Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason Read online

  8 p.m. Everything is turning out fantastic. Jude and Tom came round first with wine and magazines and were taking piss out of me for not knowing what a pashmina was. Jude decided Stacey had a big bum and also kept putting his hand on hers and saying 'Happee?,' which she had not revealed before and definitely meant he was out of the window.

  Also, everyone agreed it was good that Magda should go to the hateful Rebecca's dinner party as a spy, and that if Mark really is going out with Rebecca then he is definitely gay, which is good - especially for Tom, who was really cheered up. Also, Jude is going to have election party and not ask Rebecca. HA!

  AHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHAHAHA! Next thing, Shaz turned up in tears, which was really nice in a way because usually she does not show that she minds about anything.

  "Bloodybloodys," she got out eventually. "It's just been an entire year of emotional fuck-ups, and I'm so confused."

  All rushed to first aid with Vogue, sparkling wine, cigarettes etc. and Tom announced there was no such thing as platonic friendship.

  "Of course there blurry is," slurred Jude. "You jus obsessed with sex."

  "No, no," said Tom. "It's just a fin-de-millennium way of dealing with the nightmare of relationships. All friendships between men and women are based on the sexual dynamic. The mistake people make is ignoring this, then getting upset when their friend doesn't shag them."

  "I'm not getting upset," muttered Shazzer.

  "What about friends when neither fancies the other?" said Jude.

  "Doesn't happen. Sex is what drives it. 'Friends' is a bad definition."

  "Pashminas," I slurred, slurping on my Chardonnay. "That's it!" said Tom excitedly. "It's fin-de-millennium pashmina-ism, Sbazzer is Simon's "pashmina" because she wants to shag him most so he diminishes her and Simon is Shazzer's pashmaster"."

  At this, Sharon burst into tears, which took twenty minutes to sort out with another bottle of Chardonnay and packet of fags until we could come up with a list of further definitions, as follows:

  Pashmincer: A friend who you really fancy who's actually gay. ("Me, me, me," Tom said.)

  Pashmarried: A friend who you used to go out with and is now married with children who likes having you around as memory of old life but makes you feel like mad barren pod-womb imagining vicar is in love with self.

  Ex-pashspurt: An ex-partner who wants to get back with you but pretends just to want to be friends then keeps making passes and getting cross.

  "What about 'pash-hurts'?" said Shaz sulkily. "Friends who turn your own private emotional disaster into a sociological study at the expense of your feelings."

  At this point I decided I'd better go out for cigarettes. Was just standing in sordid pub on corner, waiting for change for cigarette machine when nearly jumped out of skin. Across the bar was a man who looked exactly like Geoffrey Alconbury, only instead of a yellow diamond patterned sweater and golfing slacks, he was wearing pale blue jeans, ironed with a crease down the front and a leather jacket over a black nylon string vest. Tried to compose self by staring furiously at a bottle of Malibu. It couldn't be Uncle Geoffrey. Glanced up and realized he was talking to a boy who looked about seventeen. It was Uncle Geoffrey. It definitely was!

  Hesitated, unsure what to do. Briefly considered abandoning cigarettes and departing to spare Geoffrey's feelings. But then some Gazza-esque inner angriness reminded me of all the times Geoffrey has totally humiliated me in his environment, bellowing at the top of his voice. Ha! Ahahahaha! Uncle Geoffrey was on my territory now.

  Was just about to go over and bellow "Who's this then? Durr! Got yourself a young whippersnapper" at the top of my voice, when felt a tap on my shoulder. Turned round to see no one there and felt a tap on my other shoulder. This was Uncle Geoffrey's favourite trick.

  "Ahahahaha, what's my little Bridget doing in here, looking for a fellah?" he roared.

  I couldn't believe it. He'd put a yellow sweater with a cougar on over the vest, the boy was nowhere to be seen, and he was trying to brazen it out.

  "You're not going to find one in here, Bridget, they all look like Julian Clarys to me. Bent as a 10-bob note! Ahahaha. I've just come in for a packet of slim panatellas."

  At that moment the boy reappeared holding the leather jacket and looking all twitchy and disturbed. "Bridget," said Geoffrey as if with the full weight of

  Kettering Rotary behind him, then ran out of steam, and turned to the barman. "Come on, lad! Have you got those slim panatellas I asked you for? I've been waiting twenty minutes."

  "What are you doing in London?" I said suspiciously.

  "London? I've been up at the AGM for the Rotarians. It doesn't belong to you, you know, London."

  "Hi, I'm Bridget," I said pointedly to the boy.

  "Oh yes. This is, er, Steven. He's wanting to put himself up for Treasurer, aren't you, Steven? Just giving him a spot of advice. Right. Better be off. Be good, And if you can't be good be careful" Ahahaha" And he shot out of the pub, followed by the boy, looking back at me resentfully.

  Back at the flat Jude and Shazzer could not believe I had let such an opportunity for revenge go by.

  "Think what you could have said," said Shaz, screwing her eyes up with disbelieving regret.

  'Well! Glad to see you've got yourself a feller at last, Uncle GeoffrEEEEEY! We'll see how long this one lasts, won't we? Off they go - weeeeh!'"

  Tom, though, had a really annoying expression of pompous concern on his face.

  "It's tragic, tragic," he burst out. "So many men up and down the country living a lie! Imagine all the secret thoughts, shames and desires eating away within the walls of suburbia, between the sofa and the French window of Lies! He probably goes to Hampstead Heath. He's probably taking terrible, terrible risks. You should talk to him, Bridget."

  "Look," said Shaz. "Shut up. You're drunk."

  "I feel sort of justified," I said thoughtfully and carefully. Started to explain that have long suspected Smug Married world of Geoffrey and Una was not all it seemed and that therefore am not freak and that living together in normal heterosexual couple is not God-instructed only way.

  "Bridge, shut up. You're drunk as well," said Shaz. "Hurrahs Let's bring it back to ourselves. There's nothing more annoying than being distracted from our own self-obsession by others," said Tom.

  All got really plastered after that. Was completely fantastic evening. As Tom said, if Miss Havisham had had some jolly flatmates to take the piss out of her she would never have stayed so long in her wedding dress.

  Monday 28 April

  9st 2, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0,

  boyfriends 0, calls from Gary the Builder 0, Possibilities of new job 0 (Promising), gym visits 0, no. Of gym visits so far this year 1, cost of gym membership per year Ј370; cost of single gym visit Јl23 (v. bad economy).

  Right. Am definitely going to start gym programme today so can go round saying smugly "Yes it hurt. yes it worked," in manner of Conservative Party, and - in sharp contrast to them - everyone will believe me and think I am marvellous. Oh dear, though, is 9 o'clock. Will go tonight instead. Where the fuck is Gary?

  Later. In office. Hahahahahahaha! Was marvellous at work today.

  "So," said Richard Finch, when we were all assembled round the table. "Bridget. Tony Blair. Women's committees- New policies with Women in Mind, any suggestions? Nothing to do with Colin Firth if you can possibly manage it."

  I smiled beatifically, glancing down at my notes, then looked up with poise and confidence.

  "Tony Blair should introduce a code of Dating Practice for Singletons," I said eventually.

  There was a jealous pause from all the other researchers round the table.

  "That's it, is it?" said Richard Finch. "Yup," I said confidently.

  "You don't think," he said, "that our potential new Prime Minister might have better things to do with his time?"

  "Just think of the number of working hours lost through distraction, sulks, discussions to interpret situa
tions and waiting for the phone to ring," I said. "It must be easily on a par with back pain. Also, all other cultures have specific dating rituals, but we are operating in an ill defined sea with men and women increasingly alienated from each other."

  At this, Horrid Harold let out a snort of derision.

  "Oh God," drawled Patchouli, lounging with her Lycra cycle-shorted legs all over the table. "You can't proscribe people's emotional behaviour. That's fascism."

  "No, no, Patchouli, you haven't been listening," I said strictly. "These would be just guidelines for sexual good manners. Since a quarter of all households are single, it would significantly help the nation's mental well being."

  "I really think, in the run up to the election . . ." Horrid Harold sneerily began.

  "No, wait," said Richard Finch chewing, twitching his leg up and down and looking at us oddly. "How many of you are married?"

  Everyone stared foolishly at the table.

  "So it's just me, is it?" he said. "Just me who's holding together the tattered shreds of the fabric of British society?"

  Everyone tried not to look at Saskia, the researcher Richard had been shagging all summer till he abruptly lost interest and started on the sandwich girl.

  "Mind you, I'm not surprised," he went on. "Who'd marry any of you? You're incapable of committing to fetching the cappuccinos let alone to one person for the rest of Your lives." At this Saskia let out a strange noise and shot out of the office.

  Did a great deal of research all morning, making phone calls and talking to people. Was actually quite interesting that even those researchers who had pooh-poohed whole thing kept on coming out with suggestions.

  "OK, Bridget," said Richard Finch just before lunch. "Let's hear this ground-breaking, great oeuvre."

  Explained that Rome was not built in a day, and obviously had not completed whole work yet but these were lines was working along. I cleared my throat and began:

  'Code Of Dating Practice'

  1) If citizens know they do not want to go out with someone else they must not egg them on in the first place.

  2) When a man and woman decide they would like to sleep together, if either party knows they just want a 'fling' this should be clearly stated beforehand.

  3) If citizens snog or shag other citizens they must not pretend nothing is going on.

  4) Citizens must not go out with other citizens for years and years but keep on saying they don't want to get too serious.

  5) After sexual relations it is definitely bad manners not to stay the night."

  "But what if . - ." rudely interrupted Patchouli.

  "Could I just finish?" I said. graciously and authoritatively as if I were Michael Heseltine and Patchouli were Jeremy Paxman. I then ran through the rest of the list adding, "Also, if governments are going to go on about family values then they have to do something more positive for Singletons than slagging them off." I paused, shuffling my papers pleasantly. "Here are my proposals

  'Smug Marriage Promotional Suggestions'

  1) Teach 'Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus' in schools so both sides of opposing armies understand each other.

  2) Teach all boy children that sharing the housework does not mean twiddling one fork under the tap.

  3) Form giant Government Matchmaking Agency for Singletons, with strict Code of Dating Practice, MateSeekers Allowance for drinks, phone calls, cosmetics etc., penalties for Emotional Fuckwittage and rule that you have to go on at least 12 government-arranged dates before you can declare yourself a Singleton; and only then if have reasonable grounds for rejecting all 12.

  4) If grounds are deemed unreasonable, then you have to declare yourself a Fuckwit."

  "Oh Christ," said Horrid Harold. "I mean I really do think the issue is the Euro."

  "No, this is good, this is very good," said Richard, staring fixedly at me, at which Harold looked as though he'd eaten a pigeon. "I'm thinking live studio discussion. I'm thinking Harriet Harman, I'm thinking Robin Cook. I'm maybe even thinking Blair. Right, Bridget. Move. Set this up. Get Harman's office on the phone and get her in tomorrow, then try Blair."

  Hurrah. Am head researcher on lead item. Everything is going to change for me and for the nation!

  7 p.m. Humph. Harriet Harman has never rung back. And neither has Tony Blair. Item is cancelled.

  Tuesday 29 April

  Cannot believe Gary the Builder. Have left him a message every day this week and nothing. No reply. Maybe he's sick or something. Also keep getting whiff of really horrible smell on stairs.

  Wednesday 30 April

  Hmm. Just got home from work and hole has been covered up with big sheet of polythene but no note, no message, nothing about giving me the Ј3,500 back. Nothing. Wish Mark would ring.

  8 Oh Baby

  Thursday 1 May

  9st 2, alcohol units 5 (but celebrating New Labour victory), contribution to New Labour victory - other than alcohol units - 0.

  6.30 p.m. Hurrah! Really there is a fantastic atmosphere today: election days are one of the few occasions when you realize it is we, the people, who are in charge and the government are just our mutatedly bloated, arrogant pawns and now our time has come to stand together and wield our power.

  7.30 p.m. Just got back from shop. Is amazing out there. Everyone spilling out of the pubs completely drunk. Really feel part of something. It is not just that people want a change. No. It is a great rising up of we, the nation, against all the greed, lack of principles and of respect for real people and their problems and ... Oh goody, telephone.

  7.45 p.m. Humph. Was Tom.

  "Have you voted yet?"

  "Actually I was just on my way," I said.

  "Oh yes. To which voting station?" "The one round the corner."

  Hate it when Tom gets like this. Just because he used to be a member of Red Wedge and go round singing "Sing If You're Glad to be Gay" in a morbid voice, there is no need for him to behave like the Spanish Inquisition.

  "And which candidate will you be voting for?"

  "Um," I said, looking frantically out of the window for red signs on the lamp-posts. "Buck!"

  "Go on then," he said. "Remember Mrs Pankhurst."

  Honestly, who does he think he is - the three line whip or something? Obviously I am going to vote. Better get changed, though. I do not look very lefty in this.

  8.45 p.m. Just back from polling station. "Do you have your voting card?" bossy whippersnapper asked. What voting card? That's what I want to know. Turned out I was not registered on any of their lists even though I have been paying poll tax for bloody years so have to go to another voting station. Just come back for A-Z.

  9.30 p.m. Humph. Was not bloody well registered there either. Have to go to some library or other miles away. Mind you, is great being out on the streets tonight. We, the people, uniting for change. Yesssss! Wish had not worn platforms though. Wish, also, did not keep getting whiff of horrible smell on stairs every time I go out.

  10.30 p.m. Cannot believe what has happened. I have let down Tony Blair and my country through no fault of my own. Turned out, although flat was on list, am not registered to vote, even though I had Community Charge book with me. Honestly, all that fuss about not having the vote if you don't pay your poll tax and turns out you do not have vote even if you do.

  "Did you fill the form in last October- said self important baggage in ruffly-collared shirt and brooch, enjoying crazed moment of glory just because she happened to be in charge of table in voting station.

  "Yes!" I lied. Obviously people who live in flats cannot be expected to open every boring brown envelope addressed "To The Occupant" which plops through the door. What if Buck loses by one vote then entire election lost by one seat? Will be my fault, my fault. Walk to Shazzer's from polling station was hideous walk of shame. Also cannot wear platforms now as feet too crippled so will look short.

  2.30 a.m. Was blurbrill party. Tories. Outs. Out! OUT! Oops.

  Friday 2 May

  9st 3 (hu
rrah! Newborn New Labour pound first of new era).

  8 a.m. Hurrah! Could not be more pleased about landslide. That will be one in eye for shaming Tory-Party Member mother and ex-boyfriend. Har har. Cannot wait to gloat. Cherie Blair is fantastic. You see, she too would probably not fit into tiny bikinis in communal changing rooms. She too has not got snooker-ball bottom yet somehow is able to obtain clothes that encompass bottom and still make her look like role model. Maybe Cherie will now use her influence over new Prime Minister, who will order all clothes shops to start producing clothes that will fit attractively over everyone's arses.

  Worry, though, that New Labour will be like having a crush on someone, finally being able to go out with them and then when you have your first row it is cataclysmically awful. But then Tony Blair is the first Prime Minister I can completely imagine having voluntary sex with. Actually Shaz had a theory last night that the reason he and Cherie were always touching each other was not the spin doctors but that Cherie was becoming increasingly aroused as the landslides came in - the aphrodisiac of power or ... Ooh, telephone.

  "Oh, hello, darling, guess what?" My mother.

  "What?" I said smugly, preparing to gloat.

  "We've won, darling. Isn't that marvellous! A landslide! Imagine!"

  A cold shudder suddenly went over me. When we went to bed Peter Snow was striding marvellously but incomprehensibly about and it seemed pretty clear the swingometer was to Labour but ... Oh-oh. Maybe we misunderstood. We were a bit squiffy and nothing made any particular sense other than all the blue Tory buildings on the map of Britain being blown up. Or maybe something happened in the night and turned it back Tory. "And guess what?"

  Is all my fault. Labour has lost and is all my fault. I and people like me who, as Tony Blair warned, had become complacent. Am not fit to call myself British citizen or woman. Doom. Dooooom.

  "Bridget, are you listening to me?, "Yes," I whispered, mortified.