Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason Page 27

  "Didn't I tell you?"

  "Well, you did, Pam, and there was me with her down for a Winter! It just shows you, doesn't it?"

  Tuesday 9 September

  2 a.m. In bed, alone, Mark Darcy's house still. Seem to be spending entire life in entirely white rooms now. Got lost with policeman on way back from Debenhams. Was ridiculous. As said to policeman, was always taught as a child, when lost, to ask a policeman, but somehow he failed to see the humour of the situation. When eventually got back, hit another Sleepy Pocket and woke up at midnight to find house in darkness and Mark's bedroom door closed.

  Maybe will go downstairs, make myself a cup of tea and watch TV in the kitchen. But what if Mark isn't back and is going out with someone and brings her home and I am like the mad aunt or Mrs Rochester drinking tea?

  Keep thinking back about what Mum said about being real and the Velveteen Rabbit book (though frankly have had enough trouble with rabbits in this particular house). My favourite book, she claims - of which I have no memory - was about how little kids get one toy that they love more than all the others, and even when its fur has been rubbed off, and it's gone saggy with bits missing, the little child still thinks it's the most beautiful toy in the world, and can't bear to be parted from it.

  "That's how it works, when people really love each other," Mum whispered on the way out in the Debenhams' lift, as if she was confessing some hideous and embarrassing secret. "But, the thing is, darling, it doesn't happen to ones who have sharp edges, or break if they get dropped, or ones made of silly synthetic stuff that doesn't last. You have to be brave and let the other person know who you are and what you feel." The lift was now stopping at Bathroom Fittings and Fixtures. "Oof Well, that was fun, wasn't it" she trilled with an abrupt change of tone, as three ladies in brightly coloured blazers squeezed themselves and their ninety-two carrier bags each in alongside us. "You see, I knew you were a Spring."

  It's all very well for her to say. If I told a man what I really feel they would run a mile. This - just to pluck an example out of the air - is what I feel at this precise moment.

  1) Lonely, tired, frightened, sad, confused and extremely sexually frustrated.

  2) Ugly, as hair sticking up in imaginative peaks and shapes and face all puffy from tiredness.

  3) Confused and sad as no idea if Mark still likes me or not and scared to ask.

  4) V. lovingful of Mark.

  5) Tired of going to bed on my own and trying to deal with everything on own.

  6) Alarmed by horrifying - thought that have not had sex for fifteen million, one hundred and twenty thousand seconds.

  So. To sum up what I really am is a lonely, ugly, sad act gagging for sex. Mmmm: attractive, inviting. Oh, I don't bloody well know what to do. Really fancy a glass of wine. Think will go downstairs. Will not have wine but probably tea. Unless there's some open. I mean it might actually help me sleep.

  8 a.m. Crept down towards kitchen. Could not turn on lights as impossible to find designer light switches. Half hoped Mark would wake up when went past his door, but he didn't. Carried on creeping down the stairs, then froze. Was big shadow ahead like man. Shadow moved towards me. Realized it was man - great big man - and started screaming. By time had realized man was Mark - naked - realized he was also screaming. But screaming much more than me. Screaming in complete, abandoned terror. Screaming - in a half-asleep way - as if he had just come across the most horrifying terrible scenario of his life.

  Great, I thought: 'Real.' Then this is what happens when he sees me with mad hair and no make-up.

  "It's me," I said. "It's Bridget."

  For a second I thought he was going to start screaming even more, but then he sank down on the stairs, shaking uncontrollably. "Oh," he said, trying to breathe deeply. Oh, oh."

  He looked so vulnerable and cuddly sitting there that could not resist sitting down next to him, Putting arms round him and pulling him close to me.

  "Oh God," he said, nestling against my pyjamas. "I feel such an arse." It suddenly struck me as really funny - I mean it was really funny being terrified out of your wits by your own ex-girlfriend. He started laughing too.

  "Oh Christ," he said. "It's not very manly, is it, getting scared at night. I thought you were the bullet man."

  I stroked his hair, I kissed his bald patch where his fur had been loved off. And then I told him what I felt, what I really, really felt. And the miracle was, when I had finished, he told me he felt pretty much the same.

  Hand in hand like the Bisto Kids, we made our way down to the kitchen and, with extreme difficulty, located Horlicks and milk from behind the baffling walls of stainless steel.

  "You see, the thing is," said Mark, as we huddled round the oven, clutching our mugs trying to keep warm, "when you didn't reply to my note, I thought that was it, so I didn't want you to feel I was putting any pressure on. I-'

  "Wait, wait," I said. "What note?"

  "The note I gave you at the poetry reading, just before I left."

  "But it was just your dad's 'If ' poem."

  Was unbelievable. Turns out when Mark knocked the blue dolphin over he wasn't writing a will he was writing me a note.

  "It was my mother who said the only thing to do was to be honest about my feelings," he said.

  Tribal elders - hurrah! The note was telling me that he still loved me, and he wasn't with Rebecca, and that I should ring him that night if I felt the same and otherwise he'd never bother me with it again but just be my friend.

  "So why did you leave me and go off with her?" I said.

  "I didn't! It was you who left me! And I didn't even bloody realize I was supposed to be going out with Rebecca till I got to her summer house party and found myself in the same room as her."

  "But ... so you didn't ever sleep with her?"

  Was really, really relieved he had not been so callous as to wear my Newcastle United underpants gift for prearranged shag with Rebecca.

  "Well." He looked down and smirked. "That night."

  "What?" I exploded.

  "I mean one's only human. I was a guest. It seemed only polite."

  I started trying to hit him around the head.

  "As Shazzer says, men have these desires eating away at them all the time," he went on dodging the blows. "She just kept inviting me to things: dinner parties, children's parties with barnyard animals, holidays-"

  "Yur, right. And you didn't fancy her at all!"

  "Well, she's a very attractive girl, it would have been odd if . . ." He stopped laughing, took hold of my hands and pulled me to him.

  "Every time," he whispered urgently, "every time I hoped you'd be there. And that night in Gloucestershire, knowing you were fifty feet away."

  "Two hundred yards in the servants" quarters."

  "Exactly where you belong and where I intend to keep you till the end of your days."

  Fortunately he was still holding me tight, so could not hit him any more. Then he said the house was big, cold and lonely without me. And he really liked it best in my flat where it was cosy. And he said that he loved me, he wasn't exactly sure why, but nothing was any fun without me. And then ... God, that stone floor was cold.

  When we got up to his bedroom noticed a little pile of books beside his bed. "What are these?" I said, not believing my eyes. "How to Love and Lose but Keep Your SelfEsteem? How to Win Back the Woman You Love? What Women Want? Mars and Venus on a Date?"

  "Oh," he said sheepishly.

  "You bastard!" I said. "I threw all mine away." Fist fight broke out again, then one thing led to another and we just shagged, like, all night!!!

  8.30 a.m. Mmm. Love looking at him when he's asleep.

  8.45 a.m. Wish he would wake up now, though.

  9 a.m. Will not actually wake him up, but maybe he will wake up himself just through thought vibes.

  10 a.m. Suddenly Mark sat bolt upright and looked at me. Thought he was going to tell me off or start screaming again. But he smiled sleepily, sank back down and
pulled me roughly to him.

  "Sorry" I said afterwards.

  "Yes, you should be, you dirty little bitch," he murmured homily. "What for?"

  "Waking you up by staring."

  "You know what?" he said. "I kind of missed it."

  Ended up staying in bed quite a long time after that, which was fine because Mark didn't have any appointments that couldn't wait and I didn't have any appointments ever again for the rest of life. Just at a crucial moment, though, the phone rang.

  "Leave it," gasped Mark, carrying on. The answerphone boomed out.

  "Bridget, Richard Finch here. We're doing an item on the New Celibacy. We were trying to find a personable young woman who hadn't had sex for six months. Didn't have any joy. So I thought we'd settle just for any old woman who can't get laid and try you. Bridget? Pick up the phone. I know you're there, your loopy mate Shazzer told me. Bridget. Bridguuuuuuuurt. BRIDGURRRRRRRRRRRT"

  Mark paused in his activities, raised one eyebrow in manner of Roger Moore, picked up the phone, murmured, "She's just coming, sir," and dropped it into a glass of water.

  Friday 12 September

  Minutes since had sex 0 (hurrah!).

  Dreamy day, highlight of which was going to Tesco Metro with Mark Darcy. There was no stopping him putting things into the trolley: raspberries, tubs of Pralines and Cream Hdagen-Daaz, and a chicken with a label on saying 'extra fat thighs'.

  When we got to the checkout it was Ј98.70.

  "That's incredible," he said, taking out his credit card shaking his head in disbelief.

  "I know," I said ruefully, "do you want me to chip in?"

  "God, no. This is amazing. How long will this food last for?"

  I looked at it doubtfully. "About a week?"

  "But that's incredible. That's extraordinary."

  "What?"

  "Well, it cost less than a hundred quid. That's less than dinner at Le Pont de la Tour!"

  Cooked the chicken with Mark and he was really quite carried away, pacing around the room expansively, in between chopping.

  "I mean it's been such a great week. This must be what people do all the time! They go to work, and then they come home and the other person's there, and then they just chat and watch the television and they cook food. it's amazing."

  "Yes," I said, looking from side to side wondering if actually he might be mad.

  "I mean, I haven't rushed to the answerphone once to see if anyone's aware of my existence in the world!" he said. "I don't have to go sit in some restaurant with a book, and think I could end up dying alone and. . ."

  ". . . Being found three weeks later half eaten by an Alsatian?" I finished for him.

  "Exactly, exactly!" he said, looking at me as if we had just discovered electricity simultaneously.

  "Will you excuse me a minute?" I said. "Of course. Er, why?"

  "I'll just be a moment."

  Was just rushing upstairs to call Shazzer with the ground-breaking news that maybe they are not the unattainable strategic adversary aliens after all, but just like us, when the phone rang downstairs.

  Could hear Mark talking. He seemed to be on for ages, so could not ring Shazzer and eventually, thinking, 'bloody inconsiderate', went down to the kitchen.

  "It's for you," he said, holding out the phone. "They've got him."

  Felt as if I'd been hit in the stomach. Mark held my hand as I took the phone, shaking.

  "Hello, Bridget, DI Kirby here. We're holding a suspect over the bullet. We've obtained a DNA match with the stamp and the cups."

  "Who is it?" I whispered.

  "Does the name Gary Wilshaw mean anything to you?" Gary! Oh my God. "He's my builder."

  Turned out Gary was wanted for a number of petty thefts from houses he'd been doing up, and was arrested and fingerprinted early this afternoon.

  "We have him in custody," said DI Kirby. "We haven't obtained a confession as yet but, now we can go ahead on the connection, I'm pretty confident. We'll let you know and then you'll be safe to go back to your flat."

  Midnight. My flat. Oh blimey. DI Kirby called back half an hour later and said Gary had made a tearful confession, and we could go back to the flat, not to worry about anyt hing, and remember there was a panic button in the bedroom.

  We finished the chicken then went over to my place, lit the fire, and watched Friends, then Mark decided to have a bath. The doorbell rang when he was in there. "Hello?"

  "Bridget, it's Daniel."

  "Um."

  "Can you let me in? It's important."

  "Hang on, I'll come down," I said, glancing towards the bathroom. Thought I'd better sort things out with Daniel but did not want to risk incensing Mark. The minute I opened the front door I knew I'd done the wrong thing, Daniel was drunk.

  "So you put the police on me, did you?" he slurred.

  I started inching backwards away from him while maintaining eye contact, as if he were a rattlesnake.

  "You were naked under that coat. You . . ."

  Suddenly there was a great bounding of footsteps on the stairs, Daniel looked up and - wham - Mark Darcy had socked him in the mouth, and he was slumped against the front door, blood coming out of his nose.

  Mark looked rather startled. "Sorry," he said. "Um." Daniel started trying to get up and Mark rushed over and helped him up. "Sorry about that," he said again politely. "Are you all right, can I get you, um ... ?"

  Daniel just rubbed his nose and looked dazed. "I'll be off then," he mumbled resentfully.

  "Yes," said Mark. "I think that's best. Just make sure you leave her alone. Or, um, I'll have to, you know, do it again."

  "Yup. Right," said Daniel obediently.

  Once back in the flat, doors barred, it got pretty wild on the bedroom front. Could not bloody believe it when the doorbell rang again.

  "I'll go," said Mark with a heavy air of manly responsibility, wrapping a towel round him. "It'll be Cleaver again. You stay here."

  Three minutes later there was bounding of feet outside and the bedroom door burst open. Nearly screamed when DI Kirby put his head round. Pulled the blankets up to my chin, and followed his eye, scarlet with embarrassment, along the trail of clothes and underwear leading to the bed. He closed the door behind him.

  "You're all right now," DI Kirby said in a calm, reassuring voice as if I were about to jump off a tall building. "You can tell me, you're safe, I've got people holding him outside."

  "Who - Daniel?"

  "No, Mark Darcy."

  "Why?" I said, completely confused.

  He glanced back at the door. "Miss Jones, you pressed the panic button."

  When?"

  "About five minutes ago. We got a repeated, increasingly frantic signal."

  I looked up to where I'd hung the panic button on the bedpost. Not there. I fumbled sheepishly in the bedclothes beneath it, and produced the orange device.

  DI Kirby looked from the button, to me, to the clothes on the floor, then grinned.

  "Right, right. I see." He opened the door. "You can come back in, Mr Darcy, if you still have the, er, energy."

  There was much smirking amongst the policemen as the situation was euphemistically explained.

  "OK. We're off. Enjoy yourselves," said DI Kirby as the policemen trundled back down the stairs. "Oh, just one thing. The original suspect, Mr Cleaver."

  "I didn't know Daniel was the original suspect" I said.

  "Well. We've attempted to question him on a couple of occasions and he did seem quite angrily resistant. It might be worth a call to smooth things over."

  "Oh, thanks," said Mark sarcastically, trying to be dignified in spite of the fact that his towel was slipping, "Thanks for telling us now."

  He saw DI Kirby out and could hear him explaining about the punch-up and DI Kirby saying to keep him informed of any problems and all stuff about deciding whether to press charges against Gary.

  When Mark came back in I was sobbing. I'd just suddenly started and once I'd started for some reason I
couldn't stop.

  "It's all right," said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. "It's all over. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."

  14 For Better or Worse?

  Saturday 6 December

  11.15 a.m. Claridge's Hotel. Gaaah! Gaaah! GAAAAAAAAAH! Wedding is in forty-five minutes and have just spilt enormous splodge of Rouge Noir nail varnish down front of dress.

  What am I doing? Weddings are insane torture concept. Torture-victim guests (though not, obviously, on same scale as Amnesty International clients) dressed up to nines in weird things such would never wear normally e.g. white tights, having to get out of bed practically in middle of night on Saturday morning, run round house shouting "Fuck! fuck! fuck!" trying to find old bits of wrapping paper with silver on, wrap up bizarre unnecessary gifts in manner of ice cream- or bread-makers (destined for endless recycling amongst Smug Marrieds, as who wants to lurch home at the end of the evening and spend an hour sieving ingredients into giant plastic machine! so when wake up in morning can consume entire giant loaf of bread on way to work instead of buying chocolate croissant when get cappuccino?), then drive 400 miles, eating petrol-station wine gums, vomit in car and be unable to find church? Look at me! Why me, Lord? Why? Looks as if have started period in weird backwards-way-round way on dress.

  11.20 a.m. Thank God. Shazzer just came back to room and we have decided best thing is to cut out the nail varnish patch from the dress as material so stiff, shiny and sticky-outy that has not gone through to lining underneath, which is same colour and can hold bouquet in front.

  Yes, sure that will be fine. No one will notice. Might even think it part of design. As if whole dress is part of extremelv large piece of lace.

  Good. Calm and poised. Inner poise. Presence or otherwise of hole in dress is not point of occasion, which is to do with other things. Fortunately. Sure it will all be serene and fine. Shaz was really far gone last night. Hope she is going to get through it today.

  Later. Blimey! Arrived at church only twenty minutes late and immediately looked for Mark. Could tell he was tense just from back of head. Then the organ started up and he turned round, saw me and, unfortunately, looked as if he were going to burst out laughing. Could not blame him really as dressed not as sofa but as giant puffball.