1:30 p.m. Right. Will just post letters and get Body Shop necessities, then go through.
1:31 p.m. Was announcement: “Will Passenger Jones, the last remaining passenger for flight BA one-seventy-five to Rome, please make her way immediately to Gate Twelve where the plane is waiting to depart.”
TUESDAY 22 APRIL
128 lbs., alcohol units 2, cigarettes 22, calls from bossy Michael at Independent to “see how we’re getting along”: about 30, no. of times listened to tape of interview 17, words of interview written 0.
9 a.m. Back in flat in London after heaven-sent trip. Right, am going to write up interview. You see is amazing way that concentrating on work and career completely takes mind off romantic sadness. Was just so fantastic. Taxi dropped me off in Roman square and thought was going to faint: just fantastic—golden sunshine and huge massive square full of high-up ruins and in the middle of it all Mr. . . . Ooh, telephone.
It was Michael from the Independent.
“So did you do it, then?”
“Yes,” I said hoity-toitily.
“And you remembered to take your tape recorder, not your Sony Walkman?”
Honestly. Do not know what Tom has told him about me but something in his tone suggests may not have been particularly respectful.
“Well, you’ve got till four o’clock. So get on with it.”
Lala. That is ages. Will just relive day for a bit. Mmm. He looked exactly like Mr. Darcy: all smoldery and lean. And he even took me round a church with a hole in and some Adrian’s tomb or other and a statue of Moses and was incredibly masterful preventing me from being knocked over by cars and kept talking Italian. Mmm.
Noon. Morning has not gone particularly well, though obviously needed some time to absorb what happened, and discuss impressions with peers so probably has been highly productive.
2 p.m. Telephone again. You see this is what it is like when you are major profile writer: phones ringing incessantly.
Was bloody bossy Michael again: “How are we coming along?”
Bloody nerve. Is not even my deadline till 4 p.m., which obviously means the end of the day. Actually really pleased with tape. Did really good thing of starting him off with easy questions before going into Tom’s meaty questions, which I had written down night before despite being a little on squiffy side. Think he was really quite impressed with my line of questioning, actually.
2:30 p.m. Will just have quick cup of coffee and fag.
3 p.m. Better just listen to tape again.
Dingdong! Will just ring Shaz and play her this last bit.
Aargh, aargh. Is 3:30 and have not started. Anyway, no need to panic. They are not going to be back from lunch for ages and then will be drunk as, as . . . as journalists. Wait till they see my scoops.
How to start? Obviously interview must include my impressions of Mr. Darcy as well as skillfully weaving in stuff about new film Fever Pitch, theater, film, etc. They will probably give me a regular interview spot every week: the Bridget Jones Profile. Jones meets Darcy. Jones meets Blair. Jones meets Marcos except dead.
4 p.m. How can I be expected to create if bloody Michael keeps ringing up all the time saying what I must and must not put in? Grrr. If that is him again . . . They have no respect for journalists in that office. None whatsoever.
5:15 p.m. Harhar. “I. Am. Do. Ing. It,” I said. That has shut him up.
6 p.m. Anyway is OK. All top journalists have deadline crises.
7 p.m. Oh fuck, oh fuck. Oh fuck, oh fuck.
WEDNESDAY 23 APRIL
129 lbs. (really seem to be stuck in some kind of fat groove), congratulatory calls from friends, relatives and colleagues about Colin Firth interview 0, congratulatory calls from Independent staff about Colin Firth interview 0, congratulatory calls from Colin Firth about Colin Firth interview 0 (odd, surely?).
8 a.m. Article is coming out today. Was a bit rushed but probably not that bad. Might be quite good actually. Wish paper would hurry up and come.
8:10 a.m. Paper has still not come.
8:20 a.m. Hurrah! Paper is here.
Have just seen interview. Independent have completely ignored what wrote. Realize was bit on late side but this is intolerable. Here is what was published:
Due to insuperable technical difficulties it has been necessary to print Bridget Jones’s interview with Colin Firth as a direct transcript of the recording.
BJ: Right. I’m going to start the interview now.
CF: (Slightly hysterical sounding) Good, good.
(Very long pause)
BJ: What is your favorite color?
CF: I’m sorry?
BJ: What is your favorite color?
CF: Blue.
(Long pause)
BJ: What is your favorite pudding?
CF: Er. Crème brûlée.
BJ: You know the oncoming film Fever Pitch by Nick Hornby?
CF: I do know it, yes.
BJ: (Pause. Rustling paper) Do. . . Oh.(More rustling paper) Do you think the book of Fever Pitch has spored a confessional gender?
CF: Excuse me?
BJ: Has. Spored. A. Confessional. Gender.
CF: Spored a confessional gender?
BJ: Yes.
CF: Well. Certainly Nick Hornby’s style has been very much imitated and I think it’s a very appealing, er, gender whether or not he actually, um . . . spored it.
BJ: You know in the BBC Pride and Prejudice?
CF: I do know it, yes.
BJ: When you had to dive into the lake?
CF: Yes.
BJ: When they had to do another take, did you have to take the wet shirt off and then put a dry one on?
CF: Yes, I, I probably did have to, yes. Scusi. Ha vinto. É troppo forte. Sì, grazie.
BJ: (Breathing unsteadily) How many takes diving into the lake did you have to do?
CF: (Coughs) Well. The underwater shots were a tank in Ealing Studios.
BJ: Oh no.
CF: I’m afraid so. The, um, moment of being airborne— extremely brief—was a stuntman.
BJ: But it looked like Mr. Darcy.
CF: That was because he had stuck-on sideburns and a Mr. Darcy outfit on top of a wet suit, which actually made him look like Elvis as you last saw him. He could only do it once for insurance reasons and then he had to be checked for abrasions for about six weeks afterwards. All the other wet-shirt shots were me.
BJ: And did the shirt have to keep being rewet?
CF: Yes. They’d spray it down. They’d spray it down and then—
BJ: What with?
CF: I’m sorry?
BJ: What with?
CF: A squirter thing. Look can we . . . ?
BJ: Yes, but what I mean is did you ever have to take the shirt off and . . . and put another one on?
CF: Yes.
BJ: To be wet again?
CF: Yes.
BJ: (Pause) You know the oncoming film Fever Pitch?
CF: Yes.
BJ: What do you see as the main differences and similarities between the character Paul from Fever Pitch and . . . ?
CF: And?
BJ: (Sheepishly) Mr. Darcy.
CF: No one’s ever asked me that.
BJ: Haven’t they?
CF: No. I think the main differences are—
BJ: Do you mean it’s a really obvious question?
CF: No. I mean no one’s ever asked me that.
BJ: Don’t people ask you that all the time?
CF: No, no. I can assure you.
BJ: So it’s a—
CF: It’s a totally brand-new, newborn question, yes.
BJ: Oh goody.
CF: Shall we get on now?
BJ: Yes.
CF: Mr. Darcy’s not an Arsenal supporter.
BJ: No.
CF: He’s not a schoolteacher.
BJ: No.
CF: He lived nearly two hundred years ago.
BJ: Yes.
CF: Paul in Fever Pitch loves being in a football crowd.
BJ: Yes.
CF: Whereas Mr. Darcy can’t even tolerate a country dance. Now. Can we talk about something that isn’t to do with Mr. Darcy?
BJ: Yes.
(Pause. Rustling papers)
BJ: Are you still going out with your girlfriend?
CF: Yes.
BJ: Oh.
(Long pause)
CF: Is everything all right?
BJ: (Almost inaudible) Do you think small British movies are the way forward?
CF: I can’t hear.
BJ: (Miserably) Do you think small British movies are the way forward?
CF: The way forward to . . . (Encouragingly) . . . to what?
BJ: (Very long thoughtful pause) The future.
CF: Right. They seem to be getting us along step by step, I think. I quite like small movies but I do also like big movies and it would be nice if we made more of those as well.
BJ: But don’t you find it a problem her being Italian and everything?
CF: No.
(Very long silence)
BJ: (Sulkily) Do you think that Mr. Darcy has a political dimension?
CF: I did speculate on what his politics might be, if he had any. And I don’t think that they would be very appealing to a reader of the Independent. It’s that pre-Victorian or Victorian idea of being the rich social benefactor, which would be very Thatcherite probably. I mean the thought of socialism obviously hadn’t entered the . . .
BJ: No.
CF: . . . entered his sphere. And it is clearly stated by way of showing what a good chap he is that he is very nice towards his tenants. But I think that he’d be closer to a sort of Nietzschean figure, a—
BJ: What is neacher?
CF: You know, the idea of the, er, human being as superman.
BJ: Superman?
CF: Not Superman himself, no. No. (Slight groaning noise) I don’t think he wore his underpants over his breeches, no. Look, I’d really like to get off this subject now.
BJ: What will be your next project?
CF: It’s called The World of Moss.
BJ: Is it a nature program?
CF: No. No, no. No. It’s um, it’s, er, about an eccentric family in the thirties, the father of which owns a moss factory.
BJ: Doesn’t moss grow naturally?
CF: Well, no, he makes something called sphagnum moss, which was used to dress World War One wounds and, er, it’s, er, quite a light, er, comic . . .
BJ: (Very unconvincingly) It sounds very good.
CF: I very much hope it will be.
BJ: Could I just check something about the shirt?
CF: Yes.
BJ: How many times altogether exactly did you have to take it off and put it on again?
CF: Precisely . . . I don’t know. Um. Let me see . . . there was the bit where I was walking towards Pemberley. That was shot once. One take. Then there was the bit where I give my horse to somebody . . . I think there was a change.
BJ: (Brightening) There was a change?
CF: (Strictly) There was. One change.
BJ: So it was mainly just the one wet shirt, though?
CF: The one wet shirt, which they kept respraying, yes. All right?
BJ: Yes. What is your favorite color?
CF: We’ve had that.
BJ: Um. (Paper rustling) Do you think the film Fever Pitch was in reality all about emotional fuckwittage?
CF: Emotional what?
BJ: Fuckwittage. You know: men being mad alcoholic commitment phobics and just being interested in football all the time.
CF: No, I don’t really. I think in some ways Paul is much more at ease with his emotions and has much more liberty with them than his girlfriend. I think that, in fact, in the final analysis, is what’s so appealing about what Nick Hornby’s trying to say on his behalf: that, in a rather mundane, everyday world he has found something where you have access to emotional experiences that—
BJ: Excuse me.
CF: (Sighs) Yes?
BJ: Don’t you find the language barrier a problem with your girlfriend?
CF: Well, she speaks very good English.
BJ: But don’t you think you’d be better off with someone who was English and more your own age?
CF: We seem to be doing all right.
BJ: Humph. (Darkly) So far. Do you ever prefer doing the theater?
CF: Um. I don’t subscribe to the view that the theater’s where the real acting is, that film’s not really acting. But I find I do prefer the theater when I’m doing it, yes.
BJ: But don’t you think the theater’s a bit unrealistic and embarrassing and also you have to sit through the acting for hours before you have anything to eat and you can’t talk or—
CF: Unrealistic? Embarrassing and unrealistic?
BJ: Yes.
CF: Do you mean unrealistic in the sense that it . . . ?
BJ: You can tell it isn’t real.
CF: That sort of unrealistic, yes. (Slight moaning sound) Um. I think it shouldn’t be if it’s good. It’s much more . . . It feels more artificial to make a film.
BJ: Does it? I suppose it doesn’t go all the way through, does it?
CF: Well, no. It doesn’t. No. Yes. A film doesn’t go all the way through. It’s shot in little bits and pieces. (Louder groaning noise) Little bits and pieces.
BJ: I see. Do you think Mr. Darcy would have slept with Elizabeth Bennet before the wedding?
CF: Yes, I do think he might have.
BJ: Do you?
CF: Yes. I think it’s entirely possible. Yes.
BJ: (Breathlessly) Really?
CF: I think it’s possible, yes.
BJ: How would it be possible?
CF: Don’t know if Jane Austen would agree with me on this but—
BJ: We can’t know because she’s dead.
CF: No, we can’t . . . but I think Andrew Davies’s Mr. Darcy would have done.
BJ: Why do you think that, though. Why? Why?
CF: Because I think it was very important to Andrew Davies that Mr. Darcy had the most enormous sex drive.
BJ: (Gasps)
CF: And, um . . .
BJ: I think that came across really, really well with the acting. I really think it did.
CF: Thank you. At one point Andrew even wrote as a stage direction: “Imagine that Darcy has an erection.”
(V. large crashing noise)
BJ: Which bit was that?
CF: It’s when Elizabeth’s been walking across the country and bumps into him in the grounds in the early stages.
BJ: The bit where she’s all muddy?
CF: And disheveled.
BJ: And sweaty?
CF: Exactly.
BJ: Was that a difficult bit to act?
CF: You mean the erection?
BJ: (Awed whisper) Yes.
CF: Um, well, Andrew also wrote that I don’t propose that we should focus on it, and therefore no acting required in that department at least.
BJ: Mmm.
(Long pause)
CF: Yes.
(More pause)
BJ: Mmm.
CF: Is that it, then?
BJ: No. What was it like with your friends when you started being Mr. Darcy?
CF: There were a lot of jokes about it: growling, “Mr. Darcy” over breakfast and so on. There was a brief period when they had to work quite hard to hide their knowledge of who I really was and—
BJ: Hide it from who?
CF: Well, from anyone who suspected that perhaps I was like Mr. Darcy.
BJ: But do you think you’re not like Mr. Darcy?
CF: I do think I’m not like Mr. Darcy, yes.
BJ: I think you’re exactly like Mr. Darcy.
CF: In what way?
BJ: You talk the same way as him.
CF: Oh, do I?
BJ: You look exactly like him, and I, oh, oh . . .
(Protracted crashing noises followed by sounds of struggle)
* * *
7
/> Mood-Swinging Singletons
FRIDAY 25 APRIL
126 lbs. (yesss! yesss!), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 4, spiritual realizations as joint result of Road Less Traveled and alcohol units 4, flats without holes in 0, no. of pounds in bank 0, boyfriends 0, people to go out with tonight 0, election parties invited to 0.
5:30 p.m. Office. Challenging two days at work with Richard Finch reading out bits of the interview then bellowing with deep, gurgling laughter in manner of Dracula, but at least has got me out of myself. Also Jude said the interview was quite good and really gave an excellent sense of the atmosphere of the whole thing. Hurrah! Have not heard anything back from Adam or Michael at Independent but sure they will ring soon and maybe ask me to do another one, then can be freelance in home office, typing on roof terrace with herbs in terra-cotta pots! Also is only one week to election when everything is going to change! Will stop smoking, and Mark will come back and find new professional me with large indoor/outdoor living flat.
5:45 p.m. Humph. Just rang in for messages. One only, from Tom saying he had spoken to Adam and everyone at the Independent is really annoyed. Left him urgent message to call me back and explain.
5:50 p.m. Oh dear. Worried about arranging second mortgage now. Will not have any extra money and what if lose job? Maybe had better tell Gary do not want the infill extension and get the £3,500 back. Lucky thing is, Gary was supposed to start yesterday but he just came and left all his tools then went away again. Seemed annoying at the time, but maybe, as it turns out, was message from God. Yes. Will call him when get home then go to gym.
6:30 p.m. Back home. Gaaah! Gaaah! Gaaah! Is bloody great hole in side of flat! Is left open to outside world in manner of gaping precipice and all the houses at the other side can see in. Is entire weekend stretching ahead with giant hole in wall, all bricks everywhere and nothing to do! Nothing! Nothing!
6:45 p.m. Ooh, telephone—maybe someone inviting me to an election party! Or Mark!
“Oh, hello, darling, guess what?” My mother. Obviously I had to get a cigarette.
“Oh, hello, darling, guess what?” she said again. Sometimes I wonder how long she would carry on like this, in manner of a parrot. It is one thing to say “Hello? Hello?” if there is silence on the other end, but “Oh, hello, darling, guess what? Oh, hello, darling, guess what?” is surely not normal.
The Edge of Reason Page 13