The Edge of Reason Read online

  “Ah, off back to the big, big, smokeedeesmoke of London?” he said, stumbling slightly and grabbing hold of the shed. “You a bit down, old love?” he slurred gently.

  I nodded. “You too?” I said.

  He folded me up in his arms and gave me a big squeeze like he used to do when I was little. It was nice: my dad.

  “How have you managed to stay married so long to Mum?” I whispered, wondering what that vaguely sweet smell was. Whisky?

  “Sssnot so complicated really,” he said, lurching against the shed again. He cocked his head on one side, listening to Nat King Cole.

  “The greatest thing,” he started to croon, “you’ll ever learn is how to love and be loved in return. Just hope she still loves me not the Mau Mau.”

  Then he leaned over and gave me a kiss.

  WEDNESDAY 5 MARCH

  128 lbs. (good), alcohol units 0 (excellent), cigarettes 5 (a pleasant, healthy number), no. times driven past Mark Darcy’s house 2 (v.g.), no. of times looked up Mark Darcy’s name in phone book to prove still exists 18 (v.g.), 1471 calls 12 (better), no. of phone calls from Mark 0 (tragic).

  8:30 a.m. My flat. Very sad. I miss Mark. Heard nothing all day Sunday and Monday then got back from work last night to message saying he was going to New York for a few weeks. “So I guess it really is good-bye.”

  Am trying best to keep spirits up. Have found that if when wake up in morning, immediately before feeling first stab of pain, put on Radio 4 Today program—even if program does appear to consist of hours and hours of Just a Minute–type game with politicians trying not to say “Yes” or “No” or answer any of the questions—then I can actually avoid getting caught in obsessive “if only” thought cycles and imaginary Mark Darcy conversational loops that only increase sadness and inability to get out of bed.

  Must say Gordon Brown was v.g. on program this morning, managing to go on about European currency without hesitating, pausing or actually saying anything, but all the time talking calmly and fluently with news presenter shouting, “Yes or No? Yes or No?” like game show host in the background. So . . . well, could be worse. I suppose.

  Wonder if European currency is the same as single currency? In some ways am in favor of this as presumably we would have different coins, which might be quite European and chic. Also they could get rid of the brown ones, which are too heavy and the 5ps and 20ps, which are too tiny and insignificant to be pleasurable. Hmm. We should hang on to the £1s though, which are fantastic, like sovereigns, and you suddenly find you have £8 in your purse when you thought you had run out. But then they would have to alter all the slot machines and . . . Gaaaaaah! Doorbell. Maybe Mark coming to say good-bye.

  Was just bloody Gary. Eventually managed to get out of him that he had come to tell me that the infill extension would “only” cost £7,000.

  “Where am I going to get £7,000?”

  “You could get a second mortgage,” he said. “It would only cost you another hundred a month.”

  Fortunately even he could see I was late for work so managed to get him out of the house. £7,000. Honestly.

  7 p.m. Back home. Surely it is not normal to be treating my answerphone like an old-fashioned human partner: rushing home to it from work to see what mood it is in, whether it will tinklingly confirm that I am lovable and an acceptable member of society or be empty and distant, like now for example. Not only is there no message from Mark for the forty-second day running, but also no message from anyone else. Maybe should read a bit of The Road Less Traveled.

  7:06 p.m. Yes, you see love is not something that happens to you but something you do. So what didn’t I do?

  7:08 p.m. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance. My sense of self comes not from other people but from . . . from . . . myself? That can’t be right.

  7:09 p.m. Anyway. Good thing is am not obsessing about Mark Darcy. Am starting to detach.

  7:15 p.m. Goody, telephone! Maybe Mark Darcy!

  “Bridget, you’re looking so thin!” Tom. “How are you doing, my baby?”

  “Crap,” I said, taking my Nicorette gum out of my mouth and starting to mold it into a sculpture. “Obviously.”

  “Oh come on, Bridgelene! Men! Ten a penny. How’s the new interviewing career?”

  “Well, I rang Colin Firth’s agent and got out all the cuts. I really thought he might do it because Fever Pitch is coming out soon and I thought they might want the publicity.”

  “And?”

  “They rang back and said he was too busy.”

  “Hah! Well, actually that’s exactly what I’m ringing about. Jerome says he knows—”

  “Tom,” I said dangerously, “would this be Mentionitis by any chance?”

  “No, no . . . I’m not going to go back with him,” he lied transparently. “But anyway, Jerome knows this guy who worked on the last film with Colin Firth and he said do you want him to put in a good word for you?”

  “Yes!” I said excitedly.

  Realize is just another excuse for Tom to keep in touch with Pretentious Jerome but then all kind acts are a mixture of altruism and self-interest, and maybe Colin Firth will say yes!

  Hurrah! Will be perfect job for me! Can go all over the world interviewing famous celebrities. Also with all the extra money could get the second mortgage for the office and roof terrace then give up hateful Sit Up Britain job and work at home. Yes! Everything is falling into place! Am going to ring up Gary. You cannot expect anything to change unless you change. Am taking things into my own hands!

  Right, am not going to lie in bed being sad. Am going to get up and do something useful. Like. Um. Have a fag? Oh God. Cannot bear the thought of Mark calling up Rebecca, going through all the little details of the day like he used to do with me. Mustn’t, mustn’t be negative. Maybe Mark is not going out with Rebecca and will come back and be with me! You see? Hurrah!

  WEDNESDAY 12 MARCH

  128 lbs., alcohol units 4 (but am journalist now so obviously must be drunk), cigarettes 5, calories 1,845 (g.), lights at end of tunnel 1 (v. tiny).

  4 p.m. Tom just called me at work.

  “It’s on!”

  “What?”

  “The Colin Firth thing!”

  I sat straight up in my chair, quivering.

  “Yes! Jerome’s friend called up and Colin Firth was really nice and said if you can place it in the Independent he’ll do it. And I’m going out for dinner with Pretentious Jerome!”

  “Tom, you’re a saint, a God and an archangel. So what do I have to do?”

  “Just ring up Colin Firth’s agent and then call Adam at the Independent. Oh, by the way, I told them you’d done loads of stuff before.”

  “But I haven’t.”

  “Oh, don’t be so bloody literal, Bridgelene, just tell him you have.”

  TUESDAY 18 MARCH

  129 lbs. (v. unfair crimeless punishment), calories 1,200 (rest my case), mortgages 2 (hurrah!), number of bedrooms in flat: about to be 2 (hurrah!).

  Have rung up bank and is fine about the second mortgage! All I have to do is fill in a few forms and stuff and then I can have £7,000 and it is only £120 a month! Cannot believe have not thought of this before. Could have been answer to all my overdraft problems!

  WEDNESDAY 2 APRIL

  130 lbs., calories 998 (bizarre calorie/fat inverse relationship seems to render food restraint pointless), miracles: multiple, newfound joy: infinite.

  5 p.m. Something strange is going on. Not only is Colin Firth interview happening but it is going to be in Rome! Next thing they will say interview is to take place naked in sea off Caribbean island in manner of Blind Date. Can understand God granting one favor to make up for everything but this, surely, is beyond all normal religious reason. Suggests life is peaking in some terrifying final way followed by rapid rush downhill towards untimely death. Maybe is belated April Fool.

  Just called Tom who said stop always thinking there is a trick to everything and reason interview is taking place in
Rome is that Colin Firth lives there—he is right—and to try to concentrate on fact that there are other things about Colin Firth apart from playing Mr. Darcy. Like his new film Fever Pitch for example.

  “Yup, yup, yup,” I said, then told Tom was v. grateful for all his help in setting this up. “You see this is exactly what I needed!” I said excitedly. “I feel so much better now I’m concentrating on my career instead of obsessing about men.”

  “Er, Bridget,” said Tom. “You do realize Colin Firth has a girlfriend, don’t you?”

  Humph.

  FRIDAY 11 APRIL

  128 lbs., alcohol units 5 (journalism training), cigarettes 22, calories 3,844 (you see? You see? Am never going to diet again).

  6 p.m. A wonderful thing has happened! Just spoke to PR lady and Colin Firth is going to call me at home over the weekend to arrange things! Cannot believe it. Obviously will not be able to go out of house all weekend but that is good as will be able to do research by watching Pride and Prejudice video, though obviously realize must talk about other projects as well. Yes. Actually this could be real turning point in career. You see ironically enough, in a spooky sixth-sense meant-to-be-type way, Mr. Darcy has made me forget obsession with Mark Darcy. . . . Telephone! Maybe Mr. or Mark Darcy, must quickly put impressive jazz or classical record on.

  Huh. Was bloody bossy man called Michael from Independent. “Now listen. We haven’t used you before. I don’t want any messing about with this. You come back on the plane we have booked for you on Monday night, you sit down with it on Tuesday morning and you hand it in by four o’clock or it won’t go in. And you’re asking him about the film Fever Pitch. Fever Pitch, in which, as you know, he plays a character who is not Mr. Darcy.”

  Actually that is quite right. Ooh, telephone.

  Was Jude. She and Shazzer are coming round. Fear they will make me laugh when Mr. Darcy rings but on other hand need something to take mind off it or will burst.

  SATURDAY 12 APRIL

  129 lbs. (but can definitely lose 3 lbs. before tomorrow using hospital frankfurter diet), alcohol units 3 (v.g.), cigarettes 2 (perfect saint-style person), frankfurters 12, 1471 calls to see if not heard Colin Firth ring owing to sudden unnoticed deafness 7, sq. ft. of floor space not covered in pizza boxes, outfit choices, ashtrays etc. 2 (under sofa), no. of times watched Pride and Prejudice video where Colin Firth dives into lake 15 (topflight researcher), calls from Colin Firth 0 (so far).

  10 a.m. Colin Firth hasn’t rung.

  10:03 a.m. Still hasn’t rung.

  10:07 a.m. Still hasn’t rung. Wonder if is too early to wake Jude and Shazzer up? Maybe he is waiting till his girlfriend has gone out shopping to ring me.

  5 p.m. Flat looks like bomb has hit it, due to Mr. Darcy stakeout: all sprawled all over sitting room like in Thelma and Louise when Thelma’s house is taken over by police and Harvey Keitel is waiting for them to ring with tape recorders whirring in background. Really appreciate Jude and Shazzer’s support and everything, but means have not been able to get on with preparation, apart from physical.

  6 p.m. Mr. Darcy still has not rung.

  6:05 p.m. Still has not rung. What am I supposed to do? Do not even know where am meeting him.

  6:15 p.m. Still has not rung. Maybe girlfriend has just refused to go out shopping. Maybe they have just been having sex all weekend and sending out for Italian ice cream and just laughing at me behind my back.

  6:30 p.m. Jude suddenly woke up and put her fingertips on her forehead.

  “We must go out,” she said in a strange, TV-clairvoyant-style voice.

  “Are you mad?” hissed Sharon. “Go out? Have you gone out of your mind?”

  “No,” said Jude coldly. “The reason the phone isn’t ringing is there is too much energy focused on it.”

  “Phwnaw,” snorted Sharon.

  “Apart from anything else it has started to stink in here. We need to clean up, let the energy flow, then go out and have a Bloody Mary,” she said, looking at me temptingly.

  Minutes later we were outside, blinking in the unexpectedly springlike not-dark-yet air. I made a sudden bolt back towards the door but Shazzer grabbed me.

  “We are going. For. A. Bloody. Mary,” she hissed, marching me along the road like a big policeman.

  Fourteen minutes later we were back. I flung myself across the room and froze. The light was flashing on the answerphone.

  “You see,” said Jude in a horrible smug voice. “You see.”

  Tremulously, as if it were an unexploded bomb, Shazzer reached forward and pressed ANSWER PLAY.

  “Hello, Bridget, this is Colin Firth.” We all jumped a foot backwards. It was Mr. Darcy. The same posh, deep, can’t-be-bothered voice that he proposed to Elizabeth Bennet in on the BBC. Bridget. Me. Mr. Darcy said Bridget. On my answerphone.

  “I gather you’re coming to Rome to interview me on Monday,” he went on. “I was calling to arrange somewhere to meet. There’s a square called the Piazza Navona, sort of easy place to find in a taxi. I’ll meet you about four-thirty by the fountain. Have a safe journey.”

  “1471, 1471,” gabbled Jude, “1471, quick, quick. No, rewind, rewind. Play it again!”

  “Call him back,” screamed Sharon like an SS torturer. “Call him back and ask him to meet you in the fountain. OhmyGod.”

  Just as we’d rewound, the phone had rung again. We stood there rigid, mouths open. Then Tom’s voice boomed out, “Hello, you pretty little things, it’s Mr. Darcy here just calling to see if anyone could help me out of this wet shirt.”

  Shazzer suddenly detranced. “Stop him, stop him,” she screamed, flinging herself at the receiver. “Shut up, Tom, shut up, shut up, shut up.”

  But it was too late. My answerphone recording of Mr. Darcy saying the word “Bridget” and asking me to meet him in Rome by a fountain has been lost forever. And there is nothing anyone in the world will ever be able to do about it. Nothing. Nothing.

  * * *

  6

  Italian Job

  MONDAY 21 APRIL

  125 lbs. (fat consumed by excitement and fear), alcohol units 0: excellent (but is only 7:30 in morning), cigarettes 4 (v.g.).

  7:30 a.m. Really it is a marvelous step forward to be setting off on journey with so much time to spare. It just goes to show, as it says in The Road Less Traveled, that human beings have capacity to change and grow. Tom came round last night and went through questions with me. So am pretty much all prepared with clear brief though was tiny bit on pissed side, to be perfectly honest.

  9:15 a.m. Actually have loads of time. Everyone knows when businessmen whizz between European airports they turn up forty minutes before liftoff, with just a briefcase with nylon shirts in. Plane is at 11:45. Must be at Gatwick at 11, so 10:30 train from Victoria and tube at 10. Perfect.

  9:30 a.m. What if it all gets too much and I just, like, burst out and kiss him? Also trousers are too tight and will show stomach. Think will just change into something else. Also maybe need to take sponge bag to freshen up before interview.

  9:40 a.m. Cannot believe have wasted time on packing sponge bag, when most important thing, surely, is to look nice on arrival. Hair is completely mad. Will have to wet it again. Where is passport?

  9:45 a.m. Have got passport, and hair is calm, so better go.

  9:49 a.m. Only problem being: cannot lift bag. Maybe had better reduce sponge bag contents to toothbrush, paste, mouthwash, cleanser and moisturizer. Oh and must take £3,500 out of microwave and leave for Gary so he can start getting materials and stuff for new office and roof terrace! Hurrah!

  9:50 a.m. Goody. Have ordered minicab. Will be here in two mins.

  10 a.m. Where is minicab?

  10:05 a.m. Where the fuck is minicab?

  10:06 a.m. Have just rung up minicab firm who say silver Cavalier is outside.

  10:07 a.m. Silver Cavalier is not outside or anywhere in street.

  10:08 a.m. Minicab man says silver Cavalier is definitely turning into my street at th
is moment.

  10:10 a.m. Still no minicab. Fucking fucking minicab and all it’s . . . Gaah. Is here. Oh fuck, where are keys?

  10:15 a.m. In minicab now. Have definitely done journey in fifteen mins. before.

  10:18 a.m. Aargh. Minicab is suddenly on Marylebone Road—inexplicably deciding on scenic tour of London instead of route to Victoria. Fight instinct to attack, kill and eat minicab driver.

  10:20 a.m. Back on course now i.e. no longer heading for Newcastle, but traffic is solid. There is no occasion now in London when is not rush hour.

  10:27 a.m. Wonder if is possible to get from Marble Arch to Gatwick Express in one minute?

  10:35 a.m. Victoria. OK. Calm, calm. Train has gone without self.

  Still if get 10:45 will have clear thirty minutes before plane goes.

  Also plane will probably be delayed.

  10:40 a.m. Wonder if there will be time to get new trousers at airport? Actually am not going to be neurotic about this. Marvelous thing about traveling alone is you can really start to develop a new character, and be quite elegant and Zen-like and no one knows you.

  10:50 a.m. Wish did not keep thinking passport has jumped out of bag and gone back home.

  11:10 a.m. Train has inexplicably stopped. Suddenly all extra things did, e.g. putting extra polish coat on toenails, seem unimportant alongside not actually turning up.

  11:45 a.m. Cannot believe it. Plane has gone without me.

  Noon. Thank God, Mr. Darcy, and all angels in heaven. Turns out can go on another plane in one hour forty minutes. Just called publicist who said no problem, she would get him to meet me two hours later. Goody, can do airport shopping.

  1 p.m. V. keen on floaty-chiffon-with-roses-on-style fashions for spring but do not think they should design them so they will not fit over people’s arses. Love the lovely airport shopping area. Top architect Sir Richard Rogers, Terence Conran and similar are always complaining that airports have turned into great big shopping malls but I consider that to be good. Possibly will incorporate that into next major profile possibly with Sir Richard himself if not Bill Clinton. Maybe will just try bikini on.