The Edge of Reason Read online

  “Honestly, Jude!” said Magda. “I can’t understand how you can deal with the collapse of the ruble to a standing ovation from the entire trading floor and then get into a state like this over a stupid man.”

  “Well, the thing is, Mag,” I explained, trying to smooth things over, “the ruble is much easier to deal with than a man. There are clear and precise rules governing its behavior.”

  “I think you should leave it a couple of days,” said Shaz thoughtfully. “Try not to obsess and then when he does ring just be light and really busy and say you haven’t got time to talk.”

  “Wait a minute,” Magda bludgeoned in. “If you want to talk to him, what’s the point of waiting three days, then saying you haven’t got time to talk to him? Why don’t you call him?”

  Jude and Shazzer gaped at her, incredulous at the insane Smug Married suggestion. Everyone knows that Anjelica Huston never, ever rang Jack Nicholson, and that men cannot bear not to be the pursuer.

  Whole scenario went from bad to worse, with Magda talking wide-eyedly about how when Jude met the right man it would be “as easy as leaves falling off a tree.” At 10:30 Magda jumped to her feet and said, “Well, better go! Jeremy’s back at eleven!”

  “What did you have to ask Magda for?” said Jude the second she was out of earshot.

  “She was lonely,” I said lamely.

  “Yeah, right. Because she had to spend two hours on her own without Jeremy,” said Shazzer.

  “She can’t have it both ways. She can’t be in a Smug Married Family then moan because she isn’t in a Singleton Urban Family,” said Jude.

  “Honestly, if that girl were thrown out into the cut and thrust of the modern dating world she’d be eaten alive,” muttered Shaz.

  “ALERT, ALERT, REBECCA ALERT,” nuclear-sirened Jude.

  We followed her gaze out of the window to where a Mitsubishi urban jeep was pulling up containing Rebecca with one hand on the wheel and the other holding the phone to her ear.

  Rebecca eased her long legs out, rolling her eyes at someone who had the nerve to be walking past when she was on the phone, crossed the road without paying any attention to cars so they had to screech to a halt, did a little pirouette as if to say, “Fuck off, everyone, this is my personal space,” then walked smack into a tramp lady with a shopping cart and completely ignored her.

  She burst into the bar, swishing her long hair over her head from her face so it immediately swished back again in a swingy, shiny curtain. “OK, must run. Love you! Byeee!” she was saying into her mobile. “Hi, hi,” she said, kissing us all, sitting down and gesturing to the waiter for a glass. “How’s it going? Bridge, how’s it going with Mark? You must be really pleased to get a boyfriend at last.”

  “At last.” Grrr. First jellyfish of the evening. “Are you in heaven?” she cooed. “Is he taking you to the Law Society dinner on Friday?”

  Mark hadn’t said anything about any Law Society dinner.

  “Oh sorry, have I put my big foot in it?” said Rebecca. “I’m sure he’s just forgotten. Or maybe he thinks it isn’t fair on you. But I think you’ll cope fine. They’ll probably think you’re really sweet.”

  As Shazzer said afterwards, it wasn’t so much a jellyfish as a Portuguese man-of-war. The fishermen were surrounding it in their boats trying to drag it back to the beach.

  Rebecca flounced off to some do or other, so the three of us ended up lurching back to Jude’s flat.

  “ ‘The Man Who Can’t Commit will not want you in his own domain,’ ” Jude was reading out as Shaz fiddled with the Pride and Prejudice video to try to find the bit where Colin Firth dives into the lake.

  “ ‘He likes to come to your tower, like a knight errant with no responsibilities. And then he goes back to his castle. He can take and make whatever phone calls he likes without you knowing about it. He can keep his place—and himself—to himself.’ ”

  “Too right,” muttered Shaz. “OK, come on, he’s going to dive in.”

  We all fell silent then, watching Colin Firth emerging from the lake dripping wet, in the see-through white shirt. Mmm. Mmmm.

  “Anyway,” I said defensively, “Mark isn’t a Man Who Can’t Commit—he’s already been married.”

  “Well, then it might mean he thinks you’re a ‘Just For Now Girl,’ ” hiccuped Jude.

  “Bastard!” slurred Shazzer. “Blurry bastards. Fwaw, look at that!”

  Eventually staggered home, lunged expectantly towards answerphone, then stopped in dismay. No red light. Mark hadn’t called. Oh God, is 6 a.m. already and have got to get some more sleep.

  8:30 a.m. Why hasn’t he rung me? Why? Humph. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance. My sense of self depends on myself and not on . . . Wait a minute. Maybe phone is not working.

  8:32 a.m. Dialing tone seems normal, but will ring from mobile to check. If not working might mean everything is fine.

  8:35 a.m. Humph. Phone is working. I mean he definitely said he was going to call last . . . Oh goody, telephone!

  “Oh hello, m’dear. Didn’t wake you up, did I?”

  Was my dad. Instantly felt guilty for being horrible, selfish daughter, more interested in own four-week-old relationship than threat to parents’ three-decade-long marriage from higher than five foot, nontwin Kenyan gigolos.

  “What’s happened?”

  “It’s fine.” Dad laughed. “I brought the phone call up with her and—oops-a-daisy—here she comes.”

  “Honestly, darling!” said Mum, grabbing the phone. “I don’t know where Daddy gets these silly ideas from. We were talking about the beds!”

  I smiled to myself. Obviously Dad and I have minds like sewers.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “it’s all going ahead. We’re off on the eighth of Feb! Kenya! Imagine! Ooh did I tell you? Julie Enderbury’s preggy again.”

  “Listen, I really do have to go, I—”

  What is it about mothers and the phone which, immediately you say you have to go, makes them think of nineteen completely irrelevant things they have to tell you that minute?

  “Yes. It’s her third,” she said accusingly. “Oh and the other thing is, Una and I have decided we’re going to ski the net.”

  “I think the expression is ‘surf’ but I’ve—”

  “Ski, surf, snowboard—doesn’t matter, darling! Merle and Percival are on it. You know: used to be head of the burns unit at Northampton Infirmary. Anyway, the other thing is, are you and Mark coming home for Easter?”

  “Mum, I’ve got to go now, I’m late for work!” I said. Finally, after about ten more minutes of irrelevance I managed to get rid of her and sank gratefully back on the pillow. Does make me feel a bit feeble though, if mother is online and I’m not. I was on it but a company called GBH sent me 677 identical junk mails by mistake and have not been able to get any sense out of it since.

  THURSDAY 30 JANUARY

  131 lbs. (emergency: lacy pants have begun to leave patterns on self), items of lovely sexy slippy underwear tried on 17, items of giant incontinence-wear-style scary unsightly underwear purchased 1, boyfriends 1 (but entirely dependent on concealing scary new underwear from same).

  9 a.m. Coins Café. Having coffee. Hurrah! Everything is lovely. He just rang! Apparently he did call me last night but didn’t leave a message as he was going to ring back later, but then fell asleep. Slightly suspicious, but he asked me to come to the law thing tomorrow. Also Giles from his office said how nice I’d been on the phone.

  9:05 a.m. Bit scary, though, law do. Is black tie. Asked Mark about what was expected of me and he said, “Oh nothing. Don’t worry about it. We’ll just sit at a table and eat a meal with some people from work. They’re just my friends. They’ll love you.”

  9:11 a.m. “They’ll love you.” You see that, already, is tacit admission that am up on trial. So is very important to make a good impression.

  9:15 a.m. Right, am going to be positive about this. Am going to be marvelous: elegant, vivacious,
beautifully dressed. Oh, though. Do not have long dress. Maybe Jude or Magda will lend me one.

  Right:

  Pre–Law Society Dinner Countdown

  Day 1. (today)

  Projected food intake:

  Breakfast: fruit shake, comprising oranges, banana, pears, melons or other fruit in season. (NB prebreakfast cappuccino and chocolate croissant already consumed.)

  Snack: fruit but not too near lunch as takes one hour to get enzymes down.

  Lunch: salad with protein.

  Snack: celery or broccoli. Will go to gym after work.

  After-gym snack: celery.

  Dinner: grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

  6 p.m. Just leaving office. Am going late-night underwear shopping tonight with Magda to solve figure problems in short term. Magda is going to lend me jewels and v. elegant long, dark-blue dress which, she says, needs a bit of “help” and apparently all film stars etc. wear controlling undergarments at premieres. Means cannot go to gym but sturdy undergarment much more effective in short term than gym visit.

  Also, just in general, have decided against random daily gym visits in favor of whole new program beginning with fitness assessment tomorrow. Obviously cannot expect body to be significantly transformed in time for dinner, which is precisely point of underwear shopping, but at least will be invigorated. Oh, telephone.

  6:15 p.m. Was Shazzer. Quickly told her about pre–law party program (including unfortunate pizza-for-lunch debacle), but when told her about fitness assessment she seemed to spit down the telephone.

  “Don’t do it,” she warned in a sepulchral whisper.

  Turns out Shaz previously endured similar assessment with enormous Gladiators-style woman with fierce red hair called “Carborundum” who stood her in front of a mirror in the middle of the gym and bellowed, “The fat on your bottom has slipped down, pushing the fat on your thighs round to the sides in the form of saddlebags.”

  Hate the idea of the Gladiators-style woman. Always suspect one day Gladiators program will get out of control, Gladiators will turn flesh-eating and producers will start tossing Christians to Carborundum and her ilk. Shaz says I should definitely cancel, but my point is if, as Carborundum suggests, fat is able to behave in this slippage-style way then clearly it ought to be possible to mold and squeeze existing fat into nicer shape—or even different shapes as occasion demands. Cannot help but wonder if was free to arrange own fat according to choice would I still wish to reduce amount? Think would have huge big breasts and hips and tiny waist. But would there be too much fat to dispose of in this way? And where could one put the excess? Would it be bad to have fat feet or ears if the rest of one’s body was perfect?

  “Fat lips would be all right,” Shazzer said, “but not . . .”—lowering her voice to a disgusted whisper—“. . . fat labia.”

  Ugh. Sometimes Shazzer is completely disgusting. Right. Got to go. Am meeting Magda in Marks & Sparks at 6:30.

  9 p.m. Back home. Shopping experience was perhaps best described as educational. Magda insisted on waving ghastly huge scary pants at me. “Come on, Bridget: the New Corsetry! Think ’70s, think Cross Your Heart, think girdle,” she said, holding up a sort of Cyclist Serial Killer’s outfit in black Lycra with shorts, boning and a sturdy bra.

  “I’m not wearing that,” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth. “Put it back.”

  “Why not?”

  “What if someone, you know, feels it?”

  “Honestly, Bridget. Underwear is there to do a job. If you’re wearing a sleek little dress or a pair of trousers—for work, say—you want to create a smooth line. Nobody’s going to feel you at work, are they?”

  “Well, they might,” I said defensively, thinking about what used to happen in the lift at work when I was “going out”—if one can describe that commitment-phobicity nightmare as such—with Daniel Cleaver.

  “What about these?” I said hopefully, holding up a gorgeous set that was made out of the same material as sheer black stockings only bra- and pants-shaped.

  “No! No! Totally 1980s. This is what you want,” she said, waving something that looked like one of Mum’s roll-ons crossed with her long johns.

  “But what if someone puts their hand up your skirt?”

  “Bridget, you are unbelievable,” she said loudly. “Do you get up every morning with the idea that some man might randomly put his hand up your skirt during the course of the day? Don’t you have any control over your sexual destiny?”

  “Yes I do actually,” I said defiantly, marching towards the changing room with a whole handful of sturdy pants. Ended up trying to squeeze myself into a black rubberlike sheath, which came up to just below my breasts and kept unraveling itself from both ends like an unruly condom. “What if Mark sees me in it or feels it?”

  “You’re not going to smooch in a club. You’re going to a formal dinner where he’ll be making an impression on his colleagues. He’ll be concentrating on that—not trying to grope you.”

  Not sure Mark ever concentrates on making an impression on anyone actually, as is confident in self. But Magda is right about the underwear. One must move with the times, not becoming entrenched in narrow underwear concepts.

  Right, must get early night. Gym appointment is at eight in morning. Actually really think whole personality is undergoing seismic change.

  FRIDAY 31 JANUARY: D-DAY

  130 lbs., alcohol units 6 (2)*, cigarettes 12 (0), calories 4,284 (1,500), lies told to fitness assessor (14).

  * Figures in parentheses denote data given to fitness assessor.

  9:30 a.m. It is typical of the new louche health club culture that personal trainers are allowed to behave like doctors without any sort of Hippocratic oath.

  “How many alcohol units do you drink a week?” said “Rebel”: Brad Pitt–style whippersnapper fitness assessor as I sat trying to hold in stomach in bra and pants.

  “Fourteen to twenty-one,” I lied smoothly, at which he had the nerve to flinch.

  “And do you smoke?”

  “I’ve given up,” I purred.

  At this, Rebel glanced pointedly into my bag where, OK, there was a packet of Silk Cut Ultra, but so?

  “When did you give up?” he said primly, typing something into the computer that would obviously go straight to Conservative Central Office and ensure I am sent to a boot camp next time I get a parking fine.

  “Today,” I said firmly.

  Ended up standing having fat measured with pincers by Rebel.

  “Now I’m just making these marks so I can see what I’m measuring,” he said bossily, putting circles and crosses all over me with a felt tip. “They’ll come off if you rub them with a bit of white spirit.”

  Next had to go into gym and do exercises with all sorts of unexplained eye contact and touching with Rebel—e.g., standing opposite with hands on each other’s shoulders with Rebel doing squats, bouncing bottom robustly on mat and me making awkward attempts to bend knees slightly. At end of whole thing felt as though had had long and intimate sex session with Rebel and we were practically going out. Afterwards got dressed and had shower, then was unsure what to do—seemed ought at least to go back in and ask what time he’d be home for dinner. But of course am having dinner with Mark Darcy.

  V. excited about dinner. Have been practicing in outfit and really it looks excellent, sleek smooth lines, all thanks to scary pants, which there is no reason he should find out about. Also really no reason why should not be v.g. escort. Am woman of world with career etc.

  Midnight. When finally arrived at Guildhall, Mark was pacing up and down outside in black tie and big overcoat. Fwaw. Love when you are going out with someone and they suddenly seem like an extremely attractive stranger and all you want to do is rush home and shag them senseless as if you have only just met. (Not, of course, that that is what normally do with people have only just met.) When he saw me he looked really shocked, laughed, then composed his features and gestured me towards the doors in polite, p
ublic-school fashion.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I said breathlessly.

  “You’re not,” he said, “I lied about the kickoff.” He looked at me again in a strange way.

  “What?” I said.

  “Nothing, nothing,” he said overcalmly and pleasantly, as if I were a lunatic standing on a car holding an ax in one hand and his wife’s head in the other. He ushered me through the door, as a uniformed footman held it open for us.

  Inside was high, dark-paneled entrance hall with many black-tied old people murmuring around. Saw woman in sequined crusty top thing looking at me in odd way. Mark nodded pleasantly at her and whispered in my ear, “Why don’t you just slip into the cloakroom and look at your face.”

  I shot off into loo. Unfortunately, in the dark of taxi, I had applied dark gray Mac eyeshadow to my cheeks instead of blusher: the sort of thing that could happen to anyone, obviously, as packaging identical. When came out of toilets, neatly scrubbed with coat handed in, stopped dead in tracks. Mark was talking to Rebecca.

  She was wearing a coffee-colored plunging, backless satin number that clung to her every fleshless bone with clearly no corset. Felt like my dad did when he put a cake into the Grafton Underwood fete and when he returned to it after the judging it had a note on saying, “Not up to Competition Standard.”

  “I mean it was just too funny,” Rebecca was saying and laughing full in Mark’s face affectionately. “Oh Bridget,” Rebecca said, as I joined them. “How are you, lovely girl!” She kissed me, at which could not stop self pulling face. “Feeling nervous?”

  “Nervous?” said Mark. “Why would she be nervous? She’s the embodiment of inner poise, aren’t you, Bridge.”

  For just a split second saw a look of annoyance cross Rebecca’s face before she composed it again and said, “Ahhh, isn’t that sweet? I’m so happy for you!” Then she glided off with a coy little backwards look at Mark.

  “She seems very nice,” said Mark. “Always seems extremely nice and intelligent.”

  Always?? I was thinking. Always? I thought he’d only met her twice. He slid his arm dangerously close to my corset so had to jump away. A couple of huffer-puffers came up to us and started congratulating Mark about something he’d done with a Mexican. He chatted pleasantly for a minute or two, then skillfully extracted us and led us through to the dining room.