Thursday 28 September

8st 12,, alcohol units 2 (v.g.), cigarettes 11 (g.), calories 1850, job offers from fire service or rival TV stations 0 (perhaps not altogether surprising).

11 a.m.Am in disgrace and am laughingstock. Richard Finch humiliated me m front of the whole meeting flinging words like 'shambles,' 'disgrace,' and 'bleedin' bloody idiot' at me randomly.

'And now back to the studio,' seems to have turned into a new catchphrase in the office. Anytime anyone gets asked a question they don't know the answer to they go, 'Errrr . . . and now back to the studio,' and burst out laughing. Funny thing is, though, the grunge youths are being much more friendly to me. Patchouli (even!) came up and said, 'Oh, like, don't take any notice of Richard, right? He's, like, you know, really into control, right. You know what I'm sayin'? That fireman's pole thing was really like subversive and brilliant, right. Anyway, like . . . now back to the studio, OK?'

Richard Finch now just either ignores me or shakes his head disbelieving whenever he comes anywhere near me, and I have been given nothing to do all day.

Oh God, I'm so depressed. I thought I'd found something I was good at for once and now it's all ruined, and on top of everything else it is the horrible ruby wedding party on Saturday and I have nothing to wear. I'm no good at anything. Not men. Not social skills. Not work. Nothing.

OCTOBER

Date with Darcy

Sunday 1 October

8st 11, cigarettes 17, alcohol units 0 (u.g., esp for party).

4 a.m.Startling. One of the most startling evenings of life.

After got depressed on Friday Jude came round and talked to me about being more positive about things, bringing with her fantastic black dress for me to borrow for party. Was worried that might split or spill on the dress but she said she had lots of money and dresses because of top job and did not matter so not to worry about it. Love Jude. Girls are so much nicer than men (apart from Tom-but homosexual). Decided to accessorize fantastic dress with black tights with Lycra and Light Shimmer (£6.95) and Pied à terre kitten-heel black suede shoes (have got mashed potato off).

Had shock on arrival at the party as Mark Darcy's house was not a thin white terraced house on Portland Road or similar as had anticipated, but huge, detached wedding cake-style mansion on the other side of Holland Park Avenue (where Harold Pinter, they say, lives) surrounded by greenery.

He had certainly gone to town for his mum and dad. All the trees were dotted with red fairy lights and strings of shiny red hearts in a really quite endearing manner and there was a red and white canopied walkway leading all the way up the front path.

At the door things began to look even more promising as we were greeted by serving staff who gave us champagne and relieved us of our gifts (I had bought Malcolm and Elaine a copy of Perry Como love songs from the year they were married, plus a Body Shop Terracotta Essential Oil Burner as an extra present for Elaine as she had been asking me about Essential Oils at the Turkey Curry Buffet). Next we were ushered down a dramatic curved pale wood stairway lit by red heart-shaped candles on each step. Downstairs was one vast room, with a dark wood floor and a conservatory giving onto the garden. The whole room was lit by candles. Dad and I just stood and stared, completely speechless.

Instead of the cocktail fancies you would expect at a parent-generational do —compartmentalized cut-glass dishes full of gherkins; plates sporting savory doilies and half grapefruits bespined with cheese-and-pineapple-chunk-ladened.toothpicks — there were large silver trays containing prawn wontons, tomato and mozzarella tartlets and chicken sate. The guests looked as though they couldn't believe their luck, throwing their heads back and roaring with laughter. Una Alconbury looked as though she had just eaten a lemon.

'Oh dear,' said Dad, following my gaze, as Una bore down on us. 'I'm not sure this is going to be Mummy and Una's cup of tea.'

'Bit showy, isn't it?' said Una the second she was within earshot, pulling her stole huffily around her shoulders. 'I think if you take these things too far it gets a bit common.'

'Oh, don't be absurd, Una. It's a sensational party,' said my father, helping himself to his nineteenth canapé.

'Mmm. I agree,' I said through a mouthful of tartlet, as my champagne glass was filled as if from nowhere, ''s bloody fantastic.' After psyching myself up for so long for Jaeger two-piece hell, I was euphoric. No one had even asked me why I wasn't married yet.

'Humph,' said Una.

Mum too was now bearing down on us.

'Bridget,' she yelled. 'Have you said hello to Mark?'

I suddenly realized, cringing, that both Una and Mum must be coming up to their ruby weddings soon. Knowing Mum, it is highly unlikely she will let a trifling detail like leaving her husband and going off with a tour operator stand in the way of the celebrations and will be determined not to be outdone by Elaine Darcy at whatever price, even the sacrifice of a harmless daughter to an arranged marriage.

'Hold hard there, big feller,' said my dad, squeezing my arm.

'What a lovely house. Haven't you got a nice stole to put over your shoulders, Bridget? Dandruff!' trilled Mum, brushing Dad's back. 'Now, darling. Why on earth aren't you talking to Mark?'

'Urn, well . . . ' I mumbled.

'What do you think, Pam?' hissed Una tensely, nodding at the room.

'Showy,' whispered Mum, exaggerating her lip movements like Les Dawson.

'Exactly what I said,' mouthed Una triumphantly. 'Didn't I say so, Cohn? Showy.'

I glanced around nervously and jumped in fright. There, looking at us, not three feet away, was Mark Darcy. He must have heard everything. I opened my mouth to say something — I'm not quite sure what — to try to improve matters, but he walked away.

Dinner was served in the 'Drawing Room' on the ground floor and I found myself in the queue on the stairs directly behind Mark Darcy.

'Hi,' I said, hoping to make amends for my mother's rudeness. He looked round, completely ignored me and looked back again.

'Hi,' I said again and poked him.

'Oh, hi, I'm sorry. I didn't see you,' he said.

'It's a great party,' I said. 'Thanks for inviting me.'

He stared at me for a moment. 'Oh, I didn't,' he said. 'My mother invited you. Anyway. Must see to the, er, placement. Very much enjoyed your Lewisham fire station report, by the way,' and he turned and strode upstairs, dodging between the diners and excusing himself while I reeled. Humph.

As he reached the top of the stairs, Natasha appeared in a stunning gold satin sheath, grabbing his arm possessively and, in her haste, tripping over one of the candles which spilled red wax on the bottom of her dress. 'Fack,' she said. 'Fack.'

As they disappeared ahead I could hear her telling him off. 'I told you it was ridiculous spending all afternoon arranging candles in dangerous places for people to fall over. Your time would have been far better spent ensuring that the placement was . . . '

Funnily enough, the placement turned out to be rather brilliant. Mum was sitting next to neither Dad nor Julio but Brian Enderby, whom she always likes to flirt with. Julio had been put next to Mark Darcy's glamorous fifty-five-year-old aunt, who was beside herself with delight. My dad was pink with pleasure at sitting next to a stunning Faye Dunaway look-alike. I was really excited. Maybe I would be sandwiched between two of Mark Darcy's dishy friends, top barristers or Americans from Boston, perhaps. But as I looked for my name on the chart a familiar voice piped up beside me.

'So how's my little Bridget? Aren't I the lucky one? Look, you're right next to me. Una tells me you've split up with your feller. I don't know! Dun! When are we going to get you married off?'

'Well I hope, when we do, I shall be the one to do the deed,' said a voice on my other side. 'I could do with a new vimper. Mmm. Apricot silk. Or maybe a nice thirty-nine-button souterne from Gamirellis.'

Mark had thoughtfully put me between Geoffrey Alconbury and the gay vicar.

Actually, though, once we all got a few drinks down us conversation was by no means stilted. I was asking the vicar what he thought about the miracle of Indian statues of Ganesh the Elephant God taking in milk. The vicar said the word in ecclesiastical circles was that the miracle was due to the effect on terracotta of a hot summer followed by cold weather.

As the meal broke up and people started to make their way downstairs for the dancing, I was thinking about what he said. Overcome with curiosity, and keen, also, to avoid having to do the twist with Geoffrey Alconbury, I excused myself, discreetly taking a teaspoon and milk jug from the table, and nipped into the room where the presents had — rather proving Una's point about the showy element of things — already been unwrapped and put on display.

It took me a while to locate the terracotta oil burner, as it had been shoved near the back, but when I did I simply poured a little milk onto the teaspoon, tilted it and held it against the edge of the hole where you put the candle in. I couldn't believe it. The Essential Oil Burner was taking in milk. You could actually see the milk disappearing from the teaspoon..

'Oh my God, it's a miracle,' I exclaimed. How was I to know that was when Mark Darcy would be bloody well walking past?

'What are you doing?' he said, standing in the doorway.

I didn't know what to say. He obviously thought I was trying to steal the presents.

'Mmm?' he said. 'The Essential Oil Burner I bought your mother is taking in milk,' I muttered sulkily.

'Oh, don't be ridiculous,' he said, laughing.

'It is taking in milk,' I said indignantly. 'Look.' I put some more milk on the teaspoon, tilted the spoon and sure enough the oil burner slowly started to take it in.

'You see,' I said proudly. 'It's a miracle.'

He was pretty impressed, I can tell you. 'You're right,' he said softly. 'It is a miracle.'

Just then Natasha appeared in the doorway. 'Oh, hi,' she said, seeing me. 'Not in your bunny girl outfit today, then,' and then gave a little laugh to disguise her bitchy comment as an amusing joke.

'Actually we bunnies wear these in the winter for warmth,' I said.

'John Rocha?' she said, staring at Jude's dress. 'Last autumn? I recognize the hem.'

I paused to think up something very witty and cutting to say, but unfortunately couldn't think of anything. So after a bit of a stupid pause I said, 'Anyway, I'm sure you're longing to circulate. Nice to see you again. Byee!'

I decided I needed to go outside for a little fresh air and a fag. It was a wonderful, warm, starry night with the moon lighting up all the rhododendron bushes. Personally, I have never been keen on rhododendrons. They remind me of Victorian country houses up north from D. H. Lawrence where people drown in lakes. I stepped down into the sunken garden. They were playing Viennese waltzes in a rather smart fin de millennium sort of way. Then suddenly I heard a noise above. A figure was silhouetted against the French windows. It was a blond adolescent, an attractive public schoolboy-type.

'Hi,' said the youth. He lit a cigarette unsteadily and stared, heading down the stairs towards me. 'Don't suppose you fancy a dance? Oh. Ah. Sony,' he said, holding out his hand as if we were at the Eton open day and he was a former Home Secretary who had forgotten his manners: 'Simon Dalrymple.'

'Bridget Jones,' I said, holding out my hand stiffly, feeling as if I were a member of a war cabinet.

'Hi. Yah. Really nice to meet you. So can we have a dance?' he said, reverting to the public schoolboy again.

'Well, I don't know, I'm sure,' I said, reverting to pissed floozy and giving an involuntary raucous laugh like a prostitute in a Yates Wine Lodge.

'I mean out here. Just for a moment.'

I hesitated. I was flattered, to tell you the truth. What with this and performing a miracle in front of Mark Darcy it was all starting to go to my head.

'Please,' pressed Simon. 'I've never danced with an older woman before. Oh, gosh, I'm sorry, I didn't mean . . . ' he went on, seeing my face. 'I mean, someone who's left school,' he said, seizing my hand passionately. 'Would you mind? I'd be most awfully, awfully grateful.'

Simon Dalrymple had obviously been taught ballroom dancing from birth, so it was rather nice being expertly guided to and fro, but the trouble was, he seemed to have, well, not to put too fine a point on it, the most enormous erection I've ever had the good fortune to come across, and us dancing so close it was not the sort of thing one could pass off as a pencil case.

'I'll take over, now, Simon,' said a voice.

It was Mark Darcy.

'Come along. Back inside. You should be in bed now.'

Simon looked completely crushed. He blushed scarlet and hurried back into the party.

'May I?' said Mark, holding out his hand to me.

'No,' I said, furious.

'What's the matter?'

'Um,' I said, flailing for an excuse for being so angry. 'That was a horrible thing to do to a young whippersnapper, throwing your weight about and humiliating him like that at a sensitive age.' Then, noticing his baffled expression, I gabbled on. 'Though I do appreciate your asking me to your party. Marvelous. Thank you very much. Fantastic party.'

'Yes. I think you've said that,' he said, blinking fast. The truth is, he looked rather agitated and hurt.

'I . . . He paused, then started pacing around the patio, sighing and running his hand through his hair. 'How's the . . . Have you read any good books lately?' Unbelievable.

'Mark,' I said. 'If you ask me once more if I've read any good books lately I'm going to eat my head. Why don't you ask me something else? Ring the changes a bit. Ask me if I've got any hobbies, or a view on the single European currency, or if I've had any particularly disturbing experiences with rubber.'

'I . . . ' he began again.

'Or if I had to sleep with Douglas Hurd, Michael Howard or Jim Davidson which one I'd choose. Actually, no contest, Douglas Hurd.'

'Douglas Hurd?' said Mark.

'Mmm. Yes. So deliciously strict but fair.'

'Hmmm,' said Mark thoughtfully. 'You say that, but Michael Howard's got an extremely attractive and intelligent wife. He must have some sort of hidden charms.'

'Like what, you mean?' I said, childishly, hoping he would say something about sex.

'Well . . . '

He might be a good shag, I suppose,' I supplied.

'Or a fantastically skillful potter.'

'Or a qualified aromatherapist.'

'Will you have dinner with me, Bridget?' he said abruptly, and rather crossly, as if he was going to sit me down at a table somewhere and tell me off.

I stopped and stared at him. 'Has my mum put you up to this?' I said, suspiciously.

'No . . . I . . . '

'Una Alconbury?'

'No, no . . . '

Suddenly I realized what was going on. 'It's your mum, isn't it?'

'Well, my mother has . . . '

'I don't want to be asked out to dinner just because your mum wants you to. Anyway, what would we talk about? You'd just ask me if I've read any good books lately and then I'd have to make up some pathetic lie and — '

He stared at me in consternation. 'But Una Alconbury told me you were a sort of literary whizz-woman, completely obsessed with books.'

'Did she?' I said, rather pleased by the idea suddenly. 'What else did she tell you?'

'Well, that you're a radical feminist and have an incredibly glamorous life . . . '

'Oooh,' I purred.

' . . . with millions of men taking you out.'

'Huh.'

'I heard about Daniel. I'm sorry.'

'I suppose you did try to warn me,' I muttered sulkily. 'What have you got against him, anyway?'

'He slept with my wife,' he said. 'Two weeks after our wedding.'

I stared at him aghast as a voice above us shouted, 'Markee!' It was Natasha, silhouetted against the lights, peering down to see what was going on.

'Markee!' she called again. 'What are you doing down there?'

'Last Christmas,' Mark went on hurriedly, 'I thought if my mother said the words 'Bridget Jones' just once more I would go to the Sunday People and accuse her of abusing me as a child with a bicycle pump. Then when I met you . . . and I was wearing that ridiculous diamond-patterned sweater that Una had bought me for Christmas . . . Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or . . . '

'Mark!' yelled Natasha, heading down the stairs toward us.

'But you're going out with somebody,' I said, rather pointing out the obvious.

'I'm not anymore, actually,' he said. 'Just dinner? Sometime?'

'OK,' I whispered. 'OK.'

Afterwards I thought I'd better go home: what with Natasha watching my every move as if she were a crocodile and I was getting a bit near to her eggs, and me having given Mark Darcy my address and phone number and having fixed to see him next Tuesday. On my way through the dancing room I saw Mum, Una and Elaine Darcy chatting animatedly to Mark — couldn't help imagining their faces if they knew what had just gone on. I suddenly had a vision of next year's Turkey Curry Buffet with Brian Enderby hitching up the waistband of his trousers going, 'Harumph. Nice to see the young people enjoying themselves, isn't it?' and Mark Darcy and me forced to do tricks for the assembled company, like rubbing noses or having sex in front of them, like a pair of performing seals.

Tuesday 3 October

8st 12, alcohol units 3 (v.g.), cigarettes 21 (bad), number of times said word 'bastard' in last twenty-four hours 369 (approx.).

7:30 p.m.Complete panic stations. Mark Darcy is coming over to pick me up in half an hour. Just got home from work with mad hair and unfortunate laundry crisis outfit on. Help oh help. Was planning to wear white 501s but suddenly occurs to me he may be the type who will take me to a posh scary restaurant. Oh God, do not have anything posh to wear. Do you think he will expect me to put bunny tail on? Not that I'm interested in him or anything.

7:50 p.m.Oh God oh God. Still have not washed hair. Will quickly get into bath.

8:00 p.m.Drying hair now. V. much hope Mark Darcy is late as do not want him to find me in dressing gown with wet hair.

8:05 p.m.Hair is more or less dry now. Then just have to do makeup, get dressed and put mess behind sofa. Must prioritize. Consider makeup most important, then mess disposal.

8:15 p.m.Still not here. V.g. Keen on a man who comes round lace, in stark contrast to people who come round early, startling and panicking one and finding unsightly items still unhidden in the home.

8:20 p.m.Well, pretty much ready now. Maybe will put something different on. This is weird. Does not seem like him to be more than half an hour late.

8:30 p.m. 9:00 p.m.Cannot quite believe it. Mark Darcy has stood me up. Bastard!

Thursday 5 October

8st 13. (bad), chocolate items 4 (bad), number of times watched video 17 (bad).

11 a.m.In loo at work. Oh no. Oh no. On top of humiliating standing-up debacle, found self horrible center of attention at morning meeting today.

'Right, Bridget,' said Richard Finch. 'I'm going to give you another chance. The Isabella Rossellini trial. Verdict expected today. We think she's going to get off. Get yourself down to the High Court. I don't want to see you climbing up any poles or lampposts. I want a hardheaded interview. Ask her if this means it's OK for us all to murder people every time we don't fancy having sex with them. What are you waiting for, Bridget? Off you go.'

I had no idea, not even a glimmer of a clue as to what he was talking about. 'You have noticed the Isabella Rossellini trial, haven't you?' said Richard. 'You do read the papers, occasionally?'

The trouble with this job is that people keep flinging names and stories at you and you have a split second to decide whether or not to admit you have no idea what they're talking about, and if you let the moment go then you'll spend the next half hour desperately flailing for clues to what it is you are discussing in depth and at length with a confident air: which is precisely what happened with Isabella Rossellini.

And now I must set off to meet scary camera crew at the law courts in five minutes to cover and report on a story on the television without having the faintest idea what it is about.

11:05 a.m.Thank God for Patchouli. Just came out of the toilet and she was being pulled along by Richard's dogs straining at the leash.

'Are you OK?' she said. 'You look a bit freaked out.'

'No, no, I'm fine,' I said.

'Sure?' she stared at me for a moment. 'Listen, right, you realize he didn't mean Isabella Rosselli at the meeting, didn't you? He's thinking of Elena Rossini, right.'

Oh, thank God and all his angels in heaven above. Elena Rossini is the children's nanny accused of murdering her employer after he allegedly subjected her to repeated rape and effective house arrest for eighteen months. I grabbed a couple of newspapers to bone up and ran for a taxi.

3 p.m.Cannot believe what just happened. Was hanging around outside the High Court for ages with the camera crew and a whole gang of reporters all waiting for the trial to end. Was bloody good fun, actually. Even started to see the funny side of being stood up by Mr. Perfect Pants Mark Darcy. Suddenly realized I'd run out of cigarettes. So I whispered to the cameraman, who was really nice, if he thought it would be OK if I nipped to the shop for five minutes and he said it would be fine, because you're always given warning when they're about to come out and they'd come and get me if it was about to happen.

When they heard I was going to the shop, a lot of reporters asked me if I'd bring them fags and sweets and so it took quite a while working it all out. I was just standing in the shop trying to keep all the change separate with the shopkeeper when this bloke walked in obviously in a real hurry and said. 'Could you let me have a box of Quality Street?' as if I wasn't there. The poor shopkeeper looked at me as if not sure what to do.

'Excuse me, does the word 'queue' mean anything to you?' I said in a hoity-toity voice, turning around to look at him. I made a weird noise. It was Mark Darcy all dressed up in his barrister outfit. He just stared at me, in that way he has.

'Where in the name of arse were you last night?' I said.

'I might ask the same question of you,' he said, icily.

At that moment the camera assistant burst into the shop. 'Bridget!' he yelled. 'We've missed the interview. Elena Rossini's come out and gone. Did you get my Minstrels?'

Speechless, I grabbed the edge of the sweet counter for support. 'Missed it?' I said as soon as I could steady my breathing. 'Missed it? Oh God. This was my last chance after the fireman's pole and I was buying sweets. I'll be sacked. Did the others get interviews?'

'Actually, nobody got any interviews with her,' said Mark Darcy.

'Didn't they?' I said, looking up at him desperately. 'But how do you know?'

'Because I was defending her, and I told her not to give any,' he said casually. 'Look, she's out there in my car.'

As I looked, Elena Rossini put her head out of the car window and shouted in a foreign accent, 'Mark, sorry. You bring me Dairy Box, please, instead of Quality Street?' Just then our camera car drew up.

'Derek!' yelled the cameraman out of the window. 'Get us a Twix and a Lion Bar, will you?'

'So where were you last night?' asked Mark Darcy.

'Waiting for bloody you,' I said between clenched teeth.

'What, at five past eight? When I rang on your doorbell twelve times?'

'Yes, I was . . . ' I said, feeling the first twinges of realization, 'drying my hair.'

'Big hair dryer?' he said.

'Yes 1600 volts, Salon Selectives,' I said proudly. 'Why?'

'Maybe you should get a quieter hair dryer or begin your toilette a little earlier. Anyway. Come on,' he said laughing. 'Get your cameraman ready, I'll see what I can do for you.'

Oh God. How embarrassing. Am complete jerk.

9 p.m.Cannot believe how marvelously everything has turned out. Have just played the Good Afternoon! headlines back for the fifth time.

'And a Good Afternoon! exclusive,' it says. 'Good Afternoon!: the only television program to bring you an exclusive interview with Elena Rossini, just minutes after today's not guilty verdict. Our home news correspondent. Bridget Jones, brings you this exclusive report.'

I love that bit: 'Our home news correspondent, Bridget Jones, brings you this exclusive report.'

I'll just play it back once more, then I'll definitely put it away.

Friday 6 October

9st. (comfort eating), alcohol units 6 (drink problem), lottery tickets 6 (comfort gambling), 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has rung 21 (curiosity only, obviously), number of times watched video 9 (better).

9 p.m.Humph. Left a message for Mum yesterday to tell her all about my scoop so when she rang tonight I assumed it would be to congratulate me, but no, she was just going on about the party. It was Una and Geoffrey this, Brian and Mavis that and how marvelous Mark was and why didn't I talk to him, etc., etc.? Temptation to tell her what happened almost overwhelming but managed to control myself by envisaging consequences: screaming ecstasy at the making of the date and brutal murder of only daughter when she heard the actual outcome.

Keep hoping he might ring me up and ask me for another date after the hair dryer debacle. Maybe I should write him a note to say thank you for the interview and sorry about the hair dryer. It's not because I fancy him or anything. Simple good manners demands it.

Date: 2015-12-17; view: 859