The Edge of Reason Read online

  “Do you want to split up . . . ?”

  There was a knock at the door. Was Rebecca radiant in dusky pink cashmere. “Last call for breakfast, folks!” she cooed and didn’t go.

  Ended up breakfasting with mad unwashed hair, while Rebecca swung her shiny mane and served kedgeree.

  On the way home we drove in silence while I struggled not to show how I felt or say anything wet. Know from experience how awful it is trying to persuade someone you shouldn’t split up when they have already made up their mind, and then you think back over what you said. And feel such an idiot.

  “Don’t do this!” I wanted to yell when we stopped outside my house. “She’s trying to pinch you and it’s all a plot. I didn’t kiss St. John. I love you.”

  “Well, bye then,” I said dignifiedly, and forced myself to get out of the car.

  “Bye,” he muttered, not looking at me.

  Watched him turn the car round really fast and screechily. As he drove off, I saw him angrily brush his cheek as if he was wiping something away.

  * * *

  4

  Persuasion

  MONDAY 24 FEBRUARY

  210 lbs. (combined weight of self and unhappiness), alcohol units 1—i.e. me, cigarettes 200,000, calories 8,477 (not counting chocolate), theories as to what’s going on 447, no. of times changed mind about what to do 448.

  3 a.m. Don’t know what I would have done without the girls yesterday. Called them instantly after Mark drove off, and they were round within fifteen minutes, never once saying “I told you so.”

  When Shazzer bustled in with armfuls of bottles and carrier bags, barking, “Has he rung?” was like being in ER when Dr. Greene arrives.

  “No,” said Jude, popping a cigarette in my mouth as if it were a thermometer.

  “Only a matter of time,” said Shaz brightly, unpacking a bottle of Chardonnay, three pizzas, two tubs of Häagen-Dazs Pralines and Cream and a packet of fun-sized Twixes.

  “Yup,” said Jude, putting the Pride and Prejudice tape on top of the video, together with Through Love and Loss to Self-Esteem, The Five Stages of Dating Workbook and How to Heal the Hurt by Hating. “He’ll be back.”

  “Do you think I should call him?” I said.

  “No!” yelled Shaz.

  “Have you gone out of your mind?” bellowed Jude. “He’s being a Martian rubber band. The last thing you must do is call him.”

  “I know,” I said huffily. I mean surely she didn’t think I was that badly read.

  “You let him go back to his cave and feel his attraction, and you move back from Exclusivity to Uncertainty.”

  “But what if he . . . ?”

  “You’d better unplug it, Shaz,” sighed Jude. “Otherwise she’ll spend the whole night waiting for him to ring instead of working on her self-esteem.”

  “Noooo!” I cried, feeling like they were going to cut my ear off.

  “Anyway,” said Shaz brightly, pulling the phone out of the wall with a click, “it’ll do him good.”

  Two hours later was feeling quite confused.

  “ ‘The more a man likes a woman the more he will avoid getting involved’!” said Jude triumphantly, reading from Mars and Venus on a Date.

  “Sounds like masculine logic to me!” said Shaz.

  “So chucking me could actually be a sign that he’s really serious about the relationship?” I said excitedly.

  “Wait, wait.” Jude was staring hard at Emotional Intelligence. “Was his wife unfaithful to him?”

  “Yes,” I mumbled through a mouthful of Twix. “A week after their wedding. With Daniel.”

  “Hmmm. You see it sounds to me that he was also having an Emotional Hijacking, probably because of an earlier emotional ‘bruise’ that you have inadvertently hit. Of course! Of course! That’s it! That’s why he overreacted to you snogging the boy. So don’t worry, once the bruise has stopped sending his whole nervous system into disarray he’ll realize his mistake.”

  “And realize he ought to go out with someone else because he likes you so much!” said Sharon, merrily lighting up a Silk Cut.

  “Shut up, Shaz,” hissed Jude. “Shut up.”

  It was too late. The specter of Rebecca loomed up, filling the room like an inflatable monster.

  “Oh, oh, oh,” I said, screwing up my eyes.

  “Quick, get her a drink, get her a drink,” yelled Jude.

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Put Pride and Prejudice on,” gabbled Shaz, pouring neat brandy into my mouth. “Find the wet shirt. Shall we have the pizzas?”

  Was a bit like Christmas, or more like when somebody dies and with funeral and all the fuss nothing is normal so people do not notice the loss because they are so distracted. It is when life goes back to what it was without the person that the trouble starts. Like now for example.

  7 p.m. Wild joy! Got home to find answerphone light flashing.

  “Bridget, hi, it’s Mark. I don’t know where you were last night but anyway, just checking in. I’ll try you again later.”

  Try me again later. Hmmm. So presumably that means not to ring him.

  7:13 p.m. He hasn’t rung. Unsure what is correct procedure now. Better ring Shaz.

  On top of everything else, hair has gone mad as if in sympathy. Bizarre the way that hair is normal for weeks on end then suddenly in space of five minutes goes berserk, announcing it is time to cut in manner of baby starting yelling to be fed.

  7:30 p.m. Played the message over the phone to Shaz and said, “Should I call him back?”

  “No! Let him suffer. If he’s chucked you and changed his mind he’s got to prove he bloody well deserves you.”

  Shaz is right. Yes. Am in v. assertive mood re: Mark Darcy.

  8:35 p.m. Oh, though. Maybe he is sad. Hate thinking of him sitting in his Newcastle United T-shirt being sad. Maybe I should just ring him and get to the bottom of it.

  8:50 p.m. Was just about to ring Mark and blurt out how much I liked him and it was all just misunderstandings but fortunately Jude rang before I had time to pick up the phone. Told her about the brief but worryingly positive mood.

  “So you mean you’re in Denial again?”

  “Yes,” I said uncertainly. “Should I ring him tomorrow maybe?”

  “No, if you want to get back together, you’ve got to leave it unsullied by scenes. So wait four or five days till you’ve recovered your composure, then, yes, there’s nothing wrong with giving him a light, friendly call just to let him know everything’s OK.”

  11 p.m. He hasn’t rung. Oh fuck. Am so confused. Whole dating world is like hideous game of bluff and double bluff with men and women firing at each other from opposite lines of sandbags. Is as if there is a set of rules that you are supposed to be sticking to, but no one knows what they are so everyone just makes up their own. Then you end up getting chucked because you didn’t follow the rules correctly, but how could you be expected to, when you didn’t know what they were in the first place?

  TUESDAY 25 FEBRUARY

  No. of times driven past Mark Darcy’s house to see if there are any lights on 2 (or 4 if count both ways). No. of times dialed 141 (so cannot trace my number if he 1471s) then rang his answerphone just to hear his voice 5 (bad) (v.g. for not leaving message though). No. of times looked Mark Darcy’s number up in phone book just to prove to self he still exists 2 (v. restrained), percentage of outgoing calls made from mobile to keep line clear in case he rings 100. Percentage of incoming callers creating angry resentment for not being Mark Darcy—unless ringing to talk about Mark Darcy—and urged to get off the phone as quickly as possible in case blocking call from Mark Darcy 100.

  8 p.m. Magda just called to ask how the weekend went. Ended up blurting out the whole story.

  “Listen, if you take it from him one more time you’re going in the naughty chair! Harry! Sorry, Bridge. So what does he say about it?”

  “I haven’t spoken to him.”

  “What? Why not?”

&nbs
p; Explained about the answerphone message and the whole rubber band/emotional bruise/liking me too much theory.

  “Bridget, you are literally unbelievable. There’s nothing in the entire story to suggest he’s chucked you at all. He just got in a bad mood because he caught you snogging someone.”

  “I wasn’t snogging someone. I was being happened upon against my will!”

  “But he’s not a mind reader. How’s he supposed to know what you feel? You have to communicate. Take that out of his mouth now! You’re coming with me. You’re coming upstairs with me to the naughty chair.”

  8:45 p.m. Maybe Magda is right. Maybe I just assumed that he was chucking me and he didn’t mean that at all. Maybe in the car he was just upset about the whole snogging thing and wanted me to say something and now he thinks I am avoiding him!! Am going to ring. That is the trouble with modern (or ex) relationships, there just isn’t enough communication.

  9 p.m. Right, am going to do it.

  9:01 p.m. Here goes.

  9:10 p.m. Mark Darcy answered by barking “Yesssss?” in incredibly impatient voice with all noise in background.

  Crestfallen, I whispered, “It’s me, it’s Bridget.”

  “Bridget! Are you mad? Don’t you know what’s going on? You haven’t called me for two days and now you ring me in the middle of the most important, the most crucial—Noooooo! Nooooo! You stupid, bloody . . . Jesus Christ. You stupid—right beside the ref. That was a foul! You’ll be . . . he’s booking him. He’s going off. Oh Jesus—look, I’ll call you back when it’s over.”

  9:15 p.m. Of course knew it was some kind of Trans-Universe final or whatever it is, had just forgotten owing to emotional thought bog. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone.

  9:30 p.m. How could I be so stupid? How? How?

  9:35 p.m. Oh goody—telephone! Mark Darcy!

  Was Jude. “What?” she said. “He didn’t talk to you because he was in the middle of a football match? Go out. Go out immediately. Don’t be in when he calls back. How dare he!”

  Immediately realized Jude was right and if Mark really cared about me football would not have been more important. Shaz was even more emphatic.

  “The only reason men are so obsessed with football is that they’re bone idle,” she exploded. “They think by supporting some team or other and making a lot of noise they’ve actually won the match themselves and deserve to have cheering and clapping and a great fuss made of them.”

  “Yes. So are you coming round to Jude’s?”

  “Er, no . . .”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m watching the match with Simon.”

  Simon? Shazzer and Simon? But Simon is just one of our mates.

  “But I thought you just said . . . ?”

  “That’s different. The reason I like football is it’s a very interesting game.”

  Hmm. Was just leaving the house when phone rang again.

  “Oh, hello, darling. It’s Mum. We’re having the most marvelous time. Everyone adores Wellington! We took him to the Rotary and—”

  “Mother,” I hissed. “You can’t parade Wellington around like some sort of exhibit.”

  “Do you know, darling,” she said icily, “if there’s one thing I really don’t like it’s racism and bigotry.”

  “What?”

  “Well. When the Robertsons were up from Amersham we took them to the Rotary and you didn’t say anything about that, did you?”

  I gawped, trying to untangle the web of warped logic.

  “Always putting everyone in little boxes, aren’t you, with your ‘Smug Marrieds’ and ‘Singletons’ and colored people and homos. Anyway, I was just ringing about Miss Saigon on Friday. It starts at seven thirty.”

  Oh Christ. “Er . . . !” I said wildly. Sure I didn’t say yes, sure of it.

  “Now come along, Bridget. We’ve bought the tickets.”

  Resignedly agreed to bizarre jaunt, making gabbling excuse about Mark working, which completely set her off.

  “Working, durrr! What’s he doing working on a Friday night? Are you sure he’s not working too hard? I really don’t think working—”

  “Mum, I’ve really got to go, I’m late for Jude,” I said firmly.

  “Oh, always rushing about. Jude, Sharon, yoga. I’m surprised you and Mark have got any time to see each other at all!”

  Once round at Jude’s flat, the conversation moved naturally to Shazzer and Simon.

  “But, actually”—Jude leaned forward confidentially, even though no one else was there—“I bumped into them in the Conran Shop on Saturday. And they were giggling together over cutlery like a pair of Smug Marrieds.”

  What is it about modern Singletons that only way they can have a normal relationship is if it isn’t supposed to be a relationship? There’s Shaz who isn’t going out with Simon doing what couples are supposed to do, and me and Mark who are supposed to be going out not seeing each other at all.

  “If you ask me people should not say ‘just good friends’ but ‘just going out with each other,’ ” I said darkly.

  “Yup,” said Jude. “Maybe the answer is platonic friends combined with a vibrator.”

  Got back to remorseful message from Mark saying he had tried to ring straight after the match but phone was permanently engaged and now I was out. Was just wondering whether to call him back when he rang.

  “Sorry about earlier,” he said. “I’m just really down about it, aren’t you?”

  “I know,” I said tenderly, “I feel exactly the same.”

  “I just keep thinking: why?”

  “Exactly!” I beamed, huge rush of love and relief washing over me.

  “So stupid and unnecessary,” he said, anguished. “A pointless outburst with devastating consequences.”

  “I know,” I nodded, thinking, blimey, he’s taking it even more dramatically than me.

  “How can a man live with that?”

  “Well, everyone’s only human,” I said thoughtfully. “People have to forgive each other and . . . themselves.”

  “Chuh! It’s easy to say that,” he said. “But if he hadn’t been sent off we’d never have been subjected to the tyranny of the penalty shoot-out. We fought like kings amongst lions, but it cost us the game!”

  I gave a strangled cry, mind reeling. Surely it cannot be true that men have football instead of emotions? Realize football is exciting and binds nations together with common goals and hatreds but surely wholesale anguish, depression and mourning hours later is taking—

  “Bridget, what’s the matter? It’s only a game. Even I can see that. When you called me during the match I was so caught up in my own feelings that . . . But it’s only a game.”

  “Right, right,” I said, staring around the room crazily.

  “Anyway, what’s going on? I haven’t heard a peep from you for days. Hope you haven’t been snogging any more teenage . . . Oh hang on, hang on, they’re playing it back. Shall I come round tomorrow, no, wait, I’m playing five-a-side—Thursday?”

  “Er . . . yes,” I said.

  “Great, see you about eight o clock.”

  WEDNESDAY 26 FEBRUARY

  130 lbs., alcohol units 2 (v.g.), cigarettes 3 (v.g.), calories 3,845 (poor), minutes not spent obsessing re: Mark Darcy 24 (excellent progress), variations on twin-horned sculpture dreamed up by hair 13 (alarming).

  8:30 a.m. Right. Everything is probably fine (apart, obviously, from hair) though it is possible that Mark was avoiding issue as did not want to talk about emotions on the phone. So tomorrow night is crucial.

  Important thing is to be assured, receptive, responsive, not complain about anything, move back a Stage and . . . er, look really sexy. Will see if can get hair cut in lunch hour. And will go to gym before work. Maybe have a steam bath so will be all glowing.

  8:45 a.m. Letter has come for me! Hurrah! Maybe late Valentine card from secret admirer, which has been misdirected owing to incorrect post code.

  9 a.m. Was letter from bank a
bout overdraft. Also enclosing check to “M. S. F. S.” Hah! Had forgotten about that. Dry-cleaner fraud is about to be exposed and I will get £149 back. Ooh, note just fluttered out.

  Note said: “This check is to Marks & Spencer’s Financial Services.”

  Was for Christmas payment on M&S card. Oh. Oh dear. Feel bit bad now for mentally accusing innocent dry cleaner’s and being all funny with the boy. Hmm. Too late to go to gym now, also too generally upset. Will go after work.

  2 p.m. Office. In loos. Total, total disaster. Just got back from hairdresser’s. Told Paolo about just wanting tiny trim to turn hair from mad chaos into that of Rachel from Friends. He started running his hands through it and I instantly felt in care of genius who understood self’s inner beauty. Paolo seemed marvelously in control, throwing the hair this way and that, then blowing it about into huge bouff, giving me knowing looks as if to say “I’m gonna make you into one hot chick.”

  Then suddenly he stopped. Hair looked totally insane—like schoolteacher who has had perm followed by pudding-basin cut. He looked at me with an expectant, confident smirk and his assistant came up and started gushing, “Oh it’s heaven.” Panicked, staring at self in horror but had established such a bond of mutual admiration with Paolo that to say I hated hair would make whole thing collapse like impossibly embarrassing house of cards. Ended up joining in mad gushing about monster hair and giving Paolo £5 tip. When got back to work, Richard Finch said I looked like Mr. Spock from Star Trek.

  7 p.m. Back home. Hair is complete fright wig with hideous short fringe. Just spent forty-five minutes staring in mirror with brows raised trying to make fringe look longer but cannot spend whole of tomorrow night looking like Roger Moore when the baddy with the cat has threatened to blow up him, the world and the tiny box full of MI5 vital computers.

  7:15 p.m. Attempt to mimic early Linda Evangelista by arranging fringe into diagonal line using gel has turned self into Donald Trump.