Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason Page 25

  "No," said sexy Matt, carefully looking down at his notebook. "Ordinary people, like us, who don't have sex for long periods of time."

  I shot a look at Matt, just as he was doing the same to me.

  "What? You lot?" said Richard, looking at us incredulously. "You're all in the first flush of youth - well, except Bridget."

  "Thanks," I muttered.

  "You're all at it like rabbits every night! Aren't you? In, out, in, out and shake it all about," he sang. "You do the Okeekokee and you turn her round, and do it to her from be-hind! Aren't you?"

  There was a certain degree of shuffling round the table.

  "Aren't you?" More pause.

  "Who here hasn't had sex in the last week?" Everyone stared hard at their notepads. "OK. Who has had sex in the last week?" No one raised their hand.

  "I don't believe this. All right. Which one of you has had sex in the last month."

  Patchouli raised her hand. As did Harold, who beamed at us all smugly from behind his spectacles. Probably lying. Or maybe just puppy-love-type shagging.

  "So the rest of you ... Jesus. You're a bunch of freaks. It can't be because you're working too hard. Celibacy. Pah! Talk about bums off seats. We're off the air because of Diana so you lot had better come up with something better than this for the rest of the season. None of this limp no-sex bollocks. We're coming back next week with a bang."

  Thursday 4 September

  8st 6 (this must stop or jail sentence will have been wasted), no. of ways imagined killing Richard Finch 32 (this too must stop otherwise deterrent value of jail sentences annihilated), no. of black jackets considered buying 23, no. of seconds not had sex 14,688,000.

  6 p.m. V. happy about return-to-school-autumnal-style feel of world. Going to go late-night shopping on way home: not to buy anything as financial crisis, just to try on new "brown is black" autumn wardrobe. V. excited and determined this year to be better at shopping i.e. (a) not panic and find only thing able to buy is black jacket as only so many black jackets one girl needs and (b) get money from somewhere. Maybe Buddha?

  8 p.m. Angus Steak House, Oxford Street. Uncontrollable panic attack, Shops all seem to have just slightly different versions of each thing. Throws self into thought fug with mind unable to settle until has encompassed and catalogued all, for example, available black nylon jackets: French Connection one at F-129 or high-class Michael Kors (tiny, square quilted one) at E400. Black nylon jackets in Hennes are only Ђ39.99. Could for example buy ten Hennes black nylon jackets for price of one Michael Kors one but then wardrobe would be more riddled with more black jackets than ever and cannot buy any of them anyway.

  Maybe whole image is at fault. Maybe should start wearing brightly coloured pantomime outfits in manner of Zandra Rhodes or Su Pollard. Or have a capsule wardrobe and just buy three very classy pieces and wear them all the time. (But what if spill or throw up on them?)

  Right. Calm, calm. This is what need to buy:

  Black nylon jacket (I only)

  Torque. Or maybe Tong or Tonk? Anyway, choker thing to go round neck.

  'Boot leg' brown trousers (depending what 'boot leg' should turn out to mean).

  Brown suit for work (or similar). Shoes,

  Was nightmare in shoe shop. Just trying on brown squaretoed high-heeled 70s style shoes in Office feeling v. dйjа-vu-esque for all those back-to-school times buying new shoes and fighting with bloody Mum about what they were allowed to be like. Then suddenly had horrifying realization: was not freaky sense of dйjа-vu- they were exactly the same shoes I had in Six Lower from Freeman Hardy Willis.

  Suddenly felt like innocent dupe or stooge of fashion designers who cannot be arsed to think of new things. Worse, am now so old that young fashion buying generation no longer remember wearing things I wore as teenager. At last realize point at which ladies start going to Jaeger for two-pieces - when do not want to be reminded of lost youth by high-street fashion any more. Have now reached said point. Am going to abandon Kookaп, Agnиs B, Whistles etc. in favour of Country Casuals and spirituality. Also cheaper. Am going home.

  9 p.m. My flat. Feel very strange and empty. Is all very well thinking everything is going to be different when you come back but then it is all the same. Suppose I have to make it different. But what am I going to do with my life?

  I know. Will eat some cheese.

  The thing is, as it says in 'Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk', the atmosphere and events around you are created by the atmosphere within you. So it is no wonder all that bad stuff - Thailand, Daniel, Rebecca etc. - happened. Must start being more inner-poised and spiritual epiphanied, then will start attracting peaceful things and kind, loving, well-balanced people. Like Mark Darcy.

  Mark Darcy - when he returns - is going to see the new me, calm and centred, attracting peace and order all around me.

  Friday 5 September

  8st 7, cigarettes 0 (triumph), no. of seconds since had sex 14,774,400 (disaster), (must treat both impostors just the same).

  8.15 a.m. Right. Up bright and early. You see, this is important: steal a march on the day!

  8.20 a.m. Ooh, a package has come for me. Maybe a gift,

  8.30 a.m. Mmm. Is in gift box with roses on. Maybe from Mark Darcy! Maybe he's back.

  8.40 a.m. Is a lovely little gold truncated biro with my name on it. Maybe from Tiffany's! With red tip. Maybe is lipstick.

  8.45 a.m. That is weird. Is no note in there. Maybe promotional lipstick from PR company.

  8.50 a.m. But is not lipstick as is solid. Maybe is biro. With my name on it! Maybe invitation to party in manner of forward-thinking PR firm - perhaps launch of new magazine called Lipstick!, maybe product of Tina Brown! - and the invitation to glittering party will follow.

  Yes, you see. Think will go to Coins and have cappuccino. Though not, of course, chocolate croissant.

  9 a.m. In cafe now. Hmm. Delighted with the little gift but not sure is biro either. Or at least if is, is very obscurely functioning one.

  Later. Oh my God. Had just sat down with cappuccino and chocolate croissant when Mark Darcy came in, just like that, as if not away at all: in his work suit, newly shaved, a little cut on his chin with toilet paper on, as traditional in the mornings. He walked to the takeaway counter and put his briefcase down as if looking around for something or someone. He saw me. There was a long moment when his eyes softened (though not, obviously, melting like goo). He turned to deal with the cappuccino. Quickly made myself even more calm and centred seeming. Then he came towards my table, looking much more businesslike. Felt like throwing my arms round him.

  "Hello," he said brusquely. "What have you got there?" - nodding at the gift.

  Hardly able to speak with love and happiness, I handed him the box.

  "I don't know what it is. I think it might be a biro."

  He took the little biro out of the box, turned it round, put it back like, well, a shot, and said, "Bridget, this isn't a promotional biro, it's a fucking bullet."

  Later still. OhmyChristalive. Was no time to discuss Thailand, Rebecca, love, anything.

  Mark grabbed a napkin, took hold of the lid of the box and replaced it.

  'I you can keep your head when all about you. ..' I whispered to myself.

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "Stay here. Don't touch it. It's a live bullet," said Mark.

  He slipped out into the street, and glanced up and down in manner of TV detective. Interesting how everything in real-life police drama reminds one of TV, rather in same way picturesque holiday scenes remind one of postcards or ...

  He was back. "Bridget? Have you paid up? What are you doing? Come on."

  "Where?"

  "The police station."

  In the car started to gabble, thanking him for everything he'd done and saying how much the Poem had helped me in jail.

  "Poem? What poem?" he said, swinging into Kensington Park Road.

  "The 'If ' poem - you know - force your heart and nerv
e and ... oh God I'm really sorry you had to go all the way to Dubai, I'm so grateful, I. . ."

  He stopped at the lights and turned to me.

  "That's absolutely fine," he said gently. "Now stop autowittering gibberish. You've had a big shock. You need to calm down."

  Humph. Whole idea was he was supposed to notice how calm and centred I am, not be telling me to calm down. Tried to calm down, but was very difficult when all could think was: someone wants to kill me.

  When we got to the police station it was slightly less like a TV drama because everything was tatty and dirty and nobody seemed the slightest bit interested in us. The police officer on the desk tried to make us wait in the waiting room but Mark insisted we were taken upstairs. We ended up sitting in a great big dingy office with nobody in it.

  Mark made me tell him everything that had happened in Thailand, asking me if Jed had mentioned anyone he knew in the UK, if the packet had come with the normal post, if I'd noticed anyone strange hanging around since I got back.

  Felt a bit stupid telling him about how trusting we'd been with Jed, thinking he was going to tell me off, but he was really sweet.

  "The worst you and Shaz could be accused of was breathtaking stupidity," he said. "You did very well in jail, I heard."

  Although he was being sweet, he wasn't being ... well it all seemed on a very businesslike footing, not like he wanted to get back together or talk about anything emotional.

  "Do you think you'd better call work?" he said, looking at his watch.

  My hand shot to my mouth. Tried to tell self it would not matter whether I still had a job or not if I was dead but it was twenty past ten!

  "Don't look like you've just accidentally eaten a child," said Mark laughing. "For once you've got a decent excuse for your pathological lateness."

  I picked up the phone and dialled Richard Finch's direct line. He answered straight away.

  "Oooh, it's Bridget, is it? Little Miss Celibacy? Two days back and she's playing truant. Where are you, then? Shopping, are we?"

  If you can trust Yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. If you can ...

  "Playing with a candle, are we? Candles out, girls!" He made a loud popping noise.

  Stared at phone in horror. Could not work out whether Richard Finch has always been like this and I was different, or whether he was getting into some terrible drug-induced downward spiral.

  "Give it to me," said Mark.

  "No!" I said, grabbing the phone back and hissing, "I'm a person in my own right."

  "Of course you are, darling, just not in your own right mind," murmured Mark.

  Darling! He called me darling!

  "Bridget? Fallen asleep again, have we? Where are you?" chortled Richard Finch.

  "I'm in the police station."

  "Ooh, back on the rokeekoke cokee? Jolly good. Got some for me?" he chuckled.

  "I've had a death threat."

  "Oooh! That's a good one. You'll get a death threat from me in a minute. Hahahaha. Police station, eh? That's what I like to see. Nice stable drug-free respectable employees on my team."

  That was it. That was just about enough. I took a big breath.

  Richard," I said grandly. "That, I'm afraid, is like the kettle calling the frying pan dirty bottom. Except that I haven't got a dirty bottom because I don't take drugs. Not like you. Anyway, I'm not coming back. Bye." And I put the phone down. Hah! Hahahaha! I thought briefly before remembering the overdraft, And the magic mushrooms. Except not strictly drugs, as natural mushrooms.

  Just then, a policeman appeared, rushing by and completely ignoring us. "Look!" said Mark banging his fist down on the desk. "We've got a girl with a live bullet with her name on here. Can we see some action?"

  The policeman stopped and looked. "It's the funeral tomorrow" he said huffily. "And we've got a knifing in Kensal Rise. I mean there are other people who have already been murdered." He tossed his head and flounced out.

  Ten minutes later the detective who was supposed to be dealing with us came in with a computer printout. "Hello. I'm DI Kirby," he said, without looking at us.

  He stared at the printout for a while, then up at me, raising his eyebrows.

  "This is the Thailand file, I take it?" said Mark, looking over his shoulder, "Oh I see ... that incident in ..."

  "Well, yes," said the detective.

  "No, no, that was just a piece of fillet steak," said Mark. The policeman was looking at Mark oddly.

  "It was left in a shopping bag by my mother," I explained, "and was starting to decay."

  "You see? There? And this is the Thai report," Mark said, leaning over the form.

  The detective put his arm around the form protectively, as if Mark were trying to copy his homework. Just then the phone rang. DI Kirby picked it up.

  "Yes. I want to be in a squad car on Kensington High Street, Well, somewhere near the Albert Hall! When the cortege sets off. I want to pay my last respects," he said in an exasperated voice. "What's DI fucking Rogers doing there? OK, well, Buckingham Palace, then. What?"

  "What did the report say about Jed?" I whispered. "'Jed' he said his name was, did he?" scoffed Mark. "Roger Dwight, actually."

  "OK then, Hyde Park Corner. But I want it at the front of the crowd. Sorry about that," said DI Kirby, putting the phone down, and assuming the sort of overcompen satory efficient air I identified totally with from when I am late for work. "Roger Dwight," the detective said. "It's kind of pointing that way, isn't it?"

  "I'd be very surprised if he's managed to organize anything himself," said Mark. "Not from Arabian custody." "Well, there are ways and means."

  Was absolutely infuriating the way Mark was talking to the policeman over my head. Almost as if I were some kind of bimbo or half-wit.

  "Excuse me," I said bristling. "Could I possibly participate in this conversation?"

  "Of course," said Mark, "as long as you don't bring up any bottoms or frying pans."

  Saw the detective looking from one to the other of us with a puzzled air. "He could, I guess, have organized someone else to send it," said Mark, turning to the detective, "but it seems somewhat unlikely, foolhardy even, given ..."

  "Well, yes, in cases of this kind. Excuse me." DI Kirby picked up the phone. "Right. Well, tell Harrow Road they've already got two cars on the route!" he said petulantly. "No. I want to see the coffin before the service. Yes. Well, tell DI Rimmington to eff off. Sorry, sir." He put the phone down again and smiled masterfully.

  "In cases of this kind ... ?" I said.

  "Yes, it's unlikely that a person with serious intentions would advertise his . . ."

  "You mean they'd just shoot her, right?" said Mark. Oh God.

  An hour later the package had gone off to be fingerprinted and DNA'd and I was still being questioned.

  "Is there anyone outside from the Thai connection who has a grudge against you, young lady?" said DI Kirby. "An ex-lover perhaps, a rejected suitor?"

  Was delighted by being called 'young lady'. You see may not be in first flush of youth but ...

  "Bridget" said Mark. "Pay attention! is there anyone who might want to hurt you?"

  "There are lots of people who have hurt me," I said, looking at Mark and racking my brains. "Richard Finch. Daniel - but I don't think either of them would do this," I said uncertainly.

  Did Daniel think I'd been talking about that night we were supposed to have dinner? Was he so annoyed about being rejected? Surely that would be a bit of an overreaction? But then maybe Sharon was right about fin-de-millennium males losing their roles.

  "Bridget?" said Mark, gently. "Whatever you're thinking, I think you should tell DI Kirby."

  Was so embarrassing. Ended up going into whole Daniel lingerie and jacket evening while DI Kirby took down details with a poker face. Mark didn't say anything when I was talking but he looked really angry. Noticed the detective kept looking hard at him.

  "Have you been involved with any low-life characters at all?" said DI Kirby. br />
  The only person I could think of was Uncle Geoffrey's possible rent boy, but that was ridiculous because the rent boy didn't know me from Adam.

  "You're going to have to move out of your flat. Is there anywhere you can go?"

  "You can stay with me," Mark said suddenly. My heart leapt. "In one of the spare rooms," he added quickly. "Could you give me a moment, sir," said the Detective Inspector. Mark looked dropped on, then said, "Of course," and abruptly left the room.

  "I'm not sure staying with Mr Darcy would be wise, miss," said the detective, glancing at the door.

  "Yeah, you might be right," I said, thinking he was taking a fatherly interest and suggesting, as a man, that I should keep the air of mystery and unavailability and let Mark be the pursuer, but then I remembered was not supposed to be thinking like that any more.

  "What exactly is your past relationship with Mr Darcy?"

  "Well!" I said and started the story.

  DI Kirby seemed oddly suspicious about the whole thing. The door opened again at the moment he was saying, "So Mr Darcy just happened to be in the coffee bar, did he? On the morning you got the bullet?"

  Mark came and stood in front of us.

  "OK," he said wearily, looking at me as if to say, 'You are the source of all that is opposite to serene.' "Print me, DNA me, let's get this out of the way."

  "Oh, I'm not saying it was you, sir," said the detective hurriedly. "It's just we have to eliminate the . . ."

  "All right, all right," said Mark. "Let's go get on with it."

  13 Gaaah!

  Friday 5 September, still 8st 8, no. seconds since had sex: no longer care, no. of minutes stayed alive since death threat 34,800 (v.g.).

  6 p.m. Shazzer's flat. Looking out of window. It can't be Mark Darcy. That's ridiculous. It can't be. It must be something to do with Jed. I mean, he's probably got a whole ring of contacts here, desperate for drugs whom I have deprived of their livelihood. Or Daniel? But surely he wouldn't do something like that. Maybe it's just some nut. But a nut who knows my name and address? Someone wants to kill me. Someone has bothered to get a live bullet and engrave my name on it.