The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  Have got to, got to find another job. Ooh goody, telephone.

  Was Tom. Hurrah! He is back!

  “Bridget! You’ve lost so much weight!”

  “Have I?” I said delighted, before remembering observation was being made down telephonic line.

  Tom then went into great long enthuse about his trip to San Francisco.

  “The boy on customs was completely divine. He said, ‘Anything to declare?’ I said, ‘Only this outrageous tan!’ Anyway, he gave me his number and I shagged him in a bathhouse!”

  Felt familiar flash of envy at ease of gay sex, where people seem to shag each other immediately just because they both feel like it and nobody worries about having three dates first or how long to leave it before phoning afterwards.

  After forty-five minutes outlining increasingly outrageous escapades he went, “Anyway, you know how I hate talking about me. How are you? How’s that Mark guy, with his firm little buttocks?”

  Told him Mark was in New York but decided to leave Rabbitboy till later for fear of overarousing him. Chose instead to bore on about work.

  “I’ve got to find another job, it’s really undermining my sense of personal dignity and self-esteem. I need something that will allow me to make serious use of my talents and abilities.”

  “Hmmm. I see what you mean. Have you thought about soliciting?”

  “Oh very funny.”

  “Why don’t you do some journalism on the side? Do some interviews in your spare time?”

  Was really brilliant idea. Tom said he was going to talk to his friend Adam on the Independent about giving me an interview or a review to do or something!

  Am going to be top-flight journalist and gradually build up more and more work and extra money so can give up job and merely sit on sofa with laptop on knee. Hurrah!

  WEDNESDAY 5 FEBRUARY

  Just called Dad to see how he was and if he would like to do something nice on Valentine’s Day.

  “Oh you are good, m’dear. But your mother said I need to expand my consciousness.”

  “So?”

  “I’m going up to Scarborough to play golf with Geoffrey.”

  Goody. Glad he’s feeling OK.

  THURSDAY 13 FEBRUARY

  129 lbs., alcohol units 4, cigarettes 19, gym visits 0, early Valentines 0, mentions of Valentine’s Day by boyfriend 0, point of Valentine’s Day if boyfriend does not even mention it 0.

  V. fed up. Is Valentine’s Day tomorrow and Mark has not even mentioned it. Do not understand why he has to stay in New York all weekend anyway. Surely the legal offices are closed.

  Goals achieved in Mark’s absence:

  No. of gym visits 0.

  Evenings spent with Jude and Shazzer 6 (and another one tomorrow night, looks like).

  Minutes spent with Dad 0. Minutes spent talking to Dad about his feelings 0. Minutes spent talking to Dad about golf with Geoffrey bellowing in the background 287.

  Journalistic articles written 0.

  Pounds lost 0.

  Pounds gained 2.

  Have sent Mark Valentine anyway. Chocolate heart. Sent it to hotel before he went saying “not to open till Feb 14th.” Think he will know it is from me.

  FRIDAY 14 FEBRUARY

  130 lbs., gym visits 0, Valentines 0, flowers, trinkets, Valentine’s gifts 0, point of Valentine’s Day 0, difference between Valentine’s Day and any other day 0, point of living: uncertain, possibility of overreaction to disaster of Non-Valentine’s Day: slight.

  8 a.m. Really beyond caring about things like Valentine’s Day. Is just so not important in general scheme of things.

  8:20 a.m. Will just go downstairs and see if post has come.

  8:22 a.m. Post has not come.

  8:27 a.m. Post has still not come.

  8:30 a.m. Post has come! Hurrah!

  8:35 a.m. Was bank statement. Nothing from Mark, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. Nothing.

  8:40 a.m. Cannot believe am spending Valentine’s Day alone again. Worst was two years ago when went to Gambia with Jude and Shaz and had to go one day early because of flights. When went down to dinner was all hearts in trees. Every single table contained couple holding hands and had to sit there on own reading Learning to Love Yourself.

  Feel v. sad. He can’t have not known. He just doesn’t care. It must mean I am a Just For Now Girl because, as it says in Mars and Venus on a Date, I think if a man is seriously interested in you he always buys you presents like lingerie and jewels and not books or vacuums. Maybe is his way of saying it is all over and is going to tell me when he gets back.

  8:43 a.m. Maybe Jude and Shaz were right and should have just got out when warning signs came. You see with Daniel last year if first time he stood me up on our first date with a pathetic excuse I had got out and detached, instead of going into Denial, would never have ended up finding a naked woman on a sun lounger on his roof terrace. Actually come to think of it, Daniel is anagram of Denial!

  Is a pattern. Keep on finding naked people in boyfriends’ houses. Am repeating patterns.

  8:45 a.m. Oh my God. Am £200 overdrawn. How? How? How?

  8:50 a.m. You see. Something good comes out of everything. Have found weird check on statement for £149, which do not recognize. Convinced it is check that wrote out to dry cleaner’s for £14.90 or similar.

  9 a.m. Rang up bank to see who it was to, and it was a “Monsieur S. F. S.” Dry cleaners are fraudsters. Will ring Jude, Shazzer, Rebecca, Tom and Simon telling them not to go to Duraclean anymore.

  9:30 a.m. Hah. Just went into Duraclean to check out “Monsieur S. F. S.” under guise of taking little black silk nightie in to be cleaned. Could not help remarking that staff of dry cleaner’s seemed to be not so much French but Indian. Maybe Indo-French, though.

  “Could you tell me your name, please?” I said to the man as I handed in my nightie.

  “Salwani,” he said, smiling suspiciously nicely.

  S. Hah!

  “And your name?” he asked.

  “Bridget.”

  “Bridget. You write your address here, please, Bridget.”

  You see that was very suspicious. Decided to put Mark Darcy’s address as he has staff and burglar alarms.

  “Do you know a Monsieur S. F. S.?” I said, at which the man became almost playful.

  “No, but I think I am knowing you from somewhere,” he said.

  “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on,” I said, then shot out of the shop. You see. Am taking things into own hands.

  10 p.m. Cannot believe what has happened. At half past eleven, youth came into office bearing enormous bunch of red roses and brought them to my desk. Me! You should have seen the faces of Patchouli and Horrible Harold. Even Richard Finch was stunned into silence, only managing a pathetic “Sent them to ourself, did we?”

  Opened the card and this is what it said:

  Happy Valentine’s Day to the light of my dreary old life. Be at Heathrow, Terminal 1, at 8:30 a.m. tomorrow to pick up ticket from British Airways desk (ref: P23/R55) for magical mystery minibreak. Return Monday a.m. in time for work. Will meet you at the other end.

  (Try to borrow a ski suit and some sensible shoes.)

  Cannot believe it. Just cannot believe it. Mark is taking me on Valentine ski surprise. Is a miracle. Hurrah! Will be v. romantic in Christmas-card village amongst twinkling lights etc. sashaying down slopes hand in hand like Snow King and Queen.

  Feel awful for getting into negative thought bog obsession, but was sort of thing that could happen to anyone. Definitely.

  Just called Jude, has lent me ski outfit: black all-in-one in manner of Michelle Pfeiffer as Catwoman or similar. Only slight problem have only been
skiing once when at school and sprained ankle on first day. Never mind. Sure it will be easy.

  SATURDAY 15 FEBRUARY

  168 lbs. (feels like—giant inflatable ball full of fondue, hot dogs, hot chocolate etc.), grappas 5, cigarettes 32, hot chocolates 6, calories 8,257, feet 3, near-death experiences 8.

  1 p.m. Edge of precipice. Cannot believe situation am in. When got to top of mountain felt paralyzed by fear so encouraged Mark Darcy to go ahead, while I put skis on watching him going “whoosh, fzzzzzz, fzzzz” down slope in manner of exocet missile, banned killer firework. Whilst v. much grateful for being brought skiing, could not believe nightmare of getting up on to hill in first place, baffled by what was point of clunking through giant concrete edifices full of grilles and chains like something out of concentration camp, with half-bent knees and equivalent of plaster casts on each foot, carrying unwieldy skis, which kept separating, being shoved through automated turnstile in manner of sheep heading for sheep dip when could have been all cozy in bed. Worst of it is hair has gone mad in altitude, forming itself into weird peaks and horns like bag of Cadbury’s Misshapes, and Catwoman suit is designed exclusively for long thin people like Jude with result that look like pantomime aunt. Also three-year-olds keep whizzing by without using any poles, standing on one leg performing somersaults etc.

  Skiing really is v. dangerous sport, am not imagining it. People get paralyzed, buried by avalanches etc., etc. Shazzer told me about when friend of hers had gone on very scary off-piste skiing mission and lost nerve so pisteurs had to come and take him down on a stretcher then let go of the stretcher.

  2:30 p.m. Mountain café. Mark came whizzing up “whooosh fzzzzzzz” and asked me if I was ready to come down now.

  Explained in whisper, had made mistake by coming on slope as skiing actually is v. dangerous sport—so much so that holiday insurance won’t even insure it. Is one thing having accident that you could not foresee; quite another willingly putting yourself in an extremely dangerous situation, knowingly dicing with death or maiming, like doing bungee jumping, climbing Everest, letting people shoot apples off head etc.

  Mark listened quietly and thoughtfully. “I take your point, Bridget,” he said. “But this is the nursery slope. It’s practically horizontal.”

  Told Mark I wanted to go back down on the lift thing but he said it was a button lift and you can’t go downhill on a button. Forty-five minutes later Mark had got me downslope by pushing me along a bit then running round to catch me. When got to bottom thought fit to broach question of perhaps popping down cable car back to village again in order to have a little rest and a cappuccino.

  “The thing is, Bridget,” he said, “skiing is like everything else in life. It’s just a question of confidence. Come on. I think you need a grappa.”

  2:45 p.m. Mmm. Love the delicious grappa.

  3 p.m. Grappa is really v.g. top beverage. Mark is right. Am probably marvelous natural at skiing. Only thing need to get blurry confidence up.

  3:15 p.m. Top of nursery slope. Oh gor! This blurry easy-peasy. Off go. Wheeeee!

  4 p.m. Am marvelous, am fantastic skier. Just came downslope perfect with Mark: “whoosh fzzzzzz,” whole body swaying, moving in perfect harmony as if instinctive. Wild elation! Have discovered whole new lease on life. Am sportswoman in manner of Princess Anne! Filled with new vigor and positive thought! Confidence! Hurrah! New confident life ahead! Grappa! Hurrah!

  5 p.m. Went for rest to mountain café and Mark was suddenly greeted by a whole bunch of lawyery-banker-type people amongst whom tall, thin, blond girl standing with back to me in white ski suit, fluffy earmuffs and Versace shades. She was hooting with laughter. As if in slow motion, she flicked her hair back off her face, and as it swooshed forward in a soft curtain, I began to realize I recognized her laugh, then watched her turn her face towards us. It was Rebecca.

  “Bridget!” she said, clinking over and kissing me. “Gorgeous girl! How fantastic to see you! What a coincidence!”

  I looked at Mark, who was all perplexed, running his hand through his hair.

  “Um, it’s not really a coincidence, is it?” he said awkwardly. “You did suggest that I bring Bridget here. I mean, delightful to see you all of course, but I’d no idea you were all going to be here too.”

  One thing that is really good about Mark is that I do always believe him, but when did she suggest it? When?

  Rebecca looked flustered for a moment, then smiled winningly. “I know, it just reminded me how gorgeous it is in Courcheval, and all the others were coming so . . . Oooh!” Conveniently, she “wobbled over” and had to be “caught” by one of the waiting admirers.

  “Hmmm,” said Mark. He didn’t look very happy at all. I stood head down trying to work out what was going on.

  Eventually could stand the strain of trying to be normal no longer, so whispered to Mark that was just going to have another little go on the nursery slope. Got self in queue for button lift much more easily than usual, just so grateful to be away from weird scenario. Missed first couple of buttons through inaccurate grabbing but managed to get next one.

  Trouble was once set off, nothing seemed to be quite right, all bumpy and nonsmooth almost as if was scampering. Suddenly was aware of child waving at me from sidelines and yelling something in French. Looked across in horror to café balcony to see all Mark’s friends shouting and waving as well. What going on? Next thing saw Mark running towards me frantically from direction of café. “Bridget,” he yelled as he got within earshot, “you’ve forgotten to put your skis on.”

  “Bloody fool,” roared Nigel as we returned to the café. “Stupidest thing I’ve seen for years.”

  “Do you want me to stay with her?” said Rebecca to Mark, all wide-eyed concern—as if I were a troublesome toddler. “Then you can have a good ski before dinner.”

  “No, no, we’re fine,” he said, but I could see from his face he wanted to go off and have a ski, and I really wanted him to because he loves skiing. But simply could not face the thought of a skiing lesson from bloody Rebecca.

  “Actually, I think I need a rest,” I said. “I’ll just have a hot chocolate and recover my composure.”

  Drinking chocolate in the café was fantastic, like drinking huge cup of chocolate sauce, which was good because distracted me from sight of Mark and Rebecca traveling up on the chair lift together. Could see her being all gay and tinkly touching his arm.

  Eventually they reappeared whizzing down like the Snow King and Queen—him in black and her in white—looking like a couple out of an upmarket chalet brochure in the picture that implies that—as well as eight black runs, four hundred lifts and half board—you can have great sex like these two are just about to have.

  “Oh, it’s so exhilarating,” said Rebecca, putting her goggles on her head and laughing into Mark’s face. “Listen, do you both want to have supper with us tonight? We’re going to have a fondue up the mountain, then a torchlight ski down—oh sorry, Bridget, but you could come down in the cable car.”

  “No,” Mark said abruptly. “I missed Valentine’s Day so I’m taking Bridget for a Valentine’s dinner.”

  The good thing about Rebecca is there is always a split second when she gives herself away by looking really pissed off.

  “Okey-dokey, whatever, have a fun time,” she said, flashed the toothpaste advert smile, then put her goggles on and skied off with a flourish towards the town.

  “When did you see her?” I said. “When did she suggest Courcheval?”

  He frowned. “She was in New York.”

  I reeled, dropping one of my ski poles. Mark burst out laughing, picked it up and gave me a big hug.

  “Don’t look like that,” he said against my cheek. “She was there with a crowd, I had one ten-minute conversation with her. I said I wanted to do something nice to make up for missing Vale
ntine’s Day and she suggested here.”

  A small indeterminate noise came out of me.

  “Bridget,” he said, “I love you.”

  SUNDAY 16 FEBRUARY

  Weight: do not care (actually, no scales), number of times replayed sublime L-word moment in head: exorbitant black-hole-type number.

  Am just so happy. Do not feel angry about Rebecca but generous and accepting. She is a perfectly pleasant, posey stick insect/cow. Me and Mark had lovely v. good fun dinner with lots of laughing and said how much we had missed each other. Gave him a present, which was a little key chain with Newcastle United on it, and Newcastle United boxer shorts, which he really, really liked. He gave me a Valentine gift of a red silk nightie, which was a bit on the small side but he didn’t seem to mind, rather the opposite if perfectly honest about it. Also afterwards he told me about all the work things that had happened in New York and I gave him my opinions about it all, which he said were very reassuring and “unique”!

  P.S. No one must read this bit as is shameful. Was so excited about him saying the L-word so early on in the relationship that accidentally rang up Jude and Shaz and left messages telling them. But realize now this was shallow and wrong.

  MONDAY 17 FEBRUARY

  132 lbs. (gaah! Gaah! Bloody hot chocolate), alcohol units 4 (but including airplane flight so v.g.), cigarettes 12, embarrassing neocolonialist acts committed by mother 1 extremely large one.

  Minibreak was fantastic, apart from Rebecca, but had a bit of a shock at Heathrow this morning. Were just standing in the arrivals hall looking for the taxi sign when voice said: “Darling! You shouldn’t have come to meet me, you silly billy. Geoffrey and Daddy are waiting for us outside. We’ve just come to get Daddy a present. Come and meet Wellington!”