The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  Was my mother, tanned bright orange, with her hair in Bo Derek braids with beads on the ends and wearing a voluminous orange batik outfit like Winnie Mandela.

  “I know you’re going to think he’s a Masai but he’s a Kikuyu! A Kikuyu! Imagine!”

  I followed her gaze to where Una Alconbury, also orange and dressed in head-to-toe batik but wearing her reading glasses and carrying a green leather handbag with a big gold clasp, was standing at the counter in Sock Shop with her purse open. She was gazing up delightedly at an enormous black youth with a loop of flesh hanging from each ear with a film canister in one of them and dressed in a bright blue checked cloak.

  “Hakuna Matata. Don’t worry, be happy! Swahili. Isn’t it smashing? Una and I have had the most super time and Wellington’s come back to stay! Hello, Mark,” she said, perfunctorily acknowledging his presence. “Come along, darling, why don’t you say Jambo to Wellington!”

  “Shut up, Mother, shut up,” I hissed out of the corner of my mouth, looking from side to side nervously. “You can’t have an African tribesman to stay. It’s neocolonialist and Daddy’s only just got over Julio.”

  “Wellington is not,” said my mum, drawing herself up to her full height, “a tribesman. Well, at least he is, darling, a proper tribesman! I mean he lives in a dung hut! But he wanted to come! He wants to do worldwide travel just like Una and I!”

  Mark was a bit uncommunicative in taxi home. Bloody Mother. Wish I had a normal round mum like other people, with gray hair, who would just make lovely stews.

  Right, am going to call Dad.

  9 p.m. Dad has retreated into his worst suppressed Middle English emotional state and sounded completely plastered again.

  “How’s things?” I ventured when I eventually got an excitable Mum off the phone and him on.

  “Oh fine, fine, you know. Zulu warriors in the rockery. Primroses coming through. Everything fine with you?”

  Oh God. I don’t know if he can cope with all the craziness again. Have said to call me any time but is v. hard when he is being all stiff upper lip.

  TUESDAY 18 FEBRUARY

  132 lbs. (serious emergency now), cigarettes 13, masochistic fantasies about Mark being in love with Rebecca 42.

  7 p.m. In turmoil. Got back from another nightmare day at work in a rush (Shaz has inexplicably decided she is into football, so me and Jude are going round there to watch Germans beat Turks, Belgians, or similar) to two answerphone messages, neither from Dad.

  First was from Tom saying his friend Adam on the Independent says he wouldn’t mind giving me a go at interviewing someone as long as I find somebody really famous to interview and I don’t expect to be paid.

  I mean surely that is not what happens in newspapers? How does everybody pay for their mortgages and drink problems?

  Second was from Mark. Said he was out with Amnesty and the Indonesians tonight and could he ring me at Shazzer’s to see what happened in the match. Then there was a sort of pause and he said, “Oh and, er, Rebecca has invited us and all the ‘gang’ to her parents’ house in Gloucestershire for a house party next weekend. What do you think? I’ll call you later.”

  Know exactly what I think. Think I would rather sit in a little hole in Mum and Dad’s rockery making friends with all the worms all weekend than go to Rebecca’s house party and watch her flirting with Mark. I mean why didn’t she ring me up to invite us?

  It’s Mentionitis. It’s just complete Mentionitis. There’s no question about it. Telephone. Bet it’s Mark. What shall I say?

  “Bridget, pick up, put it down, put it down. PUT IT DOWN.”

  I picked up confusedly. “Magda?”

  “Oh Bridget! Hi! How was the skiing?”

  “It was great but . . .” Told her the whole story about Rebecca and New York and the house party. “I don’t know whether I should go or not.”

  “Of course you’ve got to go, Bridge,” said Magda. “If Mark wanted to go out with Rebecca he’d be going out with Rebecca, just say—get off, get off, Harry get off the back of that chair now or Mummy will smack. You’re two very different kinds of people.”

  “Hmmm. You see, I think Jude and Shazzer would argue—”

  Jeremy grabbed the phone. “Listen, Bridge, taking advice on dating from Jude and Shazzer is like taking advice from a diet consultant who weighs two hundred pounds.”

  “Jeremy!” bellowed Magda. “He’s just playing devil’s advocate, Bridge. Ignore him. Every woman has her aura. He’s chosen you. Just go along, be gorgeous, and keep an eye on her. Nooo! Not on the floor!”

  She’s right. Am going to be assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance and have a lovely time emanating aura. Hurrah! Will just call Dad then go to football.

  Midnight. Back in flat. Once out in freezing cold assured woman of substance evaporated into insecurity. Had to walk past workmen working under bright lights on gas main. Was wearing v. short coat and boots so braced myself to deal with lewd catcalls and embarrassing remarks then felt complete arse when none came.

  Reminded me of when was fifteen and walking along lonely backstreet into town and man started following me then grabbed my arm. Turned to look at attacker in alarm. At time was v. thin in tight jeans. Also, however, had winged spectacles and brace on teeth. Man took one look at my face and ran off.

  On arrival confided feelings re: workmen to Jude and Sharon. “That’s the whole point, Bridget,” Shazzer exploded. “These men are treating women as objects, as if our only function is physical attractiveness.”

  “But they weren’t,” said Jude.

  “That’s exactly why the whole thing is so objectionable. Now come on, we’re supposed to be watching the match.”

  “Mmm. They’ve got lovely big thighs, haven’t they?” said Jude.

  “Mmmm,” I agreed, distractedly wondering if Shaz would go mad if brought up Rebecca during the match.

  “I knew someone who slept with a Turk once,” said Jude. “And he had a penis that was so enormous he couldn’t sleep with anyone.”

  “What? I thought you said she slept with him,” said Shazzer, keeping one eye on the television.

  “She slept with him but she didn’t do it,” explained Jude.

  “Because she couldn’t because his thing was too big,” I said supportively of Jude’s anecdote. “What a terrible thing. Do you think it goes by nationality? I mean do you think the Turks . . . ?”

  “Look, shut up,” said Shazzer.

  For a while we all fell silent, imagining the many penises tucked neatly into shorts and thinking of all the games of many different nationalities in the past. Was just about to open my mouth, but then Jude, who seemed to have become rather fixated for some reason, piped up, “It must be very weird having a penis.”

  “Yes,” I agreed, “very weird to have an active appendage. If I had one I would think about it all the time.”

  “Well, yes, you’d worry about what it would do next,” said Jude.

  “Well, exactly,” I agreed. “You might suddenly get a gigantic erection in the middle of a football match.”

  “Oh for God’s sake!” yelled Sharon.

  “OK, keep your hair on,” said Jude. “Bridge? Are you all right? You seem a bit down about something.”

  I looked nervously at Shaz, then decided this was too important to let lie. I cleared my throat for attention and announced: “Rebecca rang Mark up and asked us on a minibreak this weekend.”

  “WHAT?” Jude and Shaz exploded simultaneously.

  Was really glad the seriousness of the situation was fully appreciated. Jude got up for the Milk Tray and Shaz fetched another bottle from the fridge.

  “The thing is,” Sharon was summing up, “we’ve known Rebecca for four years. Has she ever once in all that time invited you, me or Jude on one of her posh house party weekends?”


  “No.” I shook my head solemnly.

  “But the thing is,” said Jude, “if you don’t go then what if he goes on his own? You can’t let Rebecca get him in her clutches. And also it’s obviously important to someone in his position to have someone who’s a good social partner.”

  “Hgumph,” snorted Shazzer. “That’s just retrospective bollocks. If Bridget says she doesn’t want to go and he goes without her and he gets off with Rebecca then he’s a second-rate charlatan and not worth having. Social partner—pah. We’re not in the 1950s now. She’s not cleaning the house all day in a pointy bra, then entertaining his colleagues like some trophy Stepford wife. Tell him you know Rebecca’s after him and that’s why you don’t want to go.”

  “But then he’ll be flattered,” said Jude. “There’s nothing a man finds more attractive than a woman who is in love with him.”

  “Says who?” said Shaz.

  “The baroness in The Sound of Music,” said Jude sheepishly.

  Unfortunately, by the time we turned our attention back to it the game appeared to be over.

  Next thing Mark rang.

  “What happened?” he said excitedly.

  “Um . . .” I said, gesturing wildly at Jude and Shazzer, who looked completely blank.

  “You did watch it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, of course, football’s coming home, it’s coming . . .” I sang, vaguely remembering this was something to do with Germany.

  “So why don’t you know what happened then? I don’t believe you.”

  “We did. But we were . . .”

  “What?”

  “Talking,” I finished lamely.

  “Oh God.” There was a long silence. “Listen, do you want to go to Rebecca’s?”

  I looked from Jude to Shaz, frantically. One yes. One no. And a yes from Magda.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh great. It’ll be fun, I think. She said to bring a swimsuit.”

  A swimsuit! Doom. Dooooooooom.

  On way home, discovered same lot of workmen tumbling pissed out of pub. Put nose in air and decided did not care whether they whistled or not but just as walked past was huge cacophony of appreciative noises. Turned round, pleased to give them a filthy look only to find they were all looking the other way and one of them had just thrown a brick through the window of a Volkswagen.

  SATURDAY 22 FEBRUARY

  131 lbs. (horrifying), alcohol units 3 (best behavior), cigarettes 2 (huh), calories 10,000 (probably: suspected Rebecca sabotage), dogs up skirt 1 ( constantly).

  Gloucestershire. Turns out Rebecca’s parents’ “country cottage” has stable blocks, outbuildings, pool, full staff and its own church in the “garden.” As we scrunched across the gravel, Rebecca—snooker-ball-bottomed in jeans in manner of Ralph Lauren ad—was playing with a dog, sunlight dappling her hair, amongst an array of Saab and BMW convertibles.

  “Emma! Get down! Hiiiii!” she cried, at which dog broke free and put its nose straight up my coat.

  “Mwah, come and have a drink,” she said welcoming Mark as I wrestled with the dog’s head.

  Mark rescued me, shouting, “Emma! Here!” and chucking the stick, so the dog brought it back, tail wagging.

  “Oh, she adores you, don’t you, darling, don’t you, don’t you, don’t you?” Rebecca cooed, fussing the dog’s head like it was her and Mark’s firstborn baby.

  My mobile rang. Tried to ignore it.

  “I think that’s yours, Bridget,” said Mark.

  I took it out and pressed the button.

  “Oh, hello, darling, guess what?”

  “Mother, what are you ringing me on my mobile for?” I hissed, watching Rebecca leading Mark away.

  “We’re all going to Miss Saigon next Friday! Una and Geoffrey and Daddy and I and Wellington. He’s never been to a musical before. A Kikuyu at Miss Saigon. Isn’t that fun? And we’ve got tickets for you and Mark to join us!”

  Gaah! Musicals! Strange men standing with their legs apart bellowing songs straight ahead.

  By the time I got into house Mark and Rebecca had disappeared and was nobody around except the dog, which put its nose up my coat again.

  4 p.m. Just back from walk round “garden.” Rebecca kept installing me in conversations with men, then dragging Mark off miles ahead of everyone else. Ended up walking along with Rebecca’s nephew: sub–Leonardo DiCaprio look-alike, hunted-looking in an Oxfam overcoat, whom everyone referred to as “Johnny’s boy.”

  “I mean, like, I do have a name,” he muttered.

  “Oh don’t be absuuuuuuuuuurd!” I said, pretending to be Rebecca. “What is it?”

  He paused, looking embarrassed. “St. John.”

  “Oh.” I sympathized.

  He laughed and offered me a fag.

  “Better not,” I said, nodding in Mark’s direction.

  “Is he your boyfriend or your father?”

  He steered me off the path towards a minilake and lit me a cigarette.

  Was v. nice smoking and giggling naughtily. “We’d better go back,” I said, stubbing cigarette out under my welly.

  Others were miles ahead, so we had to run: young and wild and free, in manner of Calvin Klein adverts. When we caught up Mark put his arms round me. “What have you been doing?” he said into my hair. “Smoking like a naughty schoolgirl?”

  “I haven’t had a cigarette for five years!” tinkled Rebecca.

  7 p.m. Mmm. Mmm. Mark just got all horny before supper. Mmmmm.

  Midnight. Rebecca made a great fuss of putting me next to “Johnny’s boy” at dinner—“You two are getting on sooooooo well!!”—and herself next to Mark.

  They looked perfect together in their black tie. Black tie! As Jude said, was only because Rebecca wanted to show off her figure in Country Casuals gear and evening wear like Miss World entrant. Right on cue she went, “Shall we change into our swimwear now?” and tripped off to change, reappearing minutes later in an immaculately cut black swimsuit, legs up to the chandelier.

  “Mark,” she said, “would you give me a hand? I need to take the cover off the pool.”

  Mark looked from her to me worriedly.

  “Of course. Yes,” he said awkwardly and disappeared after her.

  “Are you going to swim?” said the whippersnapper.

  “Well,” I began, “I wouldn’t want you to think I’m not a determined and keenly motivated sportswoman, but eleven o’clock at night after a five-course dinner is not my most swimmy time.”

  We chatted for a while, then I noticed the last of our fellow diners were leaving the room.

  “Shall we go and have coffee?” I said, getting up.

  “Bridget.” Suddenly, he lurched drunkenly forward, and started trying to kiss me. The door burst open. Was Rebecca and Mark.

  “Oops! Sorry!” said Rebecca, and shut the door.

  “What do you think you’re doing!” I hissed, horrified, at the whippersnapper.

  “But . . . Rebecca said you told her you really fancied me, and, and . . .”

  “And what?”

  “She said you and Mark were in the process of splitting up.”

  I grabbed the table for support. “Who told her that?”

  “She said”—he looked so mortified I felt really sorry for him—“she said Mark did.”

  SUNDAY 23 FEBRUARY

  172 lbs. (probably), alcohol units 3 (since midnight and is only 7 a.m.), cigarettes 100,000 (feels like), calories 3,275, positive thoughts 0, boyfriends: extremely uncertain figure.

  When I got back to room, Mark was in the bath so I sat in nightie, planning my defense.

  “It was not what you think,” I said with tremendous originality, as he emerged.

  “No?” he said, whisky in hand
. He started striding around in his barrister mode, clad only in a towel. Was unnerving, but unbelievably sexy. “Had you a marble stuck in your throat, perhaps?” he said. “Was ‘Sinjun’ being, rather than the trust-funded teenage layabout he appears, actually a top ear, nose and throat surgeon attempting to extract it with his tongue?”

  “No,” I said, carefully and thoughtfully. “That is not what it was either.”

  “Then were you hyperventilating? Was ‘Sinjun’—having garnered the rudiments of first aid into his marijuana-addled brain, perhaps from a poster on the wall of the many drug rehab units he has visited in his short and otherwise uneventful life—trying to administer the kiss of life? Or did he simply mistake you for a choice morsel of ‘skunk’ and find himself unable to . . .”

  I started to laugh. Then he started laughing too, then we started kissing and one thing led to another and afterwards we fell asleep in each other’s arms.

  In the morning, woke up all rosy thinking everything was OK but then looked around and saw him already dressed, and knew was not anywhere near OK.

  “I can explain,” I said, dramatically sitting bolt upright. For a moment we looked at each other and started laughing. But then he turned serious.

  “Go on, then.”

  “It was Rebecca,” I said. “St. John told me Rebecca told him that I told her I fancied him and . . .”

  “And you believed this bewildering catalogue of Chinese whispers?”

  “And that you told her we were—”

  “Yes?”

  “Splitting up,” I said.

  Mark sat down and started rubbing his fingers very slowly across his forehead.

  “Did you?” I whispered. “Did you say that to Rebecca?”

  “No,” he said eventually. “I didn’t say that to Rebecca, but . . .”

  I daren’t look at him.

  “But maybe we . . .” he began.

  The room started to go blotchy. Hate this about dating. One minute you’re closer to someone than anyone in the whole world, next minute they only need to say the words “time apart,” “serious talk” or “maybe you . . .” and you’re never going to see them again and will have to spend the next six months having imaginary conversations in which they beg to come back, and bursting into tears at the sight of their toothbrush.