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  Later. In office. Haha! Aahahahaha! Was marvelous 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 situations 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 behavior. 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 groundbreaking, 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

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

  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.

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

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

  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. 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

  Teach Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus in schools so both sides of opposing armies understand each other.

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

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

  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 ver-y 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 £3,500 back. Nothing. Wish Mark would ring.

  * * *

  8

  Oh Baby

  THURSDAY 1 MAY

  128 lbs., 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 trendy lefty groups 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 lampposts. “Buck!”

  “Go on then,” he said. “Remember Mrs. Pankhurst.”

  Honestly, who does he think he is? 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 tim
e 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. Out! Out! Out! Oops.

  FRIDAY 2 MAY

  129 lbs. (hurrah! 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 marvelous! A landslide! Imagine!”

  A cold shudder suddenly went over me. When we went to bed Peter Snow was striding marvelously 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.

  “We’re having a Tony and Gordon Ladies’ Night at the Rotary! Everyone’s going to call each other by their first names and wear casual wear instead of ties. Merle Robertshaw’s trying to put the kibosh on it because she says no one wants to come in slacks except the vicar, but actually Una and I think it’s just because Percival’s furious about the handguns. Then Wellington’s going to give a speech. A black man speaking at the Rotary! Imagine! But you see that’s the whole spirit of Labour, darling. Colors and ethical like Nelson Mandela. Geoffrey’s been taking Wellington on little drives and showing him the pubs in Kettering. The other day they got stuck behind a Nelson Myers lorry full of scaffolding planks and we thought they’d had an accident!”

  Trying not to think about the possible motivation behind Uncle Geoffrey’s “little drives” with Wellington, I said, “I thought you’d just had an election party with Wellington?”

  “Oh no, actually, darling, Wellington decided he didn’t want to do that. He said he didn’t want to pollute our culture and have Una and I jumping over fires at parties instead of handing out vol-au-vents.” I burst out laughing. “So anyway he wants to do this speech and raise some money for his jet ski bike.”

  “What?”

  “A jet ski, darling, you know? He wants to set up a little business on the beach instead of selling shells. He says the Rotary are bound to go for it because they’re supporters of business. Anyway, must whizz! Una and I are taking him to get his colors done!”

  Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance who does not take responsibility for others’ behavior. Only for own. Yes.

  SATURDAY 3 MAY

  128 lbs., alcohol units 2 (standard health issue to avoid heart attacks), cigarettes 5 (v.g.), calories 1,800 (v.g.), positive thoughts 4 (excellent).

  8 p.m. Whole new positive mood. Sure everyone is being more courteous and giving under new Blair regime. Is surely clean sweep with broom sweeping out evils of Tory rule. Even feel different about Mark and Rebecca. Just because she is having a dinner party does not mean they are going out, does it? She is just being manipulative. Really, it is marvelous when one feels one has reached a plateau and everything just seems lovely. All things I used to think about not being attractive beyond a certain age are not true. Look at Helen Mirren and Francesca Annis.

  8:30 p.m. Hmm, though. Is not very nice thought that dinner party is actually tonight. Think will read a bit of Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk. Is good to calm down. Cannot expect life always to turn out well and everyone needs to nourish their soul.

  8:45 p.m. Yes! You see problem is have been living in fantasy world, constantly turning to past or future instead of enjoying present moment. Am just going to sit here and enjoy present moment.

  9 p.m. Not enjoying present moment at all. Is hole in wall, stink on stairs, growing overdraft in bank and Mark is at dinner party with Rebecca. Maybe will open bottle of wine and watch ER.

  10 p.m. Wonder if Magda is back yet. She promised to call me the second she got in with full report. Sure she will say Mark is not going out with Rebecca and he was asking about me.

  11:30 p.m. Have just rung Magda’s baby-sitter. They are not back yet. Have left message to remind her to ring.

  11:35 p.m. Still hasn’t rung. Maybe Rebecca’s dinner party is fantastic triumph and they are all still there having riotous time climaxing with Mark Darcy standing on table announcing engagement to Rebecca. . . . Ooh, telephone.

  “Hi, Bridge, it’s Magda.”

  “So how was it?” I said, too quickly.

  “Oh, it was quite nice actually.”

  I flinched. Totally wrong thing to say, totally.

  “She’d done grilled goat’s cheese on a green salad and then penne carbonara only with asparagus instead of pancetta, which was lovely and then peaches baked in Marsala with mascarpone.”

  This was terrible.

  “It was obviously Delia Smith but she denied it.”

  “Did she?” I said eagerly. This at least was good. He does not like people being pretentious. “And how was Mark?”

  “Oh fine. He’s a really nice chap, isn’t he? Terribly attractive.” Magda has no idea. No idea, none. Not to praise ex-boyfriends who have chucked one. “Oh and then she did orange peel coated in chocolate.”

  “Right,” I said patiently. I mean honestly, if this were Jude or Shazzer they would have every nuance, ready and deconstructed. “And do you think he’s going out with Rebecca?”

  “Hmmm, I’m not sure. She was very flirty with him.”

  Tried to remember about Buddhism and that at least have own spirit.

  “Was he already there when you got there?” I said slowly and understandingly as if talking to a very confused two-year-old.

  “Yes.”

  “And did he leave when everyone else did?”

  “Jeremy!” she suddenly yelled at the top of her voice. “Was Mark Darcy still there when we left?
”

  Oh God.

  “Mark Darcy what?” I heard Jeremy bellow, and then something else.

  “Has he done it in the bed?” Magda yelled. “A wee or a poo? IS IT A WEE OR A POO? Sorry, Bridge, I’m going to have to go.”

  “Just one more thing,” I gabbled. “Did he mention me?”

  “Take it out of the bed—with your hands! Well, you can wash them, can’t you? Oh for God’s sake grow up. Sorry, Bridge, what was that?”

  “Did he mention me?”

  “Um. Um. Oh fuck off, Jeremy.”

  “Well?”

  “To be honest, Bridge, I don’t think he did.”

  SUNDAY 4 MAY

  128 lbs., alcohol units 5, cigarettes 9 (must stop slide into decadence), hatred poison plans to kill Rebecca 14, Buddhist shame at homicidal thoughts: extensive, Catholic guilt (even though not Catholic): growing.

  My flat. Very bad day. Went round to Jude’s earlier in zomboid state. She and Shaz were going on and on saying I had to get back on some kind of horse and started—frankly insultingly—leafing through the Time Out Lonely Hearts.

  “I don’t want to look at Lonely Hearts,” I said indignantly. “It’s not that bad.”

  “Er, Bridget,” said Sharon coldly. “Weren’t you the one that wanted Tony Blair to set up dating agencies for Singletons? I thought we agreed that political integrity was important.”

  “Oh my God, this is outrageous.” Jude was reading out loud, shoving large pieces of a leftover Crunchie Easter Egg into her mouth. “ ‘Genuine tall attractive male fifty-seven, GSOH, WLTM civilized, married luscious lady twenty to twenty-five, for discreet uninhibited no-commitment relationship.’ Who do they think they are, these creeps?”

  “What’s GSOH and WLTM?” I said.

  “Giant sore on head. Willy limp, thin mollusc?” suggested Sharon.

  “Great sex on horse with little tiny mouse?” I wondered.