Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason Page 26

  Must keep calm. Calm, calm. Yes. Must keep head when all around you ... Wonder if they have bulletproof vests in Kookaп?

  Wish Shaz would come back. Am all disorientated. Shazzer's flat is tiny, and messy at the best of times, especially as all open-plan, but with two of them here the floor and every surface seems completely covered with Agent Provocateur bras, leopardskin ankle boots, Gucci carrier bags, faux Prada handbags, tiny Voyage cardigans and odd strappy shoes. V. confused. Maybe will find space somewhere and lie down.

  After they took Mark away DI Kirby repeated that I mustn't stay in my flat and took me back there to collect some things, but trouble was did not have anywhere to stay. Mum and Dad were still in rehab. Tom's flat would have been ideal but couldn't find his San Francisco number anywhere. Tried both Jude and Shaz at work but they were both out at lunch.

  Was awful really. Was leaving messages everywhere while the police stamped around getting things to fingerprint and looking for clues.

  "What's this hole doing in the wall, miss?" said one of the policemen, as they wandered around, dusting things.

  "Oh, it, um, got left," I said vaguely. Just then the phone rang. Was Shaz who said I could stay and told me where spare key was hidden.

  Think will have little sleep.

  11.45 p.m. Wish did not keep waking up in night, though is v. comforting having Jude and Shaz asleep in the room too like babies. Was v. nice when they came home from work. Had pizzas and I went to sleep really early. No word from or about Mark Darcy. At least have got panic button. Is nice. Is remote-control operated by a little suitcase. Just think if I press it lithe young policemen will come round in uniform to save me!!! Mmm. Delicious thought ... v. sleepy ...

  Saturday 6 September

  8st 9, cigarettes 10, alcohol units 3, calories 4,255 (might as well, enjoy life while still lucky enough to have it), minutes since had sex 16,005,124,00 (must, therefore do something about this).

  6 p.m. Me, Jude and Shaz spent all day watching Princess Diana's funeral. All agreed it was like funeral of someone you know, only on somewhat grander scale, so that afterwards you feel as though you have been put through a wringer, but also as though something has been let out of you. Just so pleased that they managed to get everything right. It was all good. Beautiful and really good as if the establishment has really got the message at last, and our country can do things properly again.

  Whole thing seems like Shakespearean tragedy or ancient legend, especially with sparring between two great noble houses of Spencer and Windsor. Definitely feel ashamed for working on stupid daytime TV programme where we have often devoted entire afternoons to Diana's hair. Will change life. If establishment can change so can I.

  Bit lonely now, though. Jude and Shaz went out into the streets as said they had cabin fever. We tried ringing the police station, as am not allowed out without a policeman, but eventually, after forty-five minutes, we got through to a woman on central switchboard who said everyone was busy, Told Jude and Shaz definitely did not mind if they went out without me as long as they brought back a pizza. Ah. Telephone.

  '"Oh, hello, darling, it's Mummy here."

  Mummy! Anyone would think I was about to do a poo-poo in her hand.

  "Where are you, Mother?" I said. "Oh, I've come out, darling."

  For a second I thought she was telling me she was a lesbian and was going to set up home with Uncle Geoffrey in a gay, sexless marriage of convenience.

  "We're back home. Everything's sorted out and Daddy's going to be fine. I don't know! Drinking all that time in his shed when I thought it was the tomatoes. Mind you, Gordon Gomersall had exactly the same thing, you know, and Joy had no idea. It's a disease, they say now. What did you think of the funeral?"

  "Very nice," I said. "Now what's going on?"

  "Well, darling . . ." she began, then there was a kerfuffle and Dad came on the phone.

  "It's all right, love. I've just got to stay off the booze," he said. "And they were trying to get Pam out of there from day one."

  "Why?" I said, a lurid vision of my mother seducing a procession of eighteen-year-old drug addicts loomed up before my eyes.

  He chuckled. "They said she was too normal. Let me give you back."

  "Honestly, darling. It was all complete silly-daft nonsense charging these celebrity type of people loads of money to tell them things everybody knows already!"

  "What kind of things?"

  "Oooh, hang on. I'll just turn the chicken over."

  I held the phone away from my ear, trying not to think about what kind of bizarre dish would involve an upside-down chicken.

  "Oof. There we go."

  "What things did they tell you?"

  "Well, in the mornings we all had to sit in a circle and say all kinds of silly things."

  "Like ... ?"

  "Oh, durrr You know. My name's Pam and I'm a whatever!"

  What? I wondered ... ever? Madly over-confident nightmare? Lump-free gravy obsessive? Girl-child torturess? "The things they were coming out with! 'Today I will

  be confident in myself, I will not worry about other people's opinions of me.' On and on and on. I mean, honestly, darling. If someone isn't confident in themselves they're not going to get anywhere, are they?" she said, roaring with laughter. "Durrr! Not confident in yourself. I don't know! Why would anyone go around worrving about what anyone else is thinking about them?"

  I looked worriedly from side to side. "So what did you say for your affirmations"

  "Oh, I wasn't allowed to say anything. Well, at least I was, darling."

  "What? What did you have to say?"

  Heard my dad laughing in the background. He sounded on good form, anyway. "Tell her, Pam."

  "Ufff. Well, I was supposed to say, 'I will not allow over-confidence to blind me to reality' and, 'Today I will recognize my faults as well as my assets.' I mean, it was completely ridiculous, darling. Anyway, must whizz, there's the buzzer. So I'll see you on Monday."

  What?" I said.

  "Don't say what, say pardon, darling. I've made an appointment for you to have your colours done in Debenhams. I told you! Four o'clock."

  "But..." I mean, she didn't. When did she tell me? January?

  "Got to go, darling. The Enderburys are at the door."

  Sunday 7 September

  8st 10, sq feet of floorspace not covered by bras, shoes, food, bottles or lipstick 0.

  10 a.m. Hurrah! Another day, and still not dead. Hideous night, though. Felt really tired after I'd been talking to Mum, so checked all the doors were locked, climbed under confusion of Shazzer's pants, camisoles and leopardskin throws and went to sleep. Didn't hear them come in, then woke up at midnight to find them asleep. Is really starting to stink in here. Also, trouble is if wake up in night all can do is lie staring quietly at ceiling so as not to wake them up by knocking things over.

  Ooh. Telephone. Best pick it up so as not to wake them.

  "Well, they've realized I'm not a homicidal ex-lover." Hurrah! Was Mark Darcy.

  "How are you" he said considerately, given that, thanks to me, it turned out, he'd been at the police station for seven hours. "I'd have called but they wouldn't tell me where you were till they'd cleared me."

  Tried to be cheerful but ended up telling him in a whisper that it was a bit of a squash at Shazzer's.

  "Well, the offer's still open to come and stay with me," he said off-handedly. "Plenty of bedrooms."

  Wished he wouldn't keep rubbing it in so much that he didn't want to sleep with me. Seems to be turning into pashmina scenario and know from Shazzer and Simon how impossible that is to get out of once you start because at the merest hint of sex everyone starts panicking about 'spoiling the friendship'.

  Just then, Jude yawned and turned over, dislodging a pile of shoeboxes with her foot, which crashed to the ground spilling beads, earrings, make-up and a cup of coffee into my handbag. I took a big breath.

  "Thanks," I whispered into the phone. "I'd love to come."

>   11.45 p.m. Mark Darcy's house. Oh dear. Is not going very well. Am just lying alone in strange white room with nothing in it except white bed, white blind and worrying white chair which is twice as high as it should be. Is scary here: great big empty palace with not even any food in house. Cannot seem to find or do anything without colossal mental effort as every light switch, toilet flush, etc. disguised as something else. Also is freezing cold in manner of fridge.

  Strange, twilight day, drifting in and out of sleep. Keep finding self going along as normal then hitting Sleepy Pocket, almost like when aeroplanes plunge down fifty feet as if from nowhere. Cannot decide if it is still jet-lag or just trying to escape from everything. Mark had to go into work today, even though Sunday, because of missing whole day on Friday. Shaz and Jude came round about 4 with the Pride and Prejudice video but could not face watching lake scene after Colin Firth debacle so we just talked and read magazines. Then Jude and Shaz started looking round the house, giggling. I fell asleep and when I woke up they'd gone.

  Mark came home about 9 with a takeaway for us both. Had high hopes for romantic reconciliation but was concentrating so hard on not giving the impression that I wanted to sleep with him, or in any way think staying at his house is anything other than police-type legal arrangement, that we ended up being all stiff and formal with each other in manner of doctor and patient, Blue Peter house inhabitants or similar.

  Wish he would come in now. Is very frustrating being so close to him, and wanting to touch him. Maybe I should say something. But it seems too scary a can of worms to open, because if I tell him how I feel, and he doesn't want to get back together, it will just be hideously humiliating, given that we're living together. Also is middle of night.

  Oh my God, though, maybe Mark did do it. Maybe he's going to come into the room and just, like, shoot me, and then there'll be blood all over the virgin white room in manner of virgin's blood except am not virgin. Just bloody celibate.

  Must not think like that. Of course he didn't. At least have got panic button. Is so awful not being able to sleep and Mark downstairs, naked probably. Mmmm. Mmm. Wish could go downstairs and, like, ravish him. Have not had sex for ... v. difficult sum.

  Maybe he will come up! Will hear footsteps on stairs, door will open softly and he will come and sit on the bed! naked! - and ... oh God, am so frustrated.

  If only could be like Mum and just have confidence in self and not worry what anyone else is thinking, but that is very hard when you know that someone else is thinking about you. They're thinking how to kill you.

  Monday 8 September

  8st 11 (serious crisis now), no. of death- threateners captured by police 0 (non-v.g.), no. of seconds since had sex 15,033,600 (cataclysmic crisis).

  1.30 p.m. Mark Darcy's kitchen. Have just eaten huge lump of cheese for no reason. Will check calories.

  Oh fuck. 100 calories an ounce. So pack is 8 oz and had already eaten a bit - maybe 2 oz - and little bit left, so have eaten 500 calories in thirty seconds. Is unbelievable. Maybe should make self sick as mark of respect to Princess Diana. Gaah! Why did mind think such tasteless thought? Oh well, might as well eat the rest of it as if to draw a line under whole sorry episode.

  Think may be forced to accept truth of doctors saying diets don't work because your body just thinks it's being starved, and the minute it so much as sees any food again it gorges like a Fergie. Awake every morning now to find fat in bizarre and horrifying new places. Would not be in least surprised to find pizza dough-likc strand of fat suspended between ear and shoulder or curving out at the side of one knee, rippling slightly in the wind like an elephant's ear.

  Is still awkward and unresolved with Mark. When I went down this morning he'd already gone to work (not surprising as was lunchtime) but he had left a note saying to 'make myself at home' and ask anyone I want to round. Like who? Everyone is at work. It's so quiet here. Am scared.

  1.45 p.m. Look, it's all fine. Definitely. Realize have no job, no money, no boyfriend, flat with hole in which cannot go to, and am living with man I love in bizarre, platonic housekeeper-style capacity in giant fridge and someone wants to kill me, but this, surely, is temporary state.

  2 p.m. Really want my mum.

  2.15 p.m. Have rung police and asked them to take me to Debenhams.

  Later. Mum was fantastic. Well, sort of. Eventually.

  She turned up ten minutes late in top-to-toe cerise, hair all bouncy and coiffed with about fifteen John Lewis carrier bags.

  "You'll never guess what, darling," she was saying as she sat down, dismaying the other shoppers with the carrierbag spread.

  "What?" I said shakily, gripping my coffee cup with both hands.

  "Geoffrey's told Una he's one of these 'homos', though actually he's not, darling, he's a 'bi', otherwise they'd never have had Guy and Alison. Anyway, Una says she isn't the least bit bothered now he's come out with it. Gillian Robertson up at Saffron Waldhurst was married to one for years and it was a very good marriage. Mind you, in the end they had to stop because he was hanging round these hamburger vans in lay-bys and Norman Middleton's wife died - you know, who was head of the governors at the boys' school? So in the end, Gillian ... Oh, Bridget, Bridget. What's the matter?"

  Once she realized how upset I was she turned freakishly kind, led me out of the coffee shop, leaving the bags with the waiter, got a great mass of tissues out of her handbag, took us out to the back staircase, sat us down, and told me to tell her all about it.

  For once in her life she actually listened. When I'd finished she put her arms round me like a mum and gave me a big hug, engulfing me in a cloud of strangely comforting Givenchy Ill. "You've been very brave, darling," she whispered. "I'm proud of you."

  It felt so good. Eventually, she straightened up and dusted her hands.

  "Now come along. We've got to think what we're going to do next. I'm going to talk to this detective chappie and sort him out. It's ridiculous that this person's been at large since Friday. They've had plenty of time to catch him. What have they been doing? Messing around? Oh, don't worry. I've got a way with the police. You can stay with us if you want. But I think you should stay with Mark."

  "But I'm hopeless with men."

  "Nonsense, darling. Honestly, no wonder you girls haven't got boyfriends if you're going out pretending to be superdooper whizz-kids who don't need anybody unless he's James Bond, then sitting at home gibbering that you're no good with men. Oh, look at the time. Come on, we're late for your colours!"

  Ten minutes later I was sitting in a Mark Darcy-esque white room in a white robe with a white towel on my head surrounded by Mum, a swathe of coloured swatches and somebody called Mary.

  "I don't know," tutted Mum. "Wandering round on your own worrying about all these theories. Try it with the Crushed Cerise, Mary."

  "It's not me it's a social trend," I said indignantly. "Women are staying single because they can support themselves and want to do their careers, then when they get older all the men think they're desperate re-treads with sell-by dates and just want someone younger."

  "Honestly, darling. Sell-by dates! Anyone would think you were a tub of cottage cheese in ASDA! All that sillydaft nonsense is just in films, darling."

  "No, it's not."

  "Durrr! Sell-by date. They might pretend they want one of these bimbas but they don't really. They want a nice friend. What about Roger what's-his-name that left Audrey for his secretary? Of course she was thick. Six months later he was begging Audrey to come back and she wouldn't have him!"

  "But. . ."

  "Samantha she was called. Thick as two short planks. And Jean Dawson, who used to be married to Bill - you know Dawson's the butchers? - after Bill died she married a boy half her age and he's devoted to her, absolutely devoted and Bill didn't leave much of a fortune you know, because there isn't a lot of money in meat."

  "But if you're a feminist, you shouldn't need a ..."

  "That's what's so silly about feminism, darling. Anyone with a
n ounce of sense knows we're the superior race and the only nigger in the, woodpile is-"

  "Mother!"

  "-when they think they can sit around when they retire and not do any housework. Now look at that, Mary."

  "I preferred the coral," said Mary huffily.

  "Well, exactly," I said, through a large square of aquamarine. "You don't want to go to work and then do all the shopping if they don't."

  "I don't know! You all seem to have some silly idea about getting Indiana Jones in your house loading the dishwasher. You have to train them. When I was first married Daddy went to the Bridge Club every night! Every night! And he used to smoke."

  Blimey. Poor Dad, I thought, as Mary held a pale pink swatch up against my face in the mirror and Mum shoved a purple one in front of it.

  "Men don't want to be bossed around," I said. "They want you to be unavailable so they can pursue you and. . ."

  Mum gave a big sigh. "What was the point of Daddy and me taking you to Sunday School week after week if you don't know what you think about things. You just stick to what you think's right and go back to Mark and . . ."

  "It's not going to work, Pam. She's a Winter."

  "She's a Spring or I'm a tin of pears. I'm telling you. Now you go back to Mark's house. . ."

  "But it's awful. We're all polite and formal and I look like a dishrag . . ."

  "Well, we're sorting that out, darling, aren't we, with your colours. But actually it doesn't make any difference what you look like, does it, Mary? You just have to be real."

  "That's right," beamed Mary, who was the size of a holly bush.

  "Real?" I said.

  "Oh, you know, darling, like the Velveteen Rabbit. You remember! It was your favourite book Una used to read you when Daddy and I were having that trouble with the septic tank. There now, look at that."

  "D'you know, I think you're right, Pam," said Mary, standing back in marvellment. "She is a Spring."