Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

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.

"Bridget, hi, it's Mark. I don't know where you were last night but anyway, just checking in. I'll try you again later."

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.

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 enclosing cheque to "M. S. F. S." Hah! Had forgotten about that. Dry-cleaner fraud is about to be exposed and I will get E149 back. Ooh, note just fluttered out.

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 machine.

"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.

Friday 28 February

9st 2 (only bright spot on horizon), reasons why people like going to musicals: mysterious unfathomable number, reasons Rebecca allowed to be alive 0, reasons for Mark, Rebecca, Mum, Una and Geoffrey Alconbury and Andrew Lloyd Webber or similar to ruin life: unclear.

Must keep calm. Must be positive. Was very bad luck all those things happening at once, no question about it. Completely understandable that Mark would just leave after all that and he did say he was going to call when he calmed down and ... Hah! I've just realized who that bloody card was from. It must have been the dry-cleaner. When I was trying to get it out of him about the fraud and saying "Don't think I don't know what's going on," I was dropping off my nightie. And I gave him Mark's address in case he was dodgy. The world is full of lunatics and madmen and I've got to go see Miss Saifuckinggon tonight.

Midnight. Initially, it wasn't too bad. It was a relief to get away from the prison of my own thoughts and the hell of dialling 1471 every time I went to the loo.

Wellington, far from being a tragic victim of cultural imperialism, looked coolly at home in one of Dad's 1950s suits as if he might have been one of the waiters from the Met Bar on his night off, responding with dignified graciousness while Mum and Una twittered around him like groupies. I turned up late so managed to exchange only the briefest of apologetic words with him at the interval.

"Is it strange being in England?" I said, then felt stupid because obviously it would be strange.

"It is interesting," he said, looking at me searchingly. "Do you find it strange?"

"So" burst in Una. "Where's Mark? I thought he was supposed to be coming too!"

"He's working," I muttered as Uncle Geoffrey lurched up, pissed, with Dad.

"That's what the last one said, didn't he!" roared Geoffrey. "Always the same with my little Bridget," he said, patting me dangerously near my bottom. "Off they go. Weeeeeeeh!"

"Geoffrey!" said Una, adding as if making light conversation, "Do you have older women who can't get married off in your tribe, Wellington?"

"I am not an older woman," I hissed.

"That is the responsibility of the elders of the tribe," said Wellington.

"Well, I've always said that was the best way, haven't I, Colin?" said Mum smugly. "I mean didn't I tell Bridget she should go out with Mark?"

"But when she is older, with or without husband, a woman has the respect of the tribe," said Wellington with a twinkle in my direction.

"Can I move there?" I said glumly.

"I am not sure you would be liking the smell of the walls." He laughed.

Managed to get Dad on one side and whisper, "How's it going?"

"Oh, not so bad, you know," he said. "Seems a nice enough feller. Can we take our drinks in with us?" Second half was a nightmare. Whole hideous jamboree on stage passed in a blur as mind went into a horrifying snowball-effect roll with images of Rebecca, Gary, vibrators and nighties getting more and more lurid as they spun past.

Fortunately the crush of people spewing out of the foyer and yelling with - presumably - joy prevented conversation till we all piled into Geoffrey and Una's Range Rover. We were going along with Una driving, Geoffrey in the front, Dad giggling merrily in the boot and me sandwiched between Mum and Wellington in the back when incident happened, horrifying and incredible.

Mum had just plonked a pair of enormous, goldrimmed glasses on her nose.

"I didn't know you'd started wearing glasses," I was saying, startled by this uncharacteristic nod in the direction of acknowledging the ageing process.

"I haven't started wearing glasses," she said gaily. "Mind that belisha beacon, Una."

"But" I said, "you are."

"No, no, no! I only wear them for driving."

"But you're not."

"Yes she is." Dad grinned ruefully as Mum yelled, "Mind that Fiesta, Una! He's indicating!"

"Isn't that Mark?" said Una suddenly. "I thought he was working."

"Where!" said Mum bossily.

"Over there," said Una. "Ooh, by the way, did I tell you Olive and Roger have gone to the Himalayas? Littered with toilet paper, apparently. The whole of Mount Everest."

I followed Una's pointing finger to where Mark, dressed in his dark blue overcoat and a very white, semi-undone shirt, was getting out of a taxi. As if in slow motion, I saw a figure emerging from the back of the cab: tall, slim, with long blonde hair, laughing up into his face. It was Rebecca.

The level of torture unleashed in the Range Rover was unbelievable: Mum and Una crazed with indignation on my behalf - "Well, I think it's absolutely disgusting! With another woman on a Friday night when he said he was working! I've a good mind to ring Elaine and give her what for; Geoffrey drunkenly saying "Off they go! Weeh!" and Dad trying to quieten the whole thing down. The only silent people were me and Wellington, who took my hand and held it, very still and strong, without saying a word.

When we reached my flat he climbed out of the Range Rover to let me out, with the babble of "Well! I mean his first wife left him, didn't she?"

"Well exactly. No smoke without fire," in the background.

"In darkness the stone becomes the buffalo," Wellington said. "In sunlight all is as it is."

"Thanks," I said gratefully, then stumbled back to the flat wondering if I could turn Rebecca into a buffalo and set her on fire without creating enough smoke to alert Scotland Yard.

Saturday 1 March

10 p.m. My flat. Very black day. Jude, Shaz and I went emergency shopping and have all come back here to get ready for night on town, designed by the girls to keep my mind off things. By 8 p.m. things were already getting squiffy. "Mark Darcy's gay," Jude was declaring.

"Of course he's gay," snarled Shazzer, pouring out more Bloody Marys.

"Do you really think so?" I said, momentarily relieved by the depressing yet ego-comforting theory.

"Well, you did find a boy in his bed, didn't you?" said Shaz.

"Why else would he go off with someone freakishly tall like Rebecca, with no sense of girlfriend-hood, no tits and no bottom - i.e. a virtual man?" said Jude.

"Bridge," said Shaz, looking up at me drunkenly, "God, d'you know? When I look at you from this angle, you've got a real double chin."

"Thanks," I said wryly, pouring myself another glass of wine and pressing ANSWER PLAY again, at which Jude and Shazzer put their hands over their ears.

"Hi, Bridget. It's Mark. You don't seem to be returning my calls. I really think, whatever, I ... I'm really ... We - at least I feel - I owe it to you to be friends, so I hope you'll ... we'll. Oh God, anyway, give me a ring sometime soon. If you want to."

"Seems to have totally lost touch," grumbled Jude. "As if it's nothing to do with him when he's run off with Rebecca. You've really got to detach now. Look, are we going to this party or not?"

"Yurrr. Who's 'e bloody think he is'" said Sbaz. "Owe it to your Hggnah! You shoulssay, "Honey, I don't need anyone in my life becauseey owe it to me."'

At that moment the phone rang.

"Hi." It was Mark. Heart was inconveniently overtaken with great wave of love.

"Hi," I said eagerly, mouthing 'It's him', at the others. "Did you get your message? I mean my message?" said Mark.

Shazzer was jabbing my leg, frantically hissing, "Give it to him, go on.,

"Yes," I said, hoity-toitily. "But as I got it minutes after I saw you emerging from the taxi with Rebecca at 11 o'clock at night, I wasn't in the most amenable of humours."

Shaz stuck her fist in the air going "Yesss!!!" and Jude put her hand over Shazzer's mouth, gave me a thumbs up and reached for the Chardonnay.

There was silence on the end of the phone.

"Bridge, why do you always have to jump to conclusions?"

I paused, hand over mouthpiece. "He says I'm jumping to conclusions," I hissed, at which Shaz, furious, made a lunge for it.

"Jump to conclusions?" I said. "Rebecca's been making a play for you for a month, you chuck me for things I haven't done, then next thing I see you getting out of a taxi with Rebecca . . ."

"But it wasn't my fault, I can explain, and I had just called you."

"Yes - to say you owed it to me to be my friend."

"But . . ."

"Go on!" hissed Shaz.

I took a big breath. "Owed it to me? Honey.." At this Jude and Shaz collapsed on each other in ecstasy. Honey! Was practically being Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction. "I don't need anyone in my life because they owe it to me," I went on determinedly. "I have got the best most loyal, wise, witty, caring, supportive friends in the world. And if I were to be your friend after the way you've treated me . . ."

"But ... What way?" He sounded anguished.

"If I was still to be your friend ..." I was flagging.

"Go on," hissed Shaz.

". . . You would be really lucky."

"All. right, you've said enough," said Mark. "If you don't want me to explain, I won't pester you with phone calls. Goodbye, Bridget."

I replaced the handset, stunned, and looked round at the friends. Sharon was lying on the rug, waving a fag triumphantly in the air and Jude was swigging straight out of the bottle of Chardonnay. Suddenly I had an awful feeling I had made the most terrible mistake.

Ten minutes later the doorbell rang. I ran at it. "Can I come in?" said a muffled man's voice. Mark!

"Of course," I said, relieved, turning to Jude and Shaz saying, "Do you think you could, like, go in the bedroorn?" They were just disgruntledly picking themselves up from the floor when the door to the flat opened, only it wasn't Mark but Tom.

"Bridget! You're looking so thin!" he said. "Oh God." He slumped at the kitchen table. "Oh God. Life is shite, life is a tale told by a cynical . . ."

"Tom," said Shazzer. "We were having a conversation."

"And none of us 'ave seen you for blurry weeks," slurred Jude resentfully.

"A conversation? Not about me? Whatever can it have been about? Oh God - fucking Jerome, fucking, fucking Jerome."

"Jerome?" I said, horrified. "Pretentious Jerome? I thought you'd banished him from your life for ever."

"He left all these messages when I went to San Francisco," said Tom sheepishly. "So we started seeing each other and then tonight I just hinted at us getting back together, well, tried to snog him, and Jerome said, he said . . ." Tom brushed angrily at one eye. "He just didn't fancy me."

There was a stunned silence. Pretentious Jerome had committed a vicious, selfish, unforgivable, ego-destroying crime against all the laws of dating decency.

"I'm not attractive," said Tom despairingly. "I'm a confirmed love pariah."

Instantly we swung into action, Jude grabbing Chardonnay while Shaz put her arm round him and I brought a chair gabbling, "You're not, you're not!"

"Then why did he say that? Why? WHYYYYYYYYY?"

"It'ss perfickly obvious," said Jude, handing him a glass. "Iss because Pretentious Jerome is straight."

"Straight as a die," said Shaz. "I've known that boy wasn't gay since first time I blurry sawim."

"St-.-aight." Jude giggled in agreement. "Straight as a very straight, straight ... penis."