The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  Was v. glamorous: dark wood, round tables, candlelight and shimmering crystal. Trouble was, kept having to jump away from Mark every time he put his hand on my waist so he wouldn’t feel the corset.

  Our table was already filling up with an array of brittly confident thirty-something lawyers, bellowing with laughter and trying to outdo each other with the sort of flippant conversational sallies that are obviously tips of huge icebergs of legal and Zeitgeisty knowledge:

  “How do you know if you’re addicted to the Internet?”

  “You realize you don’t know the gender of your three best friends.” Haaar Waagh. Harharhar.

  “You can’t write full stops any more without adding co.uk.” BAAAAAAAAAAA!

  “You do all your work assignments in HMTL Protocol.” Blaaaaagh harhar. Braaaah. Hahah.

  As the room started to settle into the meal, a woman called Louise Barton-Foster (incredibly opinionated lawyer and the sort of woman you can imagine forcing you to eat liver) started holding forth for what seemed like three months with complete bollocks.

  “But in a sense,” she was saying, staring ferociously at the menu, “one could argue the entire ER Emeuro Proto is a Gerbilisshew.”

  Was perfectly OK—just sat quietly and ate and drank things—until Mark suddenly said, “I think you’re absolutely right, Louise. If I’m going to vote Tory again I want to know my views are being (a) researched and (b) represented.”

  I stared at him in horror. Felt like my friend Simon did once when he was playing with some children at a party when their grandfather turned up and he was Robert Maxwell—and suddenly Simon looked at toddlers and saw they were all mini–Robert Maxwells with beetling brows and huge chins.

  Realize when start a relationship with a new person there will be differences between you, differences that have to be adapted to and smoothed down like rough corners, but had never, ever in a million years suspected I might have been sleeping with a man who voted Tory. Suddenly felt I didn’t know Mark Darcy at all, and for all I knew, all the weeks we had been going out he had been secretly collecting limited edition miniature pottery animals wearing bonnets from the back pages of Sunday supplements, or slipping off to rugby matches on a bus and mooning at other motorists out of the back window.

  Conversation was getting snootier and snootier and more and more showy-offy.

  “Well, how do you know it’s 4.5 to 7?” Louise was barking at a man who looked like Prince Andrew in a stripy shirt.

  “Well, I did read economics at Cambridge.”

  “Who taught you?” snapped another girl, as if this were going to win the argument.

  “Are you all right?” whispered Mark out of the corner of his mouth.

  “Yes,” I muttered, head down.

  “You’re . . . quivering. Come on. What is it?”

  Eventually I had to tell him.

  “So I vote Tory, what’s wrong with that?” he said, staring at me incredulously.

  “Shhhhhh,” I whispered, looking nervously round the table.

  “What’s the problem?”

  “It’s just,” I began, wishing Shazzer were here, “I mean, if I voted Tory I’d be a social outcast. It would be like turning up at Café Rouge on a horse with a pack of beagles in tow, or having dinner parties on shiny tables with side plates.”

  “Rather like this, you mean?” He laughed.

  “Well, yes,” I muttered.

  “So what do you vote, then?”

  “Labour, of course,” I hissed. “Everybody votes Labour.”

  “Well, I think that’s patently been proved not to be the case, so far,” he said. “Why, as a matter of interest?”

  “What?”

  “Why do you vote Labour?”

  “Well,” I paused thoughtfully, “because voting Labour stands for being left wing.”

  “Ah.” He seemed to think this was somehow hugely amusing. Everyone was listening now.

  “And socialist,” I added.

  “Socialist. I see. Socialist meaning . . . ?”

  “The workers standing together.”

  “Well, Blair isn’t exactly going to shore up the powers of the unions, is he?” he said. “Look what he’s saying about Clause Four.”

  “Well, the Tories are rubbish.”

  “Rubbish?” he said. “The economy’s in better shape now than it’s been in for seven years.”

  “No it’s not,” I said emphatically. “Anyway, they’ve probably just put it up because there’s an election coming.”

  “Put what up?” he said. “Put the economy up?”

  “How does Blair’s stand on Europe compare to Major’s?” Louise joined in.

  “Yar. And why hasn’t he matched the Tory promise to increase spending on health year by year in real terms?” said Prince Andrew.

  Honestly. Off they went again all showing off to each other. Eventually could stand it no longer.

  “The point is you are supposed to vote for the principle of the thing, not the itsy-bitsy detail about this percent and that percent. And it is perfectly obvious that Labour stands for the principle of sharing, kindness, gays, single mothers and Nelson Mandela as opposed to braying bossy men having affairs with everyone shag-shag-shag left, right and center and going to the Ritz in Paris then telling all the presenters off on the Today program.”

  There was a cavernous silence round the table.

  “Well, I think you’ve got it in a nutshell there,” said Mark, laughing and rubbing my knee. “We can’t argue with that.”

  Everyone was looking at us. But then, instead of someone taking the piss—such as would have happened in the normal world—they pretended nothing had happened and went back to the clinking and braying, completely ignoring me.

  Could not gauge how bad or otherwise incident was. Was like being amongst a Papua New Guinea tribe, and treading on the chief’s dog and not knowing whether the murmur of conversation meant it didn’t matter or that they were discussing how to make your head into a frittata.

  Someone rapped on the table for the speeches, which were just really, really, crashingly, fist-eatingly boring. As soon as they were over Mark whispered, “Let’s get out, shall we?”

  We said our good-byes, and set off across the room. “Er . . . Bridget,” he said, “I don’t want to worry you. But you’ve got something slightly odd-looking round your waist.”

  Shot my hand down to check. Scary corset had somehow unraveled itself from both ends turning into bulging roll round my waist like giant spare tire.

  “What is it?” said Mark, nodding and smiling to people as we made our way through the tables.

  “Nothing,” I muttered. As soon as we got out of the room I made a bolt for the loo. Was really difficult getting the dress off and unraveling the scary pants then putting the whole nightmare ensemble back again. Really wished I was at home wearing a pair of baggy trousers and a sweater.

  When I emerged into the hallway I nearly turned straight back into the loos. Mark was talking to Rebecca. Again. She whispered something in his ear, then burst out into a horrid hooting laugh.

  I walked up to them and stood there awkwardly.

  “Here she is!” said Mark. “All sorted out?”

  “Bridget!” said Rebecca, pretending to be pleased to see me. “I hear you’ve been impressing everyone with your political views!”

  Wished could think of something v. amusing to say, but instead just stood there looking out under lowered eyebrows.

  “Actually, it was great,” said Mark. “She made the whole lot of us look like pompous arses. Anyway, must be off, nice to see you again.”

  Rebecca kissed us both effusively in a cloud of Gucci Envy then sashayed back into the dining room in a way that was really obvious she hoped Mark was watching.

  Couldn’t think what to say as we walked to the car. He and Rebecca had obviously been laughing at me behind my back and then he’d tried to cover up for it. Wished could ring up Jude and Shaz for advice.

  Mar
k was behaving as if nothing had happened. As soon as we set off he started trying to slide his hand up my thigh. Why is it that the less you appear to want sex with men the more they do?

  “Don’t you want to keep your hands on the wheel?” I said, desperately trying to shrink back, to keep the edge of the rubber roll-on thing away from his fingers.

  “No. I want to ravish you,” he said, lunging at a traffic light.

  Managed to remain intact by feigning road safety obsession.

  “Oh. Rebecca said did we want to go round for dinner sometime?” he said.

  I couldn’t believe this. I’ve known Rebecca for four years and she has never once asked me round for dinner.

  “She looked nice, didn’t she? Nice dress thing.”

  It was Mentionitis. It was Mentionitis happening before my very ears.

  We’d reached Notting Hill. At the lights, without asking me, he just turned in the direction of my house, and away from his. He was keeping his castle intact. It was probably full of messages from Rebecca. I was a Just For Now Girl.

  “Where are we going?” I burst out.

  “Your flat. Why?” he said, looking round in alarm.

  “Exactly. Why?” I said furiously. “We’ve been going out for four weeks and six days. And we’ve never stayed at your house. Not once. Not ever! Why?”

  Mark went completely silent. He indicated, turned left, then swung back towards Holland Park Avenue without saying a word.

  “What’s the matter?” I said eventually.

  He stared straight ahead and flicked on the indicator. “I don’t like shouting.”

  When we got back to his house it was awful. Walked up the steps together in silence. He opened the door, picked up the mail and flicked the lights on in the kitchen.

  Kitchen is the height of a double-decker bus and one of those seamless stainless steel ones where you cannot tell which one is the fridge. Was a strange absence of things lying around and three pools of cold light in the middle of the floor.

  He strode off to the other end of the room, footsteps echoing hollowly as if in underground cavern on school trip, stared worriedly at the stainless steel doors and said, “Would you like a glass of wine?”

  “Yes please, thank you,” I said politely. There were some modern-looking high stools at a stainless steel breakfast bar. I climbed awkwardly on to one, feeling like Andy Williams preparing to do a duet with Petula Clark.

  “Right,” said Mark. He opened one of the stainless steel cupboard doors, noticed it had a bin attached to it, then closed it again, opened another door and gazed down in surprise at a washing machine. I looked down, wanting to laugh.

  “Red or white wine?” he said abruptly.

  “White, please.” Suddenly I felt really tired, my shoes hurt, my scary pants were digging into me. I just wanted to go home.

  “Ah.” He had located the fridge.

  Glanced across and saw the answerphone on one of the counters. Stomach lurched. The red light was flashing. Looked up to find Mark standing right in front of me holding a wine bottle in Conranesque distressed iron decanter. He looked really miserable too.

  “Look, Bridget, I . . .”

  I got off the stool to put my arms round him, but then immediately his hands went to my waist. I pulled away. I had to get rid of the bloody thing.

  “I’m just going to go upstairs for a minute,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “To the loo,” I said wildly, then teetered off in the now agonizing shoes towards the stairs. Went into the first room I came to, which seemed to be Mark’s dressing room, a whole room full of suits and shirts and lines of shoes. Got myself out of the dress and, with huge relief, started peeling off the scary pants, thinking could put on a dressing gown and maybe we could get all cozy and sort things out but suddenly Mark appeared in the doorway. I stood frozen in full scary undergarment exposure, then started to frantically pull it off while he stared, aghast.

  “Wait, wait,” he said, as I reached for the dressing gown, looking intently at my stomach. “Have you been drawing noughts and crosses on yourself?”

  Tried to explain to Mark about Rebel and not being able to buy white spirit on a Friday night but he just looked very tired and confused.

  “I’m sorry, I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said. “I’ve got to get some sleep. Shall we just go to bed?”

  He pushed open another door, turned on the light. I took one look then let out a big noise. There, in the huge white bed, was a lithe oriental boy, stark naked, smiling weirdly, and holding out two wooden balls on a string, and a baby rabbit.

  * * *

  3

  Doooom!

  SATURDAY 1 FEBRUARY

  129 lbs., alcohol units 6 (but mixed with tomato juice, v. nutritious), cigarettes 400 (entirely understandable), rabbits, deer, pheasants or other wildlife found in bed 0 (massive improvement on yesterday), boyfriends 0, boyfriends of ex-boyfriend 1, no. of normal potential boyfriends remaining in world 0.

  12:15 a.m. Why do these things keep happening to me? Why? WHY? The one time someone seems a nice sensible person such as approved of by mother and not married, mad, alcoholic or fuckwit, they turn out to be gay bestial pervert. No wonder he didn’t want me to go to his house. Was not that he is commitment phobic or fancies Rebecca or I am Just For Now Girl. Is because he was keeping oriental boys in bedroom together with wildlife.

  Was hideous shock. Hideous. Stared at the oriental boy for about two seconds then shot back into the dressing room, flung my dress on, ran down the stairs hearing shouting in the bedroom behind me in manner of American troops being massacred by Vietcong, teetered into the street and started waving frantically at taxis like call girl who has stumbled on a client who wanted to do a dump on her head.

  Maybe is true what Smug Marrieds say that only men left single are single because they have massive flaw. That is why everything is such a fucking, fucking, fucking . . . I mean not that being gay is itself a flaw, but definitely is if are girlfriend of one who pretended was not. Am going to be on own on Valentine’s Day for fourth year running, spend next Christmas in single bed in parents’ house. Again. Doom. Doooom!

  Wish could ring up Tom. Typical of him to go to San Francisco just when need advice from gay perspective, typical. He is always asking me to give him advice for hours on end about his crises with other homosexuals then when I need advice about a crisis with a homosexual, what does he do? He goes to BLOODY SAN FRANCISCO.

  Calm, calm. Realize is wrong to avoid responsibility for mood by blaming entire incident on Tom, especially in view of fact that incident has nothing to do with Tom. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance, totally complete within myself . . . Gaah! Telephone.

  “Bridget. It’s Mark. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. That was an awful thing to happen.”

  He sounded terrible.

  “Bridget?”

  “What?” I said, trying to stop my hands shaking so I could light a Silk Cut.

  “I know what it must have looked like. I got as much of a shock as you. I’ve never seen him before in my life.”

  “Well, who was he then?” I burst out.

  “It turns out he’s my housekeeper’s son. I didn’t even know she had a son. Apparently he’s schizophrenic.”

  There was shouting in the background.

  “I’m coming, I’m coming. Oh God. Look, I’m going to have to go sort this out. It sounds like he’s trying to strangle her. Can I call you later?”—more shouting—“Hang on, just . . . Bridget, I’ll call you in the morning.”

  Very confused. Wish could ring Jude or Shaz to find out if excuse is valid but is middle of night. Maybe will try to sleep.

  9 a.m. Gaah! Gaah! Telephone. Hurrah! No! Doom! Have just remembered what happened.

  9:30 a.m. Was not Mark but my mother.

  “D’you know, darling, I’m absolutely livid.”
<
br />   “Mum,” I interrupted resolutely. “Do you mind if I ring you back on the mobile?”

  It was all coming back to me in waves. I had to get her off the phone in case Mark was trying to call.

  “Mobile, darling? Don’t be silly—you haven’t had one of those since you were two. Do you remember? With little fishes on? Oh. Daddy wants a word but . . . Anyway, here he is.”

  I waited, looking frantically between the mobile and the clock.

  “Hello, my dear,” said Dad wearily. “She’s not going to Kenya.”

  “Great, well done,” I said, glad that at least one of us not in crisis. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. Her passport’s expired.”

  “Hah! Brilliant. Don’t tell her you can get new ones.”

  “Oh, she knows, she knows,” he said. “The thing is, if you have a new one, you have to have a new photo. So it’s not out of any respect for me, it’s purely a matter of flirting with customs officials.”

  Mum grabbed the phone. “It’s just completely ridiculous, darling. I had my photo taken and I look as old as the hills. Una said try it in a booth but it’s worse. I’m keeping the old passport and that’s an end of the matter. Anyway, how’s Mark?”

  “He’s fine,” I said, in a high, strangled voice, narrowly avoiding adding: he likes to sleep with oriental youths and fiddle with rabbits, isn’t that fun?

  “Well! Daddy and I thought you and Mark would like to come to lunch tomorrow. We haven’t seen you both together. I thought I’d just stick a lasagne in the oven with some beans.”

  “Can I ring you back later? I’m late for . . . yoga!” I said, inspired.

  Managed to get free of her after a freakishly short fifteen-minute wind-down during which it became increasingly clear that the entire might of the British Passport Office was not going to be much of a match for Mum and the old photo, then fumbled for another Silk Cut, desolate and confused. Housekeeper? I mean I know he does have a housekeeper but . . . And then all this stuff with Rebecca. And he votes Tory. Maybe will eat some cheese. Gaah! Telephone.