Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

Tuesday 28 January

9st 2, cigarettes smoked in front of Mark 0 (v.g.), cigarettes smoked in secret 7, cigarettes not smoked 47* (P.g.).

*i.e. nearly smoked but remembered had given up so specifically did not smoke those particular 47. Number is not therefore number of cigarettes in entire world not smoked (would be ridiculous, overlarge-type number).

8 a.m. Flat. Mark has gone off to his flat to change before work so can have little cigarette and develop inner growth and win-win mentality ready for sacking meeting. So what I am working towards is creating a feeling of calm equilibrium and ... Gaaah! Doorbell.

8.30 a.m. It was Magda's builder, Gary. Fuck, fuck, fucketty fuck. Forgot he was supposed to be coming round.

"Ah! Superb Hello! Could you come back in ten minutes? I'm just in the middle of something," I trilled, then doubled up, cringing in nightie. What would I be in the middle of? Sex? A soufflй? Making a vase on a potter's wheel that absolutely couldn't be left in case it dried in an incomplete form?

still had wet hair when doorbell rang again but at least had clothes on. Felt surge of middle-class guilt as Gary smirked at decadence of those who loll idly in bed while a whole different world of genuine hardworking folk have been up for so long is practically time for their lunch.

"Would you care for some tea or coffee?" I said graciously.

"Yeah. Cup of tea. Four sugars but don't stir it."

I looked at him hard wondering if this was a joke or a bit like smoking cigarettes but not inhaling. "Right," I said, ,right," and started making the tea at which Gary sat down at kitchen table and lit up a fag. Unfortunately, however, when came to pour out tea realized did not have any milk or sugar.

He looked at me incredulously, surveying the array of empty wine bottles. "No milk or sugar?"

"The milk's, er, just run out and actually I don't know anybody who takes sugar in tea ... though of course it's great to ... er ... to take sugar," I tailed off. "I'll just pop to the shop."

When I came back, I thought somehow he might have got his tools out of the van, but he was still sitting there, and started telling a long complicated story about carp fishing on reservoir near Hendon. Was like business lunch where everyone chats away from the subject for so long, it becomes too embarrassing to destroy fantasy of delightful purely social occasion and you never actually get to the point.

Eventually, I crashed into seamlessly incomprehensible fish anecdote with, "Right. Shall I show you what I want doing?" and instantly realized had made crass, hurtful gaff suggesting that I was not interested in Gary as person but merely as workman so had to re-enter fish anecdote to make amends.

9.15 a.m. Office. Rushed into work, hysterical at being five minutes late, to find bloody Richard Finch nowhere to be seen. Though actually is good as have time to further plan my defence. Weird thing is: office is completely empty So, clearly most days, when I am panicking about being late and thinking everyone else is already here reading the papers they are all being late as

though just not quite as late as me.

Right, am going to write down my key points for meeting. Get it clear in my head like Mark says.

'Richard, to compromise my journalistic integrity by...'

'Richard, as you know, I take my profession as a TV journalist very seriously...'

'Why don't you just go fucking fuck yourself, you fat . . .'

No, no. As Mark says, think what you want, and what he wants, and also think win-win as instructed in The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People. Gaaaaah!

11:15 a.m. Was Richard Finch clad in a crushed raspberry Galliano suit with an aquamarine lining, galloping backwards into the office as if on a horse.

"Bridget! Right. You're crap but you're off the book. They loved it upstairs. Loved it. Loved it. We have a proposition. I'm thinking bunny girl, I'm thinking Gladiator, I'm thinking canvassing MP. I'm thinking Chris Serle meets Jerry Springer meets Anneka Rice meets Zoe Ball meets Mike Smith off the Late, Late Breakfast Show."

"What?" I said indignantly.

Turned out they had cooked up some demeaning scheme where every week I had to try out a different profession then fuck it up in an outfit. Naturally I told him I am a serious professional journalist and will not consider prostituting myself in such a way with the result that he went into a foul sulk and said he was going to consider what my value was to the programme, if any.

8 p.m. Had completely stupid day at work. Richard Finch was trying to order me to appear on the programme wearing tiny shorts next to blow-up of Fergie in gym wear. Was trying to be very win-win about the whole thing, saying was flattered but thought they might do better with a real model, when sex-god Matt from graphics came in carrying the blow-up and said, "Do you want us to put up an animated ring round the cellulite?"

"Yeah, yeah, if you can do the same over Fergie," said Richard Finch.

That was it. That was just about enough. Told Richard was not in the terms of my contract to be humiliated on screen and was no way going to do it.

Got home, late and exhausted, to find Gary the Builder still there and house completely taken over with burnt toast under the grill, washing up and copies of the Angler's Mail and Coarse Fishennan all over the shop.

"What do you think?" said Gary, proudly nodding at his handiwork.

"They're great! They're great" I gushed, feeling mouth going into funny tight shape. "There's just one little thing. Do you think you could make it so the supports are all in line with each other?"

Shelves, in fact were put up in mad asymmetrical manner with supports here, there and everywhere, different on each layer.

"Yeah, well, you see, the problem is it's your electric cable, because if I plug the wall here it'll short-circuit the lot," Gary began, at which point the phone rang.

"Hello?"

"Hi, is that dating war command?" Was Mark on the mobile.

"The only thing I could do is take them out and put rivets under the awlings," gibberished Gary.

"Have you got someone there?" crackled Mark above the traffic.

"No, it's just the . . ." I was about to say builder but did not want to insult Gary so changed it to "Gary - a friend of Magda's."

"What's he doing there?"

"Course you'll need a new raw-gidge," continued Gary.

"Listen, I'm in the car. Do you want to come out for supper tonight with Giles?"

"I've said I'll see the girls."

"Oh Christ. I suppose I'll be dismembered and dissected, and thoroughly analysed."

"No you won't..."

"Hang on. Just going under the Westway." Crackle, crackle, crackle. "I met your friend Rebecca the other day. She seemed very nice."

"I didn't know you knew Rebecca," I said, breathing very quickly.

Rebecca is not exactly a friend, except that she's always turning up in 192 with me and Jude and Shaz. But the thing about Rebecca is, she's a jellyfisher. You have a conversation with her that seems all nice and friendly, then you suddenly feel like you've been stung and you don't know where it came from. You'll be talking about jeans and she'll say 'Yes, well, if you've got cellulite jodhpurs, you're best in something really well cut like Dolce & Gabbana,' - she herself having thighs like a baby giraffe - then smoothly move on to DKNY chinos as if nothing has happened.

"Bridge, are you still there?"

"Where ... where did you see Rebecca?" I said, in a high, strangled voice.

"She was at Barky Thompson's drinks last night and introduced herself."

"Last night?"

"Yes, I dropped in on my way back because you were running late."

"What did you talk about?" I said, conscious of Gary smirking at me, with a fag hanging out of his mouth.

"Oh. You know, she asked about my work and said nice things about you," said Mark casually.

"What did she say?" I hissed.

"She said you were a free spirit ..." The line broke up for a moment.

Free spirit? Free spirit in Rebecca-speak is tantamount to saying, "Bridget sleeps around and takes hallucinatory drugs."

"I suppose I could put up an RSJ and suspend them," Gary started up again, as if the phone conversation were not going on.

"Well. I'd better let you go, hadn't 1, if you've got someone there," said Mark. "Have a good time. Shall I call you later?"

"Yes, yes, talk to you later."

I put the phone down, mind reeling.

"After someone else is he?" said Gary in a rare and extremely unwelcome moment of lucidity.

I glared at him. "What about these shelves ... ?"

"Well. If you want them all in line, I'll have to move your leads, and that'll mean stripping the plaster off unless we rawl in a 3 by 4 of MDF. I mean if you'd told me you wanted them symmetrical before I'd have known, wouldn't P I suppose I could do it now." He looked round the kitchen. "Have you got any food in?"

"They're fine, absolutely lovely just like that," I gabbled.

"If you want to cook me a bowl of that pasta I'll..."

Have just paid Gary F-120 in cash for insane shelves to get him out of the house. Oh God, am so late. Fuck, fuck, telephone again.

9.05 p.m. Was Dad - which was strange since normally he leaves telephonic communication to Mum.

"Just called to see how you're doing." He sounded very odd.

"I'm fine," I said worriedly. "How are you?"

"Jolly good, jolly good. Very busy in the garden, you know, very busy though not much to do out there in the winter of course ... So, how's everything?"

"Fine," I said. "And everything's fine with you?"

"Oh, yes, yes, perfectly fine. Urn, and work? How's work?"

"Work's fine. Well, I mean disastrous obviously. But are you all right?"

"Me? Oh yes, fine. Of course the snowdrops will be pop, plop, ploppeeddee plopping through soon. And everything's all right with you, is it?"

"Yes, fine. How's things with you?"

After several more minutes of the impenetrable conversational loop I had a breakthrough: "How's Mum?" "Ah. Well, she's, she's ah. . ."

There was a long, painful pause. "She's going to Kenya. With Una."

The worst of it was, the business with Julio the Portuguese tour operator started last time she went on holiday with Una.

"Are you going too?"

"No, no," blustered Dad. "I've no desire to sit getting skin cancer in some appalling enclave sipping pina colada and watching topless tribal dancers prostitute themselves to lascivious crusties in front of tomorrow's breakfast buffet."

"Did she ask you to?"

"Ah. Well. You see, no. Your mother would argue that she is a person in her own right, that our money is her money, and she should be allowed to freely explore the world and her own personality at a whim."

"Well, I suppose as long as she keeps it to those two," I said. "She does love you, Dad. You saw that" - nearly said "last time" and changed it to - "at Christmas. She just needs a bit of excitement."

"I know but, Bridget, there's something else. Something quite dreadful. Can you hold on?"

I glanced up at the clock. I was supposed to be in 192 already and hadn't got round to telling Jude and Shaz yet that Magda was coming. I mean it is delicate at the best of times, trying to combine friends from opposite sides of the marriage divide, but Magda has just had a baby. And I feared that wouldn't be good for Jude's mindset.

"Sorry about that: just closing the door." Dad was back. "Anyway," he went on conspiratorially. "I overheard your mother talking on the phone earlier today. I think it was to the hotel in Kenya. And she said, she said. , ."

"It's all right, it's all right. What did she say"'

"She said, 'We don't want twins and we don't want anything under five foot. We're coming here to enjoy ourselves.'"

Christ alive.

"I mean," - poor Dad, he was practically sobbing - "am I actually to stand by and allow my own wife to hire herself a gigolo on arrival?"

For a moment was at a loss. Advising one's own father on the suspected gigolo-hiring habits of one's own mother is not a subject had ever seen covered in any of my books.

In the end I plumped for trying to help Dad boost his own self-esteem, whilst suggesting a period of calm distance before discussing things with Mum in the morning: advice I realized I would be completely incapable of following myself.

By this time I was beyond late. Explained to Dad that Jude was having a bit of a crisis.

"Off you go, off you go. When you've got time. Not to worry!" he said overcheerily. "Better get out in the garden while the rain's holding off." His voice sounded odd and thick.

"Dad," I said, "it's 9 o'clock at night. It's midwinter."

"Ah, right..." he said. "Jolly good. Better have a whisky, then."

Hope he is going to be OK.

Wednesday 29 January

9st 5 (gaah! But possibly due to wine-bag inside self), cigarettes 1 (v.g.), jobs 1, flats 1, boyfriends 1 (continuing good work).

5 a.m. Am never, never going to drink again as long as live.

5.15 a.m. Evening keeps coming back to me disturbingly in lumps.

After panting rush through rain, arrived at 192 to find Magda not arrived yet, thank God, and Jude already in a state allowing her thinking to get into a Snowball Effect, extrapolating huge dooms from small incidents as specifically warned against in 'Don't Sweat the Small Stuff'.

"I'm never going to have any children," she was monotoning, staring straight ahead. "I'm a re-tread. That guy said women over thirty are just walking pulsating ovaries."

"Oh for God's sake!" snorted Shaz, reaching for the Chardonnay. "Haven't you read Backlash? He's just a moral-free hack, recycling woman-bashing, Middle-England propaganda to keep women down like slaves. I hope he goes prematurely bald."

"But how likely is it I am going to meet someone new, now, and have time to form a relationship and persuade them they want to have children" Because they never do before they get them."

Wish Jude would not talk about biological clock in public. Obviously one worries about such things in private and tries to pretend whole undignified situation isn't happening. Bringing it up in 192 merely makes one panic and feel like a walking cliche.

Happily, Shazzer was off on a rant. Tar too many women are wasting their young lives having children in their twenties, thirties and early forties when they should be concentrating on their careers," she growled. "Look at that woman in Brazil who had one at sixty."

"Hurrah!" I said. "Nobody wants never to have any children but it's the sort of thing you always want to do in two or three years' time!"

"Fat chance," said Jude darkly. "Magda said even after she and Jeremy were married, whenever she mentioned children he went all funny and said she was getting too serious."

"What, even after they were married?" said Shaz.

"Yes," said Jude, picked up her handbag and went off to the loo in a huff.

"I've had a great idea for Jude's birthday," said Shaz. "Why don't we get her one of her eggs frozen?"

"Shhh." I giggled. "Wouldn't it be a bit difficult to do as a surprise?"

Just then, Magda walked in, which was all very unfortunate as (a) had still not got round to warning the girls and (b) got shock of life as had only seen Magda once since the birth of her third baby and her stomach had not gone down yet. She was sporting a gold shirt and velvet headband, in unignorable contrast to everyone else's urban combat/sportswear outfits.

Was just pouring Magda a glass of Chardonnay when Jude reappeared, looked from Magda's stomach to me, and gave me a filthy look. "Hi, Magda," she said gruffly. "When's it due?"

"I had her five weeks ago," said Magda, chin wobbling. Knew it was a mistake to combine different species of friends, knew it.

"Do I look that fat?" Magda whispered to me, as if Jude and Shaz were the enemy.

"No, you look great," I said. "Glowing."

"Do I?" Magda said, brightening. "it just takes a bit of time to ... you know ... deflate. Also, you know I had mastitis . . ."

Jude and Shaz flinched. Why do Smug Married girls do this, why? Casually launching into anecdotes about slashings, stitchings and effusions of blood, poison, newts and God knows what as if making light and delightful social chit-chat.

"Anyway," Magda was going on, glugging at the Chardonnay and beaming happily at the friends like someone let out of prison, "Voney said to put a couple of cabbage leaves in your bra - it has to be savoy - and after about five hours it draws out the infection. Obviously it gets a bit manky, with the sweat and milk and discharge. And Jeremy got a bit annoyed about me getting into bed with all the bleeding Down There and a bra full of damp leaves but I feel so much better! I've practically used up a whole cabbage!"

There was a stunned pause. I glanced worriedly around the table but Jude seemed to have suddenly cheered up, is sleeking down her Donna Karan crop top, which revealed a beguiling glimpse of pierced navel and perfectly honed flat midriff while Shazzie adjusted her Wonderbra.

"Anyway. Enough of me. How are things going with you?" said Magda as if she had been reading one of those books advertised in the newspapers with a drawing of a strange 50s-looking man and a headline Does Good Conversation Elude You? "How's Mark?"

"He's lovely," I said happily. "He makes me feel so ..." Jude and Shazzer were exchanging glances. Realized I was probably sounding a bit too smug. "The only thing . . ." I tack-changed.

What?" said Jude, leaning forward.

"It's probably nothing. But he called me tonight, and said he'd met Rebecca."

"WHATTTT?" exploded Shazzer. "How the fuck dare he? Where?"

"At a party last night."

"What was he doing at a party last night?" yelled Jude. "With Rebecca, without you?"

Hurrah! Was suddenly just like old times again. Carefully dissected whole tone of phone call, feelings about, and possible significance of, fact that Mark must have come straight to my flat from the party, yet did not mention either the party or Rebecca till a full 24 hours later.

"It's Mentionitis," Jude was saying. "What's that?" said Magda.

"Oh, you know, when someone's name keeps coming up all the time, when it's not strictly relevant: 'Rebecca says this' or 'Rebecca's got a car like that'."

Magda went quiet. I knew exactly why. Last year she kept telling me she thought something was up with Jeremy. Then eventually she found out he'd been having an affair with a girl in the City. I handed her a Silk Cut.

"I know exactly what you mean," she said, putting it into her mouth and nodding at me appreciatively. "How come he always comes round to your place anyway? I thought he had some great big mansion in Holland Park."

"Well, he does, but he seems to prefer to..."

"Hmm," said Jude. "Have you read Beyond Co-dependency With a Man Who Can't Commit?"

"No."

"Come back to my place after. I'll show you."

Magda looked up at Jude like Piglet hoping to be included on an outing with Pooh and Tigger. "He's probably just trying to get out of the shopping and clearing up," she said eagerly. "I've never met a man who didn't secretly think he should be looked after like his father was by his mother no matter how evolved they pretend to be."

"Exactly," snarled Shazzer, at which Magda beamed with pride. Unfortunately things immediately swung back to the fact that Jude's American hadn't returned her call, at which Magda immediately undid all her good work.

"Honestly, Jude!" said Magda. "I can't understand how you can deal with the collapse of the rouble to a standing ovation from the entire trading floor and then get into a state like this over a stupid man."

"Well, the thing is, Mag," I explained, trying to smooth things over, "the rouble is much easier to deal with than a man. There are clear and precise rules governing its behaviour."

"I think you should leave it a couple of days," said Shaz thoughtfully. "Try not to obsess and then when he does ring just be light and really busy and say you haven't got time to talk."

"Wait a minute," Magda bludgeoned in. "If you want to talk to him, what's the point of waiting three days, then saying you haven't got time to talk to him? Why don't you call him?"

Jude and Shazzer gaped at her, incredulous at the insane Smug Married suggestion. Everyone knows that Anjelica Huston never, ever rang Jack Nicholson, and that men cannot bear not to be the pursuer.

Whole scenario went from bad to worse, with Magda talking wide-eyedly about how when Jude met the right man it would be 'as easy as leaves falling off a tree'. At 10.30 Magda jumped to her feet and said, "Well, better go! Jeremy's back at 11!"

"What did you have to ask Magda for?" said Jude the second she was out of earshot.

"She was lonely," I said lamely.

"Yeah, right. Because she had to spend two hours on her own without Jeremy," said Shazzer.

"She can't have it both ways. She can't be in a Smug Married Family then moan because she isn't in a Singleton Urban Family," said Jude.

"Honestly, if that girl were thrown out into the cut and thrust of the modern dating world she'd be eaten alive," muttered Shaz.

"ALERT, ALERT, REBECCA ALERT," nuclear-sirened Jude.

We followed her gaze out of the window to where a Mitsubishi urban jeep was pulling up containing Rebecca with one hand on the wheel and the other holding the phone to her ear.

Rebecca eased her long legs out, rolling her eyes at someone who had the nerve to be walking past when she was on the phone, crossed the road without paying any attention to cars so they had to screech to a halt, did a little pirouette as if to say "Fuck off, everyone, this is my personal space," then walked smack into a tramp lady with a shopping trolley and completely ignored her.

She burst into the bar, swishing her long hair over her head from her face so it immediately swished back again in a swingy, shiny curtain. "OK, must run. Love your Byeee!" she was saying into her mobile. "Hi, hi," she said, kissing us all, sitting down and gesturing to the waiter for a glass. "How's it going? Bridge, how's it going with Mark? You must be really pleased to get a boyfriend at last."

"At last'. Grrr. First jellyfish of the evening. "Are you in heaven?" she cooed. "Is he taking you to the Law Society dinner on Friday?"

Mark hadn't said anything about any Law Society dinner.

"Oh sorry, have I put my big foot in it?" said Rebecca. "I'm sure he's just forgotten. Or maybe he thinks it isn't fair on you. But I think you'll cope fine. They'll probably think you're really sweet."

As Shazzer said afterwards, it wasn't so much a jellyfish as a Portuguese man-of-war. The fishermen were surrounding it in their boats trying to drag it back to the beach.

Rebecca flounced off to some do or other, so the three of us ended up lurching back to Jude's flat.

"'The Man Who Can't Commit will not want you in his own domain,'" Jude was reading out as Shaz fiddled with the Pride and Prejudice video to try to find the bit where Colin Firth dives into the lake. "'He likes to come to your tolver, like a knight errant with no responsibilities. And then he goes back to his castle. He can take and make whatever phone calls he likes without you knowing about it. He can keep his place - and himself - to himself.'"

"Too right," muttered Shaz. "OK, come on, he's going to dive in."

We all fell silent then, watching Colin Firth emerging from the lake dripping wet, in the see-through ,vhite shirt. Mmm. Mmmm.

"Anyway," I said defensively, "Mark isn't a Man Who Can't Commit - he's already been married."

"Well, then it might mean he thinks you're a "Just For Now Girl"," hiccuped Jude.

"Bastard!" slurred Shazzer. "Blurry bastards. Fwaw, look at that!"

Eventually staggered home, lunged expectantly towards answerphone then stopped in dismay. No red light. Mark hadn't called. Oh God, is 6 a.m. already and have got to get some more sleep.

8.30 a.m. Why hasn't he rung me? Why? Humph. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance. My sense of self depends on myself and not on ... Wait a minute. Maybe phone is not working.

8.32 a.m. Dialling tone seems normal, but will ring from mobile to check. If not working might mean everything is fine.

8.35 a.m. Humph. Phone is working. I mean he definitely said he was going to call last ... Oh goody, telephone!

"Oh hello, m'dear. Didn't wake you up, did I?"

Was my dad. Instantly felt guilty for being horrible, selfish daughter, more interested in own four-week-old relationship than threat to parents" three-decade-long marriage from higher than five foot, non-twin Kenyan gigolos.

"What's happened?"

"It's fine." Dad laughed. "I brought the phone call up with her and - oops-a-daisy - here she comes."

"Honestly, darling!" said Mum, grabbing the phone. "I don't know where Daddy gets these silly ideas from. We were talking about the bedsl"

I smiled to myself. Obviously Dad and I have minds like sewers.

"Anyway," she went on, "it's all going ahead. We're off on the eighth of Feb Kenya! Imagine! The only nigger in the woodpile is . . ."

"Mother!" I exploded.

"What, darling?"

"You can't say "nigger in the woodpile". It's racist."

"We're not going to put anyone in a woodpile, silly! Daddy and I have got central heating."

"If expressions like that are allowed to linger in the vocabulary it poisons attitudes and ..."

"Durrrr! You do miss the wood for the trees sometimes. Ooh did I tell you? Julie Enderbury's preggy again..."

"Listen, I really do have to go, I . . ."

What is it about mothers and the phone which, immediately you say you have to go, makes them think of nineteen completely irrelevant things they have to tell you that minute?

"Yes. It's her third," she said accusingly. "Oh and the other thing is, Una and I have decided we're going to ski the net."

"I think the expression is 'surf' but I've..."

"Ski, surf, snowboard - doesn't matter, darling! Merle and Percival are on it. You know: used to be head of the burns unit at Northampton Infirmary. Anyway, the other thing is, are you and Mark coming home for Easter?"

"Mum, I've got to go now, I'm late for work I said. Finally, after about ten more minutes of irrelevance I managed to get rid of her and sank gratefully back on the pillow. Does make me feel a bit feeble though, if mother is online and I'm not. I was on it but company called GBH sent me 677 identical junkmails by mistake and have not been able to get any sense out of it since.

Thursday 30 January

9st 5, (emergency: lacy pants have begun to leave patterns on self), items of lovely sexy slippy underwear tried on 17, items of giant incontinence-wear-style scary unsightly underwear purchased 1, boyfriends 1 (but entirely dependent on concealing scary new underwear from same).

9 a.m. Coins Cafe. Having coffee. Hurrah! Everything is lovely. He just rang! Apparently he did call me last night but didn't leave a message as he was going to ring back later, but then fell asleep. Slightly suspicious, but he asked me to come to the law thing tomorrow. Also Giles from his office said how nice I'd been on the phone.

9.05 a.m. Bit scary, though, law do is black tie. Asked Mark about what was expected of me and he said, "Oh nothing. Don't worry about it. We'll just sit at a table and eat a meal with some people from work. They're just my friends. They'll love you."

9.11 a.m. "They'll love you'. You see that, already, is tacit admission that am up on trial. So is very important to make a good impression.

9.15 a.m. Right, am going to be positive about this. Am going to be marvellous: elegant, vivacious, beautifully dressed. Oh, though. Do not have long dress. Maybe Jude or Magda will lend me one.

Right:

Pre-Law Society Dinner Countdown Day 1. (today)

Projected food intake:

1. Breakfast: fruit shake, comprising oranges, banana, pears, melons or other fruit in season. (NB prebreakfast cappuccino and chocolate croissant already consumed.)

2. Snack: fruit but not too near lunch as takes one hour to get enzymes down.

3. Lunch: salad with protein.

4. Snack: celery or broccoli. Will go to gym after work.

5. After-gym snack: celery.

6. Dinner: grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

6 p.m. Just leaving office. Am going late-night underwear shopping tonight with Magda to solve figure problems in short term. Magda is going to lend me jewels and v. elegant long, dark-blue dress which, she says, needs a bit of "help" and apparently all film stars etc, wear controlling undergarments at premieres. Means cannot go to gym but sturdy undergarment much more effective in short term than gym visit.

Also, just in general, have decided against random daily gym visits in favour of whole new programme beginning with fitness assessment tomorrow. Obviously cannot expect body to be significantly transformed in time for dinner, which is precisely point of underwear shopping, but at least will be invigorated. Oh, telephone.

6.15 p.m. Was Shazzer. Quickly told her about pre-law party programme (including unfortunate pizza-for-lunch debacle), but when told her about fitness assessment she seemed to spit down the telephone:

"Don't do it," she warned in a sepulchral whisper. Turns out Shaz previously endured similar assessment with enormous Gladiators-style woman with fierce red hair called "Carborundum" who stood her in front of a mirror in the middle of the gym and bellowed, "The fat on your bottom has slipped down, pushing the fat on your thighs round to the sides in the form of saddlebags."

Hate the idea of the Gladiators-style woman. Always suspect one day Gladiators programme will get out of control, Gladiators will turn flesh-eating and producers will start tossing Christians to Carborundurn and her ilk. Shaz says I should definitely cancel, but my point is if, as Carborundurn suggests, fat is able to behave in this slippage-style way then clearly it ought to be possible to mould and squeeze existing fat into nicer shape - or even different shapes as occasion demands. Cannot help but wonder if was free to arrange own fat according to choice would I still wish to reduce amount? Think would have huge big breasts and hips and tiny waist. But would there be too much fat to dispose of in this way? And where could one put the excess" Would it be bad to have fat feet or ears if the rest of one's body was perfect?

"Fat lips would be all right," Shazzer said, "but not..." lowering her voice to a disgusted whisper ". . . fat labia." Ugh. Sometimes Shazzer is completely disgusting.

Right. Got to go. Am meeting Magda in Marks & Sparks at 6.30.

9 p.m. Back home. Shopping experience was perhaps best described as educational. Magda insisted on waving ghastly huge scary pants at me. "Come on, Bridget: the New Corsetry! Think 70s, think Cross Your Heart, think girdle," she said, holding up a sort of Cyclist Serial Killer's outfit in black Lycra with shorts, boning and a sturdy bra.

"I'm not wearing that," I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. "Put it back."

"Why not?"

"What if someone, you know, feels it"'

"Honestly, Bridget. Underwear is there to do a job. If you're wearing a sleek little dress or a pair of trousers for work, say - you want to create a smooth line. Nobody's going to feel you at work, are they?"

"Well, they might," I said defensively, thinking about what used to happen in the lift at work when I was 'going out' - if one can describe that commitment-phobicity nightmare as such - with Daniel Cleaver.

"What about these?" I said hopefully, holding up a gorgeous set that was made out of the same material as sheer black stockings only bra and pants shaped.

"No No! Totally 1980s. This is what you want," she said, waving something that looked like one of Mum's roll-ons crossed with her long johns.

"But what if someone puts their hand up your skirt?" "Bridget, you are unbelievable," she said loudly. "Do you get up every morning with the idea that some man might randomly put his hand up your skirt during the course of the day? Don't you have any control over your sexual destiny?"

"Yes I do actually," I said defiantly, marching towards the changing room with a whole handful of sturdy pants. Ended up trying to squeeze myself into a black rubberlike sheath, which came up to just below my breasts and kept unravelling itself from both ends like an unruly condom. "What if Mark sees me in it or feels it?"

"You're not going to smooch in a club. You're going to a formal dinner where he'll be making an impression on his colleagues. He'll be concentrating on that - not trying to grope you."

Not sure Mark ever concentrates on making an impression on anyone actually, as is confident in self. But Magda is right about the underwear. One must move with the times, not becoming entrenched in narrow underwear concepts.

Right, must get early night. Gym appointment is at 8 in morning. Actually really think whole personality is undergoing seismic change.

Friday 31 January: D-Day

9st 4, alcohol units 6 (2)*, cigarettes 12 (0), calories 4,284 (1,500), lies told to fitness assessor (14).

*Figures in brackets denote data given to fitness assessor.

9.30 a.m. It is typical of the new louche health club culture that personal trainers are allowed to behave like doctors without any sort of Hippocratic oath.

"How many alcohol units do you drink a week?" said 'Rebel': Brad Pitt-style whippersnapper fitness assessor as I sat trying to hold in stomach in bra and pants.

"Fourteen to twenty-one," I lied smoothly, at which he had the nerve to flinch.

"And do you smoke?" "I've given up," I purred.

At this, Rebel glanced pointedly into my bag where, OK, there was a packet of Silk Cut Ultra, but so?

"When did you give up?" he said primly, typing something into the computer that would obviously go straight to Conservative Central Office and ensure I am sent to a boot camp next time I get a parking fine.

"Today," I said firmly.

Ended up standing having fat measured with pinchers by Rebel.

"Now I'm just making these marks so I can see what I'm measuring," he said bossily, putting circles and crosses all over me with a felt tip. "They'll come off if you rub them with a bit of white spirit."

Next had to go into gym and do exercises with all sorts of unexplained eye contact and touching with Rebel - e.g. standing opposite with hands on each other's shoulders with Rebel doing squats, bouncing bottom robustly on mat and me making awkward attempts to bend knees slightly, At end of whole thing felt as though had had long and intimate sex session with Rebel and we were practically going out. Afterwards got dressed and had shower then was unsure what to do - seemed ought at least to go back in and ask what time he'd be home for dinner. But of course am having dinner with Mark Darcy.

V. excited about dinner. Have been practising in outfit and really it looks excellent, sleek smooth lines, all thanks to scary pants, which there is no reason he should find out about. Also really no reason why should not be v.g. escort. Am woman of world with career etc.

Midnight. When finally arrived at Guildhall, Mark was pacing up and down outside in black tie and big overcoat. Fwaw. Love when you are going out with someone and they suddenly seem like an extremely attractive stranger and all you want to do is rush home and shag them senseless as if you have only just met. (Not, of course, that that is what normally do with people have only just met.) When he saw me he looked really shocked, laughed, then composed his features and gestured me towards the doors in polite, public-school fashion.

"Sorry I'm late," I said breathlessly.

"You're not," he said, "I lied about the kick-off." He looked at me again in a strange way.

What?" I said.

"Nothing, nothing," he said over-calmly and pleasantly, as if I were a lunatic standing on a car holding an axe in one hand and his wife's head in the other. He ushered me through the door, as a uniformed footman held it open for us.

Inside was high, dark-panelled entrance hall with many black-tied old people murmuring around. Saw woman in sequinned crusty top thing looking at me in odd way, Mark nodded pleasantly at her and whispered in my ear, "Why don't you just slip into the cloakroom and look at your face."

I shot off into loo. Unfortunately, in the dark of taxi, I had applied dark grey Mac eyeshadow to my cheeks instead of blusher: the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, obviously, as packaging identical. When came out of toilets, neatly scrubbed with coat handed in, stopped dead in tracks. Mark was talking to Rebecca.

She was wearing a coffee-coloured plunging, backless satin number that clung to her every fleshless bone with clearly no corset. Felt like my dad did when he put a cake into the Grafton Underwood fete and when he returned to it after the judging it had a note on saying, 'Not up to Competition Standard'.

"I mean it was just too funny," Rebecca was saying and laughing full in Mark's face affectionately. "Oh Bridget," Rebecca said, as I joined them. "How are you, lovely girl!" She kissed me at which could not stop self pulling face. "Feeling nervous?"

"Nervous?" said Mark. "Why would she be nervous? She's the embodiment of inner poise, aren't you, Bridge." For just a split second saw a look of annoyance cross

Rebecca's face before she composed it again and said, "Ahhh, isn't that sweet? I'm so happy for you!" Then she glided off with a coy little backwards look at Mark.

"She seems very nice," said Mark. "Always seems extremely nice and intelligent."

Always?? I was thinking. Always? I thought he'd only met her twice. He slid his arm dangerously close to my corset so had to jump away. A couple of huffer-puffers came up to us and started congratulating Mark about something he'd done with a Mexican. He chatted pleasantly for a minute or two then skilfully extracted us, and led us through to the dining room.

Was v. glamorous: dark wood, round tables, candlelight and shimmering crystal. Trouble was, kept having to jump away from Mark every time he put his hand on my waist.

Our table was already filling up with an array of brittly confident thirty-something lawyers, bellowing with laughter and trying to outdo each other with the sort of flippant conversational sallies that are obviously tips of huge icebergs of legal and Zeitgeisty knowledge:

"How do you know if you're addicted to the Internet?" "You realize you don't know the gender of your three best friends." Haaar Waagh. Harharhar.

"You can't write full stops any more without adding co.uk."BAAAAAAAAAAA!

"You do all your work assignments in HMTL Protocol." Blaaaaagh harhar. Braaaah. Hahah.

As the room started to settle into the meal, a woman called Louise Barton-Foster (incredibly opinionated lawyer and the sort of woman you can imagine forcing you to eat liver) started holding forth for what seemed like 3 months with complete bollocks.

"But in a sense," she was saying, staring ferociously at the menu, "one could argue the entire ER Emeuro Proto is a Gerbilisshew."

Was perfectly OK - just sat quietly and ate and drank things - until Mark suddenly said, "I think you're absolutely right, Louise. If I'm going to vote Tory again I want to know my views are being (a) researched and (b) represented."

I stared at him in horror. Felt like my friend Simon did once when he was playing with some children at a party when their grandfather turned up and he was Robert Maxwell - and suddenly Simon looked at toddlers and saw they were all mini-Robert Maxwells with beetling brows and huge chins.

Realize when start a relationship with a new person there will be differences between you, differences that have to be adapted to and smoothed down like rough corners, but had never, ever in a million years suspected I might have been sleeping with a man who voted Tory. Suddenly felt I didn't know Mark Darcy at all, and for all I knew, all the weeks we had been going out he had been secretly collecting limited edition miniature pottery animals wearing bonnets from the back pages of Sunday supplements, or slipping off to rugby matches on a coach and mooning at other motorists out of the back window.

Conversation was getting snootier and snootier and more and more showy-offy.

"Well, how do you know it's 4.5 to 7?" Louise was barking at a man who looked like Prince Andrew in a stripy shirt.

"Well, I did read economics at Cambridge."

"Who taught you"" snapped another girl, as if this were going to win the argument.

"Are you all right?" whispered Mark out of the corner of his mouth.

"Yes," I muttered, head down.

"You're ... quivering. Come on. What is it?" Eventually I had to tell him.

"So I vote Tory, what's wrong with that?" he said, staring at me incredulously.

"Shhhhhh," I whispered, looking nervously round the table.

"What's the problem?"

"It's just," I began, wishing Shazzer were here, "I mean, if I voted Tory I'd be a social outcast. It would be like turning up at Cafe Rouge on a horse with a pack of beagles in tow, or having dinner parties on shiny tables with side plates."

"Rather like this, you mean?" He laughed. "Well, yes," I muttered.

"So what do you vote, then?"

"Labour, of course," I hissed. "Everybody votes Labour." "Well, I think that's patently been proved not to be the case, so far," he said. "Why, as a matter of interest?" "What?"

"Why do you vote Labour?"

"Well," I paused thoughtfully, "because voting Labour stands for being left wing."

"Ah." He seemed to think this was somehow hugely amusing. Everyone was listening now.

"And socialist," I added.

"Socialist. I see. Socialist meaning ...."

"The workers standing together."

"Well, Blair isn't exactly going to shore up the powers of the unions, is he?" he said. "Look what he's saying about Clause Four."

"Well, the Tories are rubbish."

"Rubbish?" he said. "The economy's in better shape now than it's been in for seven years."

"No it's not," I said emphatically. "Anyway, they've probably just put it up because there's an election coming."

"Put what up?" he said. "Put the economy up?"

"How does Blair's stand on Europe compare to Major's?" Louise joined in.

"Yar. And why hasn't he matched the Tory promise to increase spending on health year by year in real terms?" said Prince Andrew.

Honestly. Off they went again all showing off to each other. Eventually could stand it no longer.

"The point is you are supposed to vote for the principle of the thing, not the itsy-bitsy detail about this per cent and that per cent. And it is perfectly obvious that Labour stands for the principle of sharing, kindness, gays, single mothers and Nelson Mandela as opposed to braying bossy men having affairs with everyone shag-shag-shag left, right and centre and going to the Ritz in Paris then telling all the presenters off on the Today programme."

There was a cavernous silence round the table.

"Well, I think you've got it in a nutshell there," said Mark, laughing and rubbing my knee. "We can't argue with that."

Everyone was looking at us. But then, instead of someone taking the piss - such as would have happened in the normal world - they pretended nothing had happened and went back to the clinking and braying, completely ignoring me.

Could not gauge how bad or otherwise incident was. Was like being amongst a Papua New Guinea tribe, and treading on the chief's dog and not knowing whether the murmur of conversation meant it didn't matter or that they were discussing how to make your head into a frittata.

Someone rapped on the table for the speeches, which were just really, really, crashingly, fist-eatingly boring. As soon as they were over Mark whispered, "Let's get out, shall we?"

We said our goodbyes, and set off across the room. "Er ... Bridget," he said, "I don't want to worry you. But you've got something slightly odd-looking round your waist."

Shot my hand down to check. Scary corset had somehow unravelled itself from both ends turning into bulging roll round my waist like giant spare tyre.

"What is it?" said Mark, nodding and smiling to people as we made our way through the tables.

"Nothing," I muttered. As soon as we got out of the room I made a bolt for the loo. Was really difficult getting the dress off and unravelling the scary pants then putting the whole nightmare ensemble back again. Really wished I was at home wearing a pair of baggy trousers and a sweater.

When I emerged into the hallway I nearly turned straight back into the loos. Mark was talking to Rebecca. Again. She whispered something in his ear, then burst out into a horrid hooting laugh.

I'walked up to them and stood there awkwardly. "Here she is!" said Mark. "All sorted out?"

"Bridget!" said Rebecca, pretending to be pleased to see me. "I hear you've been impressing everyone with your political views!"

Wished could think of something v. amusing to say, but instead just stood there looking out under lowered eyebrows.

"Actually, it was great," said Mark. "She made the whole lot of us look like pompous arses. Anyway, must be off, nice to see you again."

Rebecca kissed us both effusively in a cloud of Gucci Envy then sashayed back into the dining room in a way that was really obvious she hoped Mark was watching.

Couldn't think what to say as we walked to the car. He and Rebecca had obviously been laughing at me behind my back and then he'd tried to cover up for it. Wished could ring up Jude and Shaz for advice.

Mark was behaving as if nothing had happened. As soon as we set off he started trying to slide his hand up my thigh. Why is it that the less you appear to want sex with men the more they do?

"Don't you want to keep your hands on the wheel?" I said, desperately trying to shrink back, to keep the edge of the rubber roll-on thing away from his fingers.

"No. I want to ravish you," he said, lunging at a bollard. Managed to remain intact by feigning road safety obsession.

"Oh. Rebecca said did we want to go round for dinner sometime?" he said.

I couldn't believe this. I've known Rebecca for four years and she has never once asked me round for dinner.

"She looked nice, didn't she? Nice dress thing."

It was Mentionitis. It was Mentionitis happening before my very ears.

We'd reached Notting Hill. At the lights, without asking me, he just turned in the direction of my house, and away from his. He was keeping his castle intact. It was probably full of messages from Rebecca. I was a Just For Now Girl.

"Where are we going?" I burst out.

"Your flat. Why?" he said, looking round in alarm.

"Exactly. Why?" I said furiously. "We've been going out for four weeks and six days. And we've never stayed at your house. Not once. Not ever! Why?"

Mark went completely silent. He indicated, turned left, then swung back towards Holland Park Avenue without saying a word.

"What's the matter?" I said eventually.

He stared straight ahead and flicked on the indicator. "I don't like shouting."

When we got back to his house it was awful. Walked up the steps together in silence. He opened the door, picked up the mail and flicked the lights on in the kitchen.

Kitchen is the height of a double-decker bus and one of those seamless stainless steel ones where you cannot tell which one is the fridge. Was a strange absence of things lying around and three pools of cold light in the middle of the floor.

He strode off to the other end of the room, footsteps echoing hollowly as if in underground cavern on school trip, stared worriedly at the stainless steel doors and said, "Would you like a glass of wine?"

"Yes please, thank you," I said politely. There were some modern-looking high stools at a stainless steel breakfast bar. I climbed awkwardly on to one, feeling like Des O'Connor preparing to do a duet with Anita Harris.

"Right," said Mark. He opened one of the stainless steel cupboard doors, noticed it had a bin attached to it, then closed it again, opened another door and gazed down in surprise at a washing machine. I looked down, wanting to laugh.

"Red or white wine?" he said abruptly.

"White, please." Suddenly I felt really tired, my shoes hurt, my scary pants were digging into me. I just wanted to go home.

"Ah." He had located the fridge.

Glanced across and saw the answerphone on one of the counters. Stomach lurched. The red light was flashing. Looked up to find Mark standing right in front of me holding a wine bottle in Conran-esque distressed iron decanter. He looked really miserable too.

"Look, Bridget, I . . ."

I got off the stool to put my arms round him, but then immediately his hands went to my waist. I pulled away. I had to get rid of the bloody thing.

"I'm just going to go upstairs for a minute," I said. "Why?"

"To the loo," I said wildly, then teetered off in the now agonizing shoes towards the stairs. Went into the first room I came to, which seemed to be Mark's dressing room, a whole room full of suits and shirts and lines of shoes. Got myself out of the dress and, with huge relief, started peeling off the scary pants, thinking could put on a dressing gown and maybe we could get all cosy and sort things out but suddenly Mark appeared in the doorway. I stood frozen in full scary undergarment exposure then started to frantically pull it off while he stared, aghast.

"Wait, wait," he said, as I reached for the dressing gown, looking intently at my stomach. "YOU been drawing noughts and crosses on vourself!"

Tried to explain to Mark about Rebel and not being able to buy white spirit on a Friday night but he just looked very tired and confused.

"I'm sorry, I have no idea what you're talking about," he said. "I've got to get some sleep. Shall we just go to bed?"

He pushed open another door, turned on the light. I took one look then let out a big noise. There, in the huge white bed, was a lithe oriental boy, stark naked, smiling weirdly, and holding out two wooden balls on a string, and a baby rabbit.