The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  “It means: Good Sense of Humor, Would Like to Meet,” said Jude, suspiciously suggesting she might have done this before.

  “I suppose you’d have to have a sense of humor to be too mean to fork out enough to say so in genuine words,” sniggered Sharon.

  Talking Hearts turned out to be v. entertaining. You can actually ring up and hear the people advertising themselves like contestants on Blind Date.

  “Right. My name’s Barret and if you’ll be my sugar and spice, I’ll give you champers on ice.”

  Is not very cool to start message saying “Right” thereby giving impression of huge buildup to scary message-leaving, even though obviously is scary.

  “My work is thoughtful, fulfilling and rewarding and I’m interested in all the usual kind of things—magic, occult, paganism.”

  “I’m handsome, I’m very passionate. I’m a writer and I’m looking for a very special leading laydee. She’ll take pleasure in having a good body, I’ll be at least ten years older than her and she’ll like that.”

  “Pah!” said Shazzer. “I’m going to ring some of these sexist bastards up.”

  Shazzer was in seventh heaven putting them on speaker phone then murmuring sexily, “Hello, is that ‘First Time Advertised’ on the line? Well, get off it quickly there’s a train coming.” Not very mature admittedly, but seemed amusing with all Chardonnay in selves.

  “ ‘Hi, I’m Wild Boy. I’m tall, I’m Spanish with long black hair, dark eyes, long black lashes and a lean, wild body . . .’ ” I read out in a stupid voice.

  “Ooh!” said Jude brightly. “He sounds rather nice.”

  “Well, why don’t you call him then?” I said.

  “No!” said Jude.

  “So why are you trying to get me to ring someone?”

  Jude went all coy then. Turned out whole Stacey, Singleton Depression weekend thing had catapulted her into returning one of Vile Richard’s calls.

  “Oh God,” said Shazzer and I simultaneously.

  “I’m not going back out with him or anything. It’s just . . . nice,” she finished lamely, trying to avoid my and Shazzer’s accusing stares.

  Got back home to hear answerphone clicking on. “Hello, Bridget,” said deep, sexy, foreign young-sounding voice. “This is Wild Boy . . .”

  Bloody girls must have given him my number. Horrified by sense of danger implied by total stranger having phone number, did not pick up but merely listened while Wild Boy explained he will be in 192 tomorrow night holding a red rose.

  Then immediately called Shazzer and told her off.

  “Oh come on,” said Shaz. “Let’s all go. It’ll be a laugh.”

  So plan is, we are all going tomorrow night. Ho hum. What am I going to do about hole in wall and stench on stairs? Bloody Gary! He’s got £3,500 of mine. Right. Am going to bloody well ring him up.

  MONDAY 5 MAY

  127 lbs. (hurrah!), progress on hole in wall by Gary: none, progress on getting over Mark Darcy by fantasizing about Wild Boy: medium (hampered by eyelashes).

  Got back to message from Gary. Said he got caught up on another job and as I was having second thoughts he thought there was no hurry. Claims he is going to sort everything out and come round tomorrow night. So you see, was worrying unnecessarily. Mmmm. Wild Boy. Maybe Jude and Shazzer are right. Have just to move on, not keep imagining Mark and Rebecca in different loving scenarios. Worry about lashes, though. How long, exactly? Fantasies of Wild Boy’s lean, wild, devil body slightly spoilt by image of Wild Boy blinking under the weight of lengthy lashes like Walt Disney Bambi.

  9 p.m. Got to 192 at 8:05, with Jude and Shaz in tow to sit at other table and keep eye on self. No sign of Wild Boy. Only man on own was horrible old creep in denim shirt, ponytail and sunglasses who kept staring at me. Where was Wild Boy? Gave creep filthy look. Eventually creep was staring so much decided to move. Started to get up then nearly jumped out of skin. Creep was holding up red rose. Stared at him aghast as he removed ridiculous sunglasses, smirking, to reveal Barbara Cartland–like pair of false eyelashes. Creep was Wild Boy. Rushed out in horror followed by Jude and Shazzer collapsing in giggles.

  TUESDAY 6 MAY

  128 lbs. (1 lb. phantom baby?), Mark thoughts: better, progress on hole in wall by Gary: static i.e. none.

  7 p.m. V. depressed. Just left message for Tom to ask if he is mad too. Realize have to learn to love self and live in moment, not obsess but think of others and be complete in self but just feel awful. Really miss Mark so much. Cannot believe he is going to go out with Rebecca. What did I do? Obviously there is something wrong with me. Just getting older and older and is clear nothing is ever going to work out so might as well just accept am always going to be alone and never have any children. Oh look, must pull self together. Gary will be here soon.

  7:30 p.m. Gary is late.

  7:45 p.m. Still no sign of bloody Gary.

  8 p.m. Still no Gary.

  8:15 p.m. Gary has not bloody well turned up. Ooh, telephone, must be him.

  8:30 p.m. Was Tom saying that he was very mad and so was the cat, which had started pooing on the carpet. Then he said something rather surprising.

  “Bridge?” he said. “Do you want to have a baby with me?”

  “What?”

  “A baby.”

  “Why?” I said, suddenly getting alarming image of having sex with Tom.

  “Well . . .” He thought for a minute. “I’d quite like to have a baby and see my line extended but, one, I’m too selfish to look after it and, two: I’m a pouf. But you’d be good at looking after it if you didn’t leave it in a shop.”

  Love Tom. Is as if he sort of sensed the way I’m feeling. Anyway, he said to think about it. Is just an idea.

  8:45 p.m. I mean why not? Could keep it at home in a little basket. Yes! Just imagine waking up in the morning with a lovely little creature next to me to snuggle up to and love. And we could do all things together like going to the swings and Woolworth’s to look at the Barbie things and home would become a lovely peaceful baby-powder-smelling haven. And if Gary turns up baby could sleep in spare bedroom. Maybe if Jude and Shazzer had babies too we could live in a community together and . . . Oh shit. Have set wastebin on fire with fag end.

  SATURDAY 10 MAY

  129 lbs. (phantom baby already gigantic, given age), cigarettes 7 (not necessary to stop for phantom pregnancy, surely?), calories 3,255 (eating for one plus tiny phantom), positive thoughts 4, progress on hole in wall by Gary: none.

  11 a.m. Just been out for fags. Is suddenly, freakishly, really, really hot. Is fantastic! Some men are actually wandering round the streets in swimming trunks!

  11:15 a.m. Just because it is summer is no reason life should fall into disarray with flat chaotic, in-tray ranging out of control, bad smells everywhere. (Ugh. Is really bad on stairs now.) Am going to change all this by spending today clearing up flat and doing in-tray. Must get things ordered ready to welcome new life into world.

  11:30 a.m. Right. Will start by moving all piles of newspapers into one central pile.

  11:40 a.m. Ugh, though.

  12:15 p.m. Maybe will do in-tray first.

  12:20 p.m. Clearly impossible without getting properly dressed.

  12:25 p.m. Not keen on look in shorts. Too sporty somehow. Need little slippy dress thing.

  12:35 p.m. Now where is it?

  12:40 p.m. Just needs washing through and hanging out to dry. Then can get on.

  12:55 p.m. Hurrah! Am going swimming to Hampstead Ponds with Jude and Shazzer! Have not done legs but Jude says pond is ladies only and teeming with lesbians who consider it mark of gay pride to be as hairy as yetis. Hurrah!

  Midnight. Was fantastic at ponds, like painting of sixteenth-century nymphs only rather more of them than would expect in uplift bikinis. V. old-fashioned, with wooden decking and lifeguards. Swimming in natural environment with mud on bottom* totally new sensation.

  Told them what Tom had said about the Babyfather idea.

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nbsp; “My God!” said Shaz. “Well, I think it’s a good idea. Except that on top of ‘Why aren’t you married?’ you’d have ‘Who’s the father?’ to contend with.”

  “I could say it was an immaculate conception,” I suggested.

  “I think all this would be extremely selfish,” said Jude coldly.

  There was a stunned pause. We peered at her, trying to work out what was going on.

  “Why?” said Shaz eventually.

  “Because a child needs two parents. You would be doing it to satisfy yourself when actually you’re just too selfish to have a relationship.”

  Blimey. I could see Shaz taking out a submachine gun and gunning her down. Next thing Shaz was off on one, ranting away with a no-holds-barred sphere of eclectic cultural reference.

  “Look at the Caribbean,” she ranted while the other girls looked round in alarm and I thought, mmm. Caribbean. Lovely luxury hotel and white sand.

  “The womenfolk bring the children up in compounds,” Shaz declared. “And the men just turn up sometimes and shag them, and now the women are getting economic power and there are pamphlets saying ‘Men at Risk’ because they’re losing their role just like they are ALL OVER THE FUCKING WORLD.”

  Sometimes wonder if Sharon really is quite such a Ph.D.-style authority on, well, everything, as she pretends to be.

  “A child needs two parents,” said Jude doggedly.

  “Oh for God’s sake that’s a completely narrow, paternalistic, unrealistic, partisan Smug-Middle-Class-Married-Parent view,” hissed Shaz. “Everyone knows a third of all marriages end in divorce.”

  “Yes!” I said. “Being with one mother who loves you is bound to be better than being the product of a bitter divorce. Children need relationships and life and people around but it doesn’t have to be a husband.” Then suddenly remembering something my—ironically enough—mother always comes out with I said, “You can’t spoil a child by loving it.”

  “Well, there’s no need to gang up on me about it,” said Jude huffily, “I’m only giving my view. Anyway, I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Oh yeah? What?” said Shaz. “You believe in keeping human slaves?”

  “Vile Richard and I are getting married.”

  Shazzer and I gawped in mute horror as Jude looked down, blushing winningly.

  “I know, isn’t it wonderful? I think when I chucked him the last time he realized you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone—and that finally jerked him into being able to commit!”

  “Finally jerked him into realizing he’d have to get a bloody job if he couldn’t live off you anymore, more like,” muttered Shaz.

  “Er, Jude,” I said. “Did you just say you were going to marry Vile Richard?”

  “Yes,” said Jude. “And I wondered—will you two be bridesmaids?”

  SUNDAY 11 MAY

  128 lbs. (phantom baby departed in horror at impending wedding), alcohol units 3, cigarettes 15 (may as well smoke and drink freely now), Mark fantasies 2 only (excellent).

  Shaz just called and both agreed that whole thing is doom. Doom. And that Jude must not marry Vile Richard because:

  He is mad.

  He is vile: Vile by name and vile by nature.

  Is intolerable to have to dress up as pink puffballs and walk down aisle with everybody watching.

  Am going to call Magda and tell her.

  “What do you think?” I said.

  “Hmm. It doesn’t seem like a very promising idea. But you know, people’s relationships are quite mysterious,” she said enigmatically. “No one from the outside ever really understands what makes them work.”

  Conversation then moved on to the Babymother idea at which Magda unaccountably seemed to brighten.

  “You know what, Bridge? I think you should try it out first, I really do.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, why don’t you look after Constance and Harry for an afternoon and see how it goes. I mean I’ve often thought time-share was the answer for modern womanhood.”

  Blimey. Have promised to have Harry, Constance and the baby next Saturday while she has her highlights done. Also she and Jeremy are having a garden party in six weeks’ time for Constance’s birthday and she asked if I wanted her to invite Mark. I said yes. You see he has not seen me since February and it will be really good for him to see how I have changed and how calm and poised and full of inner strength I am now.

  MONDAY 12 MAY

  Got into work to find Richard Finch in a foul hyperactive mood, jumping around the room chewing and shouting at everyone. (Sexy Matt, who was looking particularly like a DKNY model this morning, told Horrid Harold he thought that Richard Finch was on cocaine.)

  Anyway, it turned out the channel controller had turned down Richard’s idea to replace the breakfast news slot with live “warts and all” coverage of the Sit Up Britain team’s morning meeting. Considering the Sit Up Britain’s last morning “meeting” consisted of an argument about which of our presenters was going to cover the lead story; and the lead story was about which presenters were going to be presenting the BBC and ITV news, I don’t think it would have been a very interesting program; but Richard was really pissed off about it.

  “Do you know what’s the trouble with the news?” he was saying, taking his gum out of his mouth and flinging it in the vague direction of the bin. “It’s boring. Boring, boring, bloody boring.”

  “Boring?” I said. “But we’re just seeing the launch of the first Labour government for . . . for several years!”

  “My God,” he said, whipping off his glasses. “Have we got a new Labour government? Have we really? Everyone! Everyone! Gather round. Bridget’s got a scoop!”

  “And what about the Bosnian Serbs?”

  “Oh wake up and smell the decaf cap,” whined Patchouli. “So they want to carry on shooting at each other behind bushes? So? It’s just so, like, five minutes ago.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Richard with mounting excitement. “People don’t want dead Albanians in head scarves, they want people. I’m thinking Nationwide. I’m thinking beer-drinking snails, I’m thinking skateboarding ducks.”

  So now we all have to think up Human Interest like snails that get drunk or old people going bungee jumping. I mean how are we supposed to organize a geriatric bungee jump by . . . Ah, telephone! That’ll be the Mollusc and Small Amphibian Association.

  “Oh, hello, darling, guess what?”

  “Mum,” I said dangerously, “I’ve told you—”

  “Oh I know, darling. I just rang to tell you something very sad.”

  “What?” I said sulkily.

  “Wellington’s going home. His speech at the Rotary was fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Do you know, when he talked about the conditions the children in his tribe live in Merle Robertshaw was actually crying! Crying!”

  “But I thought he was raising money for a jet ski bike.”

  “Oh he is, darling. But he came up with this marvelous scheme which is right up the Rotary’s street. He said if they donated money he’d not only give the Kettering branch a ten percent share in the profits, but if they’d give half of that to his village school he’d match it with another five percent of his profits. Charity and small business—isn’t that clever? Anyway they raised four hundred pounds and he’s going back to Kenya! He’s going to build a new school! Imagine! Just because of us! He did a lovely slide show with Nat King Cole’s ‘Nature Boy’ underneath it. And at the end he said ‘Hakuna Matata!,’ and we’ve adopted it as our motto!”

  “That’s great!” I said, then saw Richard Finch staring crossly in my direction.

  “Anyway, darling, we thought you—”

  “Mum,” I interrupted, “do you know any old people who do interesting things?”

  “Honestly, what a silly question. All old people do interesting things. Look at Archie Garside—you know Archie—who used to be deputy spokesman on the governors. He’s a parachute jumper. In actual fact I
think he’s doing a sponsored parachute jump for the Rotary tomorrow and he’s ninety-two. A ninety-two-year-old parachute jumper! Imagine!”

  Half an hour later I set off towards Richard Finch’s desk, a smug smile playing about my lips.

  6 p.m. Hurrah! Everything is lovely! Am completely back in Richard Finch’s good books and am going off to Kettering to film parachute jump. And not only that, but I am going to direct it, and it is going to be the lead item.

  TUESDAY 13 MAY

  Do not want to be stupid TV career woman anymore. Is heartless profession. Had forgotten the nightmare of TV crews when allowed to interact freely with trusting media-virgin members of the public. Was not allowed to direct the item as deemed too complex, so was left on the ground while bossy career-crazed Greg was sent up in the plane to do it. Turned out Archie did not want to jump as could not see a good landing spot. But Greg went on and on saying, “Come on, mate, we’re losing the light,” and eventually pressurized him to jump towards a soft-looking ploughed field. Unfortunately, however, it wasn’t a ploughed field, it was a sewerage works.

  SATURDAY 17 MAY

  129 lbs., alcohol units 1, cigarettes 0, dashed baby-fantasies 1, dashed Mark Darcy fantasies: all the ones about him seeing self again realizing how changed, poised i.e. thin, well-dressed, etc. am, and falling in love with self again 472.

  Completely exhausted by working week. Almost too drained to get out of bed. Wish could get someone to go downstairs and fetch paper, also chocolate croissant and cappuccino. Think will stay in bed, read Marie Claire, and do nails, then maybe see if Jude and Shazzer fancy going to Jigsaw. Would really like to get something new for when see Mark again next week, as if to stress am changed . . . Gaaah! Doorbell. Who in their right mind would ring on someone’s doorbell at ten o’clock on Saturday morning? Are they completely insane?

  Later. Staggered to entry phone. It was Magda, who shouted chirpily, “Say hello to Auntie Bridget!”