heard a peep from you for days. Hope you haven't been snogging any more teenage ... Oh hang on, hang on, they're playing it back. Shall I come round tomorrow, no, wait, I'm playing five-a-side - Thursday?"
"Er ... yes," I said.
"Great, see you about eight o clock."
Wednesday 26 February
9st 4, alcohol units 2 (v.g.), cigarettes 3 (v.g.), calories 3,845 (poor), minutes not spent obsessing re: Mark Darcy 24 (excellent progress), variations on twin-horned sculpture dreamed up by hair 13 (alarming).
8.30 a.m. Right. Everything is probably fine (apart, obviously, from hair) though it is possible that Mark was avoiding issue as did not want to talk about emotions on the phone. So tomorrow night is crucial.
Important thing is to be assured, receptive, responsive, not complain about anything, move back a Stage and ... er, look really sexy. Will see if can get hair cut in lunch hour. And will go to gym before work. Maybe have a steam bath so will be all glowing.
8.45 a.m. Letter has come for me! Hurrah! Maybe late Valentine card from secret admirer) which has been misdirected owing to incorrect postcode.
9 a.m. Was letter from bank about overdraft. Also enclosin
Note said: "This cheque is to Marks & Spencer's Financial Services."
Was for Christmas payment on M&S card. Oh. Oh dear. Feel bit bad now for mentally accusing innocent dry-cleaner's and being all funny with the boy. Hmm. Too late to go to gym now, also too generally upset. Will go after work.
2 p.m. Office. In loos. Total, total disaster. Just got back from hairdresser's. Told Paolo about just wanting tiny trim to turn hair from mad chaos into that of Rachel from Friends. He started running his hands through it and I instantly felt in care of genius who understood self's inner beauty. Paolo seemed marvellously in control, throwing the hair this way and that, then blowing it about into huge bouff, giving me knowing looks as if to say "I'm gonna make you into one hot chick."
Then suddenly he stopped. Hair looked totally insane like schoolteacher who has had perm followed by puddingbasin cut. He looked at me with an expectant, confident smirk and his assistant came up and started gushing "Oh it's heaven." Panicked, staring at self in horror but had established such a bond of mutual admiration with Paolo that to say I hated hair would make whole thing collapse like impossibly embarrassing house of cards. Ended up joining in mad gushing about monster hair and giving Paolo E5 tip. When got back to work, Richard Finch said I looked like Ruth Madoc from Hi-de-Hi.
7 p.m. Back home. Hair is complete fright wig with hideous short fringe. Just spent forty-five minutes staring in mirror with brows raised trying to make fringe look longer but cannot spend whole of tomorrow night looking like Roger Moore when the baddy with the cat has threatened to blow up him, the world, and the tiny box full of M15 vital computers.
7.15 p.m. Attempt to mimic early Linda Evangelista by arranging fringe into diagonal line using gel has turned self into Paul Daniels.
Incensed with rage at stupid Paolo. Why would someone do that to another person" Why? Hate sadistic megalomaniac hairdressers. Am going to sue Paolo. Am going to report Paolo to Amnesty International, Esther Rantzen, Penny Junor or similar and expose him on national television.
Far too depressed to go to gym.
7.30 p.m. Called Tom to tell him of trauma who said I should not be so superficial but to think of Irish Secretary Mo Mowlam and cancer-treated bald head. V. ashamed. Not going to obsess any more. Also Tom said had I thought up anyone to interview yet.
"Well, I've been a bit busy," I said guiltily.
"You know what? You gotta get your ass in gear" - oh God, don't know what has come over him in California - "Who are you really interested in?" he went on. "Isn't there a celebrity you'd really like to interview?"
Thought about this then suddenly realized. "Mr Darcy!" I said.
"What? Colin Firth?"
"Yes! Yes! Mr Darcy! Mr Darcy'
So now have got project. Hurrah! Am going to get to work and set up interview using his agent. Will he marvellous, can get out all cuttings and really bring out unique perspective on ... Oh, though. Had better wait till fringe has grown. Gaaah! Doorbell. Had better not be Mark. But he definitely said tomorrow! Calm, calm.
"It's Gary," went the entryphone.
"Oh hi, hi. Gareeeee!" I overcompensated without a blind idea who he was. "How are you?" I said, thinking.. and come to mention it, who?
"Cold. Are you gonna let me in?"
Suddenly recognized the voice - "Oh Gary," I gushed even more crazily overcompensatorly. "Come on up!!!" Hit self hard on head. What was he doing here?
He came in wearing paint-smeared, builder-type jeans, an orange tee-shirt and strange checked jacket with pretend sheepskin collar.
"Hi," he said, sitting down at the kitchen table as if he were my husband. Was unsure how to deal with two -people -in -room -with -totally - different- concept- ofreality- scenario.
"Now, Gary," I said. "I'm in a bit of a rush!"
He said nothing and started rolling a cigarette. Suddenly started to feel scared. Maybe he was a mad rapist. But he never tried to rape Magda, at least as far as I know.
"Was there something you'd forgotten?" I said nervously.
"Nope," he said, still rolling the cigarette. I glanced at the door wondering if I should make a run for it. "Where's your soil pipe?"
"Gareeeeeeeee!" I wanted to yell. "Go away. Just go away. I'm seeing Mark tomorrow night, and I've got to do something with my fringe and work out on the floor."
He put the cigarette in his mouth and stood up. "Let's have a look in the bathroom."
"Noooo!" I yelled, remembering there was an open tub of Jolene bleach and a copy of What Men Want on the side of the washbasin. "Look, can you come back another ... T
But he was already poking about, opening the door and peering down the stairs and heading towards the bedroom.
"Have you got a back window in here?"
"Yes."
"Let's have a look."
I stood nervously in the bedroom doorway, while he opened the window and looked out. He did seem more interested in pipes than actually attacking me.
"Thought so" he said triumphantly, bringing his head back in and closing the window. "You've got room for an infill extension out there."
"I'm afraid you're going to have to go away," I said, drawing myself up to my full height and moving back into the living room. "I've got to go somewhere."
But he was already heading past me to the stairs again. "Yup, you've got room for an infill. Mind you, you'll have to move the soil pipe."
"Gary . . ."
"You could have a second bedroom - little roof terrace on top. Sweet."
Roof terrace? Second bedroom? I could make it into an office and start my new career.
"How much would it cost?"
"Oooh." He started shaking his head sorrowfully. "Tell you what, let's go down to the pub and have a think."
"I can't," I said firmly. "I'm going out."
"All right. Well, I'll have a think and give you a ring." "Jolly good. WelP Best get going!"
He picked up his coat, tobacco and Rizlas, opened his bag and laid a magazine down reverentially on the kitchen table.
As he reached the door, he turned and gave me a knowing look. "Page seventy-one," he said. "Ciao."
Picked up the magazine, thinking it was going to be Architectural Digest and found myself looking at Coarse Fisherman, with a man holding a gigantic slimy grey fish on the front. Leafed through an enormous number of pages all containing many pictures of men holding up gigantic slimy grey fish. Reached page 71 and there opposite an article on "BAC Predator Lures', sporting a denim hat with badges on and a proud, beaming smile was Gary, holding up a gigantic slimy grey fish.
Thursday 27 February
9st 3 (lost Ilb was hair), cigarettes 17 (due to hair), calories
625 (off food due to hair), imaginary letters to solicitors, consumer programmes, Dept of Health etc. complaining about Paolo's massacring of hair 22, visits to mirror to check growth of hair 72, millimetres grown by hair in spite of all hard work 0.
7.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes to go. Just checked fringe again. Hair has gone from fright wig to horrified, screaming, full-blown terror wig.
7.47 p.m. Still Ruth Madoc. Why did this have to happen on most important night of relationship-so-far with Mark Darcy? Why? At least, though, makes change from checking thighs in mirror to see if they have shrunk.
Midnight. When Mark Darcy appeared at door lungs got in throat.
He walked in purposefully without saying hello, took a card-shaped envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. It had my name on it but Mark's address. it had already been opened.
"It's been in the in-tray since I got back," he said, slumping down on the sofa. "I opened it this morning by mistake. Sorry. But it's probably all for the best."
Trembling I took the card from the envelope.
It depicted two cartoon hedgehogs watching a bra entwined with a pair of underpants going round in a washing mac
"Who's it from?" he said pleasantly. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," he said, in the sort of calm, smiley way that suggests someone is about to pull out a meat hatchet and cut your nose off. "Who is it from?"
"I told you," I muttered. "I don't know." "Read what it says."
I opened it up. Inside, in spidery red writing it said: "Be Mine Valentine - I'll see you when you come to pick up your nightie - love - Sxxxxxxxx'
I stared at it in shock. Just then the phone rang. Baaah! I thought, it'll be Jude or Shazzer with some hideous advice about Mark. I started to spring towards it but Mark put his hand on my arm.
"Hi, doll, Gary here." Oh God. How dare he be so overfamiliar? "Right, what we were talking about in the bedroom - I've got some ideas so give me a ring and I'll come round."
Mark looked down blinking very fast, Then he sniffed, and rubbed the back of his hand across his face as if to pull himself together. "OK?" he said. "Do you want to explain?"
"It's the builder." I wanted to put my arms round him. "Magda's builder, Gary. The one that put the crap shelves up. He wants to put an infill extension between the bedroom and the stairs."
"I see," he said. "And is the card from Gary as well? Or is it St John? Or some other . . ."
Just then the fax started grunting. Something was coming through.
While I was staring Mark pulled the piece of paper off the fax, looked at it and handed it over. It was a scrawled note from Jude saying 'Who needs Mark Darcy when E9.99 plus P&P will buy you one of these', on top of an advert for a vibrator with a tongue.