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  Was Shazzer.

  “Oh Shaz,” I said miserably, and started to blurt out the story.

  “Stop right there,” she said, before I’d even got as far as the oriental boy. “Stop. I’m going to say this once and I want you to listen.”

  “What?” I said, thinking if there was one person in the world incapable of just saying something once—apart from my mother—it was Sharon.

  “Get out.”

  “But . . .”

  “Get out. You’ve had the warning sign, he votes Tory. Now get out before you get too involved.”

  “But wait, that’s not . . .”

  “Oh for God’s sake,” she growled. “He’s got it every which way, hasn’t he? He comes to your house, he has everything done for him. You turn up all dressed up to the nines for his ghastly Tory friends and what does he do? Flirts with Rebecca. Patronizes you. And votes Tory. It’s all just manipulative, paternalistic . . .”

  I glanced nervously at the clock. “Um, Shaz, can I ring you back on the mobile?”

  “What! In case he rings you? No!” she exploded.

  Just then the mobile actually started ringing.

  “Shaz, I’m going to have to go. I’ll call you later.”

  Pressed OK eagerly on the mobile.

  Was Jude. “Oh, oh I feel so hung over. I think I’m going to throw up.” She started launching into great long story about party at the Met Bar but had to stop her as really felt whole oriental youth issue was more pressing. Really felt was right about this. Was not being selfish.

  “Oh God, Bridge,” said Jude when I’d finished. “You poor thing. I think you’ve handled it really, really well. I really do. You’ve really come on.”

  Felt huge glow of pride, followed by puzzlement. “What did I do?” I said, looking round the room alternating between self-satisfied smiling and confused blinking.

  “You’ve done exactly what it says in Women Who Love Too Much. You’ve done nothing. Just detached. We cannot solve their problems for them. We simply detach.”

  “Right, right,” I said, nodding earnestly.

  “We don’t wish them ill. We don’t wish them well. We do not call them. We do not see them. We simply detach. Housekeeper’s son, my arse. If he’s got a housekeeper how come he’s always round your place getting you to wash up?”

  “But what if it was the housekeeper’s son?”

  “Now, Bridget,” said Jude sternly, “this is what’s called Denial.”

  11:15 a.m. Have arranged to meet Jude and Shazzer in 192 for lunch. Right. Am not going to be in Denial.

  11:16 a.m. Yes. Am completely detached. You see!

  11:18 a.m. Cannot believe he still hasn’t fucking, fucking, fucking well rung. Hate passive-aggressive behavior of telephone in modern dating world, using noncommunication as means of communication. Is terrible, terrible: with simple ring or nonring meaning difference between love and friendliness and happiness and being cast out into ruthless dating trench war again, exactly the same but feeling even more of a fuckup than last time.

  Noon. Could not believe it. Phone actually started ringing while I was staring at it, as if I had made it ring through thought-vibe energy and this time it was Mark.

  “How are you?” he said wearily.

  “I’m fine,” I said, trying to be detached.

  “Shall I pick you up and we’ll go for lunch and talk?”

  “Um, I’m having lunch with the girls,” I said really quite detachedly indeed.

  “Oh God.”

  “What?”

  “Bridget. Do you have any idea what sort of night I’ve had? I had this boy trying to strangle his mother in the kitchen, the police and ambulance round, tranquilizer darts, drives to the hospital, hysterical Filipinos all over the house. I mean I’m really, really sorry you had to go through all that, but so did I and it was hardly my fault.”

  “Why didn’t you call before?”

  “Because every time I got a second to call, either on the phone or the mobile, you were bloody well engaged!”

  Hmmm. Detachment did not go particularly well. He really has had an awful time. Have arranged to meet him for dinner and he says he’s going to sleep this afternoon. Alone, I do so deeply and sincerely hope.

  SUNDAY 2 FEBRUARY

  128 lbs. (excellent: am turning into Oriental Boy), cigarettes 3 (v.g.), calories 2,100 (v. modest), boyfriends 1 again (hurrah!), self-help books counted out loud in dismissive incredulous manner by newly reinstated boyfriend 37 (only sensible in this day and age).

  10 p.m. In flat. Everything is good again. Dinner was a bit awkward to start with but got better when decided I did believe him about story, especially as he said I should come and see the housekeeper today.

  But then, when we were having our chocolate mousses, he said, “Bridge? Last night even before this happened I’d started to feel as though things weren’t right.”

  Felt cold clunk of dread in stomach. Which was ironic really considering had been thinking things weren’t right myself. But really, it is all very well you yourself thinking things aren’t right in a relationship, but if the other person starts doing it is like someone else criticizing your mother. Also it starts you thinking you are about to be chucked, which, apart from pain, loss, heartbreak etc. is very humiliating.

  “Bridge? Are you in a hypnotic state?”

  “No. Why did you think things weren’t right?” I whispered.

  “Well, every time I tried to touch you, you shrank away as if I were some elderly lech.”

  Huge sense of relief. Explained to him about the scary pants at which he started really laughing. Ordered some dessert wine, both got a bit squiffy and ended up going back to my flat and having fantastic shag.

  This morning, when we were lying around reading the papers in front of the fire, started wondering whether should bring up the Rebecca business, and why he always stays at my house. But then Jude said I shouldn’t because jealousy is v. unattractive trait to opposite sex.

  “Bridget,” said Mark, “you seem to have gone into a trance. I was asking what was the meaning of the new shelving system. Are you meditating? Or is the shelf support system in some way Buddhist?”

  “It’s because of the electric wire,” I said vaguely.

  “What are all these books?” he said, getting up and looking at them. “How to Date Young Women: A Guide for Men Over Thirty-five? If the Buddha Dated? Going for It by Victor Kiam?”

  “They’re my self-help books!” I said protectively.

  “What Men Want? Beyond Co-dependency with a Man Who Can’t Commit? Loving Your Separated Man Without Losing Your Mind? You do realize you’re building up the largest body of theoretical knowledge about the behavior of the opposite sex in the known universe. I’m starting to feel like a laboratory animal!”

  “Um . . .”

  He was grinning at me. “Are you supposed to read them in pairs?” he said, pulling a book off the shelves. “Cover yourself both ways? Happy to Be Single with How to Find Your Perfect Partner in Thirty Days? Buddhism Made Simple with Going for It by Victor Kiam?”

  “No,” I said indignantly. “You read them individually.”

  “Why on earth do you buy this stuff?”

  “Well, actually I have a theory about this,” I began excitedly ( because actually I do have a theory about it). “If you consider other world religions such as—”

  “Other world religions? Other than what?”

  Grrr. Sometimes wish Mark was not so bloody legally trained.

  “Other than self-help books.”

  “Yes, I thought you might be about to say that. Bridget, self-help books are not a religion.”

  “But they are! They are a new form of religion. It’s almost as if human beings are like streams of water so when an obst
acle is put in their way, they bubble up and surge around it to find another path.”

  “Bubble up and surge around, Bridge?”

  “What I mean is if the organized religion collapses then people start trying to find another set of rules. And actually, as I was saying, if you look at self-help books they have a lot of ideas in common with other religions.”

  “Such as . . . ?” he said, waving his hand in an encouraging circle.

  “Well, Buddhism and . . .”

  “No. Such as what ideas?”

  “Well,” I began, panicking slightly as unfortunately the theory is not all that well developed as yet, “positive thinking. It says in Emotional Intelligence that optimism, that everything will turn out all right, is the most important thing. Then, of course, there is belief in yourself, like in Emotional Confidence. And if you look at Christianity . . .”

  “Yeees . . . ?”

  “Well, that bit they read at weddings, it’s the same: ‘These three things remain: faith, hope and love.’ Then there’s living in the moment—that’s The Road Less Traveled and also Buddhist.”

  Mark was looking at me as if I were mad.

  “. . . And forgiveness: it says in You Can Heal Your Life that holding on to resentment is bad for you and you have to forgive people.”

  “So what’s that then? Not Muslim, I hope. I don’t think you find much forgiveness in a faith that lops people’s hands off for stealing bread buns.”

  Mark was shaking his head and staring at me. It did not seem to me that he really understood the theory. But maybe that was because Mark’s spiritual soul is not very advanced, which could actually prove to be another problem in our relationship.

  “ ‘Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us’!!” I said indignantly. Just then the phone rang.

  “That’ll be dating war command,” said Mark. “Or maybe the Archbishop of Canterbury!”

  Was my mum. “What are you doing still there? Chop, chop. I thought you and Mark were coming to lunch.”

  “But Mum . . .” Was sure had not said we were coming to lunch, was sure of it. Mark was rolling his eyes and turning on the football.

  “Honestly, Bridget. I’ve made three pavlovas—though actually it’s just as easy to make three pavlovas as one, and I’ve taken a lasagne out and . . .”

  Could hear Dad going, “Leave her alone, Pam,” in the background as she went on and on huffily about the dangers of refreezing meat, then he came on the phone.

  “Don’t worry, m’dear. I’m sure you didn’t tell her you were coming. It just turned into that in her head. I’ll try to calm things down. Anyway, the bad news is, she’s going to Kenya.”

  Mum grabbed the phone. “It’s all sorted out with the passport. We got a lovely photo done in that wedding shop in Kettering, you know, where Ursula Collingwood had Karen’s pictures done.”

  “Was it air-brushed?”

  “No!” she said, indignantly. “At least they may have done something with the computer but it was nothing to do with brushes. Anyway, Una and I are going next Saturday. Just for ten days. Africa! Imagine!”

  “What about Dad?”

  “Honestly, Bridget! Life is for living! If Daddy wants to live between golf and the potting shed, that’s up to him!”

  Eventually managed to get away, encouraged by Mark standing over me holding a rolled newspaper in one hand and tapping his watch with the other. Went round to his house and definitely do believe him now, because the housekeeper was there cleaning the kitchen with fifteen members of her family who all seemed to want to worship Mark as a god. Then we stayed at his house and had all candles in the bedroom. Hurrah! Think it is all right. Yes. Is definitely all right. Love Mark Darcy. Sometimes he seems a bit scary but underneath he is very kind and sweet. Which is good. I think.

  Particularly as is Valentine’s Day in twelve days’ time.

  MONDAY 3 FEBRUARY

  127 lbs. (v.g.), alcohol units 3, cigarettes 12, no. of days to Valentine’s Day 11, no. of minutes spent obsessing about feminist wrongness of obsessing re: Valentine’s Day 162 approx. (bad).

  8:30 a.m. Hope Dad is going to be OK. If Mum is going on Saturday that means she will be leaving him on his own for Valentine’s Day, which is not very nice. Maybe I will send him a card, as if from a mystery admirer.

  Wonder what Mark will do? Sure he will send a card, at least.

  I mean definitely, he will.

  And maybe we will go out for dinner or other treat. Mmmm. V. nice to have boyfriend on Valentine’s Day for once. Ah, telephone.

  8:45 a.m. Was Mark. He is going to New York tomorrow for two weeks. He sounded a bit unfriendly actually, and said he was too busy to meet up tonight because he had to get all his papers and everything together.

  Managed to be nice about it and just said, “Oh that’s nice,” waiting till had put phone down to yell “But it’s Valentine’s Day a week on Friday, it’s Valentine’s Day. Baaaaaaah!”

  Anyway. That is just immature. Thing that matters is the relationship, not cynical marketing ploys.

  TUESDAY 4 FEBRUARY

  8 a.m. In café having cappuccino and chocolate croissant. There, you see! Have got self out of negative thought bog, and actually is probably very good that Mark is going away. Will give him chance to spring away like a Martian rubber band, as it says in Mars and Venus on a Date, and really feel his attraction. Also will give me chance to work on myself and catch up with own life.

  Plan for When Mark Is Away

  Go to gym every day.

  Have lots of lovely evenings with Jude and Shazzer.

  Do continuing good work sorting out flat.

  Spend time with Dad when Mum is away.

  Really work hard at work to improve position.

  Noon. Office. Peaceful morning. Was given an item to do on green cars. “That’s environmentally green, Bridget,” said Richard Finch, “not green colored.”

  Became clear early on green car item would never make it, leaving self free to fantasize re: Mark Darcy and design new headed stationery for self using different fonts and hues while thinking up new item ideas that would really bring me to the forefront of . . . Gaaah!

  12:15 p.m. Was bloody Richard Finch yelling: “Bridget. This isn’t arseing Care in the Community. It is a television production office meeting. If you must stare out of the window, at least try to do it without sliding that pen in and out of your mouth. So can you do that?”

  “Yes,” I said sulkily, putting the pen down on the table.

  “No, not can you take the pen out of your mouth, can you find me a Middle England, middle-class voter, fifty plus, own home, who is in favor?”

  “Yes, no problem,” I breathed airily, thinking I could ask Patchouli in favor of what later.

  “In favor of what?” said Richard Finch.

  I gave him a really quite enigmatic smile. “I think you might find you’ve answered your own question there,” I said. “Male or female?”

  “Both,” said Richard sadistically, “one of each.”

  “Straight or gay?” I exoceted back.

  “I said Middle England,” he snarled witheringly. “Now get on the bloody phone, and try to remember to put a skirt on in future, you’re distracting my team.”

  Honestly, as if they would take any bloody notice as they are all obsessed with their careers and it is not that short, it had just ridden up.

  Patchouli says it is in favor of the European or single currency. Which she thinks means either. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Right. Ah, telephone. That’ll be the Shadow Treasury press office.

  12:25 p.m. “Oh, hello, darling.” Grrr. Was my mother. “Listen, have you got a tube top?”

  “Mum, I’ve told you not to ring me at work unless it’s an emergency,” I hisse
d.

  “Oh I know, but you see the problem is we’re going on Saturday and the shops are still full of their winter things.”

  Suddenly, I had an idea. It took a while to get it through.

  “Honestly, Bridget,” she said after I explained. “We don’t want lorries coming from Germany taking all our gold away in the night.”

  “But Mum, you’d be on TV again! Think of your public.”

  Silence.

  “It will help the currency of the African people.” Not sure if this was strictly true but never mind.

  “Well, that may well be, but I haven’t got time for TV appearances when I’m trying to pack.”

  “Listen,” I hissed, “do you want the tube top or not?”

  12:40 p.m. Hurrah! Have managed to get not one, not two, but three Middle England voters. Una wants to come up with Mum so they can go through my wardrobe and pop into Dickens and Jones, and Geoffrey wants to be on the television. Am top-flight researcher.

  “So! Busy, are we?” Richard Finch was looking all postluncheon sweaty and swaggery. “Planning the Jones version of the really effective single currency plan, are we?”

  “Well, not quite,” I murmured with a cool self-deprecating smile. “But I have got you your Middle-England voters who are pro. Three of them, actually,” I added casually while rifling through my “notes.”

  “Oh, didn’t anyone tell you?” he said, smirking evilly. “We’ve dropped it. We’re doing bomb scares now. Can you get me a couple of Tory commuters from Middle England who can see the IRA’s argument?”

  8 p.m. Ugh. Spent three hours in wind-whipped Victoria trying to manipulate commuters’ opinions in direction of IRA to point where began to fear immediate arrest and transfer to Maze Prison. Got back to office, worrying what Mum and Una would find in my wardrobe, to guffawing conversation with Richard Finch along lines of “You didn’t really think you were going to find anyone, did you? Sucker!”