“But, Mum, being married to someone doesn’t mean—”
“Oh no, I’m not co-dependent on Daddy,” she said. “I’m co-dependent on fun. I’ve told Daddy I . . . Ooh, must whizz. It’s time for my affirmations.”
I sat staring at the cafetière, mind reeling. Didn’t they know what had happened to me? Had she finally gone over the edge?
The phone rang again. It was my dad.
“Sorry about that.”
“What’s going on? Are you with Mum now?”
“Well, yes, in a manner of . . . She’s gone off to some class or other.”
“Where are you?”
“We’re in a . . . well, it’s a sort of . . . well . . . It’s called ‘Rainbows.’ ”
Moonies? I thought. Scientologists? Est?
“It’s, um, it’s a rehab.”
Oh my God. It turns out it wasn’t just me who was starting to worry about Dad’s drinking. Mum said he went off into Blackpool one night when they were visiting Granny in St. Anne’s and turned up at the old people’s home completely plastered holding a bottle of Famous Grouse, and a plastic model of Scary Spice with a pair of wind-up false teeth attached to her breast. Doctors were called and they went straight from Granny in St. Anne’s last week to this rehab place, where Mum, as ever it seems, was determined not to be upstaged.
“They don’t seem to think it’s a major problem with the old Scotch. They said I’ve been masking my pain or some such about all these Julios and Wellingtons. Plan is we’re supposed to indulge her addiction to ‘fun’ together.”
Oh God.
Think it is best not to tell Mum and Dad about Thailand, just for the time being.
10 p.m. Still my flat. There, you see. Hurrah! Have spent all day tidying up and sorting out and everything is under control. All the mail is done (well, put in pile anyway). Also Jude is right. Is ridiculous to have bloody great hole in the wall after four months and a miracle no one has climbed up the back wall and broken in. Am not going to engage with Gary the Builder’s nonsensical excuses anymore. Have got lawyer friend of Jude’s to write him a letter. You see what one can do when one is empowered new person. Is marvelous . . .
Dear Sir,
We act for Ms. Bridget Jones.
We are instructed that our client entered into a verbal contract with you on or about 5 March 1997 further to which you agreed to construct an extension to our client’s flat (consisting of a second study/bedroom and a roof terrace) for a (quoted) price of £7,000. Our client paid £3,500 to you on 21 April 1997 in advance of work being commenced. It was an express term of the contract that work would be completed within six weeks of this first payment being made.
You commenced work on 25 April 1997 by knocking a large 5 ft. x 8 ft. hole in the exterior wall of our client’s flat. You then failed to progress the work for a period of some weeks. Our client attempted to contact you by telephone on a number of occasions leaving messages, which you did not return. You eventually returned to our client’s flat on 30 April 1997 while she was out at work. However, rather than continuing with the work you had agreed to do, you simply covered the hole you had made in her exterior wall with thick polythene. Since then, you have failed to return to finish the work and have failed to respond to any of our client’s numerous telephone messages requesting you to do so.
The hole you have left in the exterior wall of our client’s flat renders it cold, insecure and uninsured against burglary. Your failure to carry out and complete the work you agreed to undertake constitutes the clearest possible breach of your contract with our client. You have therefore repudiated the contract, which repudiation is accepted by our client . . .
Blah, blah, rudiate woodiate gibberish gibberish . . . entitled to recover costs . . . directly responsible for any losses . . . unless we hear from you within seven days of this letter with confirmation that you will compensate our client for the losses suffered . . . as a result we are instructed to issue proceedings for breach of contract against you without further notice.
Ha. Ahahahaha! That will teach him a lesson he won’t forget. Has gone in post so he will get it tomorrow. That will show him I mean business and am not going to be pushed around and disrespected anymore.
Right. Now, am going to take half an hour to think up some ideas for morning meeting.
10:15 p.m. Hmmm. Maybe need to get newspapers in order to get ideas. Bit late, though.
10:30 p.m. Actually, am not going to bother about Mark Darcy. One does not need a man. Whole thing used to be that men and women got together because women could not survive without them but now—hah! Have own flat (even if hole-filled), friends, income and job (at least till tomorrow) so hah! Hahahahaha!
10:40 p.m. Right. Ideas.
10:41 p.m. Oh God. Really feel like having sex, though. Have not had sex for ages.
10:45 p.m. Maybe something on New Labour New Britain? Like after the honeymoon, when you’ve been going out with someone for six months and start getting annoyed with them for not doing the washing up? Scrapping student grants already? Hmm. Was so easy to have sex and go out with people when one was a student. Maybe they do not deserve bloody grants when they are just having sex all the time.
Number of months have not had sex: 6
Number of seconds have not had sex:
(How many seconds are there in a day?)
60 × 60 = 3,600 × 24 =
(Maybe will get calculator.)
86,400 × 28 = 2,419,200
× 6 months = 14,515,200
Fourteen million five hundred and fifteen thousand two hundred seconds have not had sex in.
11 p.m. Maybe I will just, like, NEVER HAVE SEX AGAIN.
11:05 p.m. Wonder what happens if you do not have sex? Is it good for you or bad?
11:06 p.m. Maybe you just, like, seal up.
11:07 p.m. Look, am not supposed to be thinking about sex. Am spiritual.
11:08 p.m. And then surely it is good for one to procreate.
11:10 p.m. Germaine Greer did not have children. But then what does that prove?
11:15 p.m. Right. New Labour, New . . .
Oh God. Have become a celibate.
Celibacy! The New Celibates! I mean if it’s happening to me, chances are it’s happening to lots of other people as well. Isn’t that the whole point about zeitgeist?
“Suddenly there is less sex everywhere.” Hate, though, this about popular news coverage. Reminds me of when there was an article in The Times that started: “Suddenly there are more Dining Rooms everywhere,” the same day as there was one in the Telegraph on “Whatever Happened to the Dining Room?”
Right, must go to bed. Determined to be very early on first day of new me at work.
WEDNESDAY 3 SEPTEMBER
117 lbs. (gaah, gaah), calories 4,955, no. of seconds since had sex 14,601,600 (yesterday’s figure + 86,400—a day’s worth).
7 p.m. Got into office early, first day back since Thailand, expecting new concern and respect to find Richard Finch in traditional foul mood: petulant, obsessively chain-smoking and chewing with crazed look in his eye.
“Ho!” he said as I walked in. “Ho! Ahahahahaha! What’ve we got in that bag, then? Opium, is it? Skunk? Have we got crack in the lining? Have we brought in some Purple Hearts? Some E for the class? Is it poppers? Is it some nice speedy speed? Hasheeeesh? Some Rokeycokey cokey? OHHHHH okeecokeycokeeee,” he started to sing maniacally. “Oooh okeecokeycokeeee. Ooooh! okeecokeycokeeee!” An idiotic gleam in his eye, he grabbed the two researchers next to him and started rushing forward, yelling, “Knees bent, arms stretched, it’s all in Brid-get’s bag, Ra-Ra!”
Realizing our executive producer was coming down from some drug-induced frenzy, I smiled beatifically and ignored him.
“Oh, little Miss Hoity-toity today, are we? Oooh! Come on, everybody. Bridget Hoity-bottom-just-out-of-prison’s here. Let’s start. Let’s startitdeedoodaa.”
Really, this was not at all what I had in mind. Everyone began to converge on the table, looking from the clock to me resentfully. I mean it was only twenty bloody past nine: the meeting wasn’t supposed to start till half past. Just because I start coming in early doesn’t mean the meeting has to start early instead of late.
“Right then, Brrrrrridget! Ideas. What ideas have we got today to delight the breathless nation? Ten Top Smuggling Tips from the Laydee in the Know? Britain’s Best Bras for stashing Charlie in the booster pads?”
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. Oh fuck it, I’m just going to sock him in the mouth.
He looked at me, chewing, grinning expectantly. Funnily enough the usual sniggers round the table weren’t happening. In fact the whole Thailand interlude seemed to have brought a new respect from my colleagues that I was naturally delighted by.
“What about New Labour—after the honeymoon?”
Richard Finch crashed his head down on to the table and started snoring.
“Actually, I have got another idea,” I said, after a casual pause. “About sex,” I added, at which Richard sprang to attention. (I mean just his head. At least I hope.)
“Well? Are you going to share it with us—or save it, for your chummies in the Drug Squad?”
“Celibacy,” I said.
There was an impressed silence.
Richard Finch was staring at me bulgy-eyed as if he couldn’t believe it.
“Celibacy?”
“Celibacy.” I nodded smugly. “The new celibacy.”
“What—you mean monks and nuns?” said Richard Finch.
“No. Celibacy.”
“Ordinary people not having sex,” Patchouli cut in, looking at him insolently.
Really there was a very changed atmosphere around the table. Maybe Richard had begun to go so far over the edge that no one was sucking up to him anymore.
“What, because of some Tantric, Buddhist thing?” said Richard sniggering, one leg twitching convulsively as he chewed.
“No,” said sexy Matt, carefully looking down at his notebook. “Ordinary people, like us, who don’t have sex for long periods of time.”
I shot a look at Matt, just as he was doing the same to me.
“What? You lot?” said Richard, looking at us incredulously. “You’re all in the first flush of youth—well, except Bridget.”
“Thanks,” I muttered.
“You’re all at it like rabbits every night! Aren’t you? In, out, in, out and shake it all about,” he sang. “You do the Okeekokee and you turn her round, and do it to her from—be-hind! Aren’t you?”
There was a certain degree of shuffling round the table.
“Aren’t you?”
More pause.
“Who here hasn’t had sex in the last week?”
Everyone stared hard at their notepads.
“OK. Who has had sex in the last week?”
No one raised their hand.
“I don’t believe this. All right. Which one of you has had sex in the last month?”
Patchouli raised her hand. As did Harold, who beamed at us all smugly from behind his spectacles. Probably lying. Or maybe just puppy-love-type shagging.
“So the rest of you . . . Jesus. You’re a bunch of freaks. It can’t be because you’re working too hard. Celibacy. Pah! Talk about bums off seats. You lot had better come up with something better than this for the rest of the season. None of this limp no-sex bollocks.”
THURSDAY 4 SEPTEMBER
118 lbs. (this must stop or jail sentence will have been wasted), no. of ways imagined killing Richard Finch 32 (this too must stop otherwise deterrent value of jail sentences annihilated), no. of black jackets considered buying 23, no. of seconds not had sex 14,688,000.
6 p.m. V. happy about return-to-school-autumnal-style feel of world. Going to go late-night shopping on way home: not to buy anything as financial crisis, just to try on new autumn wardrobe. V. excited and determined this year to be better at shopping i.e. (a) not panic and find only thing able to buy is black jacket as only so many black jackets one girl needs and (b) get money from somewhere. Maybe Buddha?
8 p.m. Angus Steak House, Oxford Street. Uncontrollable panic attack. Shops all seem to have just slightly different versions of each thing. Throws self into thought fug with mind unable to settle until has encompassed and catalogued all, for example, available black nylon jackets: French Connection one at £129 or high-class Michael Kors (tiny, square quilted one) at £400. Black nylon jackets in Hennes are only £39.99. Could for example buy ten Hennes black nylon jackets for price of one Michael Kors one but then wardrobe would be more riddled with more black jackets than ever and cannot buy any of them anyway.
Maybe whole image is at fault. Maybe should start wearing brightly colored pantomime outfits in manner of Zandra Rhodes or Su Pollard. Or have a capsule wardrobe and just buy three very classy pieces and wear them all the time. (But what if spill or throw up on them?)
Right. Calm, calm. This is what need to buy:
Black nylon jacket (1 only).
Torque. Or maybe Tong or Tonk? Anyway, choker thing to go round neck.
“Boot leg” brown trousers (depending what “boot leg” should turn out to mean).
Brown suit for work (or similar).
Shoes.
Was nightmare in shoe shop. Just trying on brown square-toed high-heeled ’70s-style shoes in Office feeling v. déjà-vu-esque for all those back-to-school times buying new shoes and fighting with bloody Mum about what they were allowed to be like. Then suddenly had horrifying realization: was not freaky sense of déjà vu—they were exactly the same shoes I had in Six Lower from Freeman Hardy Willis.
Suddenly felt like innocent dupe or stooge of fashion designers who cannot be arsed to think of new things. Worse, am now so old that young fashion buying generation no longer remember wearing things I wore as teenager. At last realize point at which ladies start going to Jaeger for two-pieces—when do not want to be reminded of lost youth by high-street fashion anymore. Have now reached said point. Am going to abandon Kookaï, Agnès B, Whistles etc. in favor of Country Casuals and spirituality. Also cheaper. Am going home.
9 p.m. My flat. Feel very strange and empty. Is all very well thinking everything is going to be different when you come back but then it is all the same. Suppose I have to make it different. But what am I going to do with my life?
I know. Will eat some cheese.
The thing is, as it says in Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk, the atmosphere and events around you are created by the atmosphere within you. So it is no wonder all that bad stuff—Thailand, Daniel, Rebecca etc.—happened. Must start being more inner-poised and spiritual epiphanied, then will start attracting peaceful things and kind, loving, well-balanced people. Like Mark Darcy.
Mark Darcy—when he returns—is going to see the new me, calm and centered, attracting peace and order all around me.
FRIDAY 5 SEPTEMBER
119 lbs., cigarettes 0 (triumph), no. of seconds since had sex 14,774,400 (disaster), (must treat both impostors just the same).
8:15 a.m. Right. Up bright and early. You see, this is important: steal a march on the day!
8:20 a.m. Ooh, a package has come for me. Maybe a gift!
8:30 a.m. Mmm. Is in gift box with roses on. Maybe from Mark Darcy! Maybe he’s back.
8:40 a.m. Is a lovely little gold truncated ballpoint with my name on it. Maybe from Tiffany’s! With red tip. Maybe is lipstick.
8:45 a.m. That is weird. Is no note in there. Maybe promotional lipstick from PR company
.
8:50 a.m. But is not lipstick as is solid. Maybe is ballpoint. With my name on it! Maybe invitation to party in manner of forward-thinking PR firm—perhaps launch of new magazine called Lipstick!, maybe product of Tina Brown!—and the invitation to glittering party will follow.
Yes, you see. Think will go to Coins and have cappuccino. Though not, of course, chocolate croissant.
9 a.m. In café now. Hmm. Delighted with the little gift but not sure is ballpoint either. Or at least if is, is very obscurely functioning one.
Later. Oh my God. Had just sat down with cappuccino and chocolate croissant when Mark Darcy came in, just like that, as if not away at all: in his work suit, newly shaved, a little cut on his chin with toilet paper on, as traditional in the mornings. He walked to the takeaway counter and put his briefcase down as if looking around for something or someone. He saw me. There was a long moment when his eyes softened (though not, obviously, melting like goo). He turned to deal with the cappuccino. Quickly made myself even more calm and centered seeming. Then he came towards my table, looking much more businesslike. Felt like throwing my arms round him.
“Hello,” he said brusquely. “What have you got there?”—nodding at the gift.
Hardly able to speak with love and happiness, I handed him the box.
“I don’t know what it is. I think it might be a ballpoint.”
He took the little ballpoint out of the box, turned it round, put it back like, well, a shot, and said, “Bridget, this isn’t a promotional pen, it’s a fucking bullet.”
Later still. OhmyChristalive. Was no time to discuss Thailand, Rebecca, love, anything.
Mark grabbed a napkin, took hold of the lid of the box and replaced it.
“If you can keep your head when all about you . . .” I whispered to myself.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“Stay here. Don’t touch it. It’s a live bullet,” said Mark. He slipped out into the street, and glanced up and down in manner of TV detective. Interesting how everything in real-life police drama reminds one of TV, rather in same way picturesque holiday scenes remind one of postcards or . . .
The Edge of Reason Page 25