Bridget Jones's Diary, Page 20

  Una and Geoffrey said not to worry about Dad as Brian and Mavis are going to stay and help look after him. Find myself wondering why it is always 'Una and Geoffrey' not 'Geothey and Una' and yet 'Malcolm and Elaine' and 'Brian and Mavis.' And yet, on the other hand, 'Nigel and Audrey' Coles. Just as one would never, never say 'Geoffrey and Una' so, conversely, one would never say 'Elaine and Malcolm.' Why? Why? Find self, in spite of self; trying out own name imagining Sharon or Jude in years to come, boring their daughters rigid by going 'You know Bridget and Mark, darling, who live in the big house in Holland Park and go on lots of holidays to the Caribbean.' That's it. It would be Bridget and Mark. Bridget and Mark Darcy. The Darcys. Not Mark and Bridget Darcy. Heaven forbid. All wrong. Then suddenly feel terrible for thinking about Mark Darcy in these terms, like Maria with Captain Von Trapp in The Sound of Music, and that I must run away and go to see Mother Superior, who will sing 'Climb Every Mountain' to me.

  Friday 24 November

  8st 13, alcohol units 4 (but drunk in police presence so clearly OK), cigarettes 0, calories 1760, 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has rung 11.

  10:30 p.m. Everything is going from bad to worse. Had thought only silver lining in cloud of mother's criminality was that it might bring me and Mark Darcy closer together but have not heard a peep from him since he left the Alconburys'. Have just been interviewed in my flat by police officers. Started behaving like people who are interviewed on the television after plane crashes in their front gardens, talking in formulaic phrases borrowed from news broadcasts, courtroom dramas or similar. Found myself describing my mother as being 'Caucasian' and 'of medium build.'

  Policemen were incredibly charming and reassuring, though. They stayed quite late, in fact, and one of the detectives said he'd pop round again when he was passing by and let me know how everything was going. He was really friendly, actually.

  Saturday 25 November

  9st, alcohol units 2 (sherry, ugh), cigarettes 3 (smoked out of Alconburys' window), calories, 4567 (entirely custard creams and salmon spread sandwiches), 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has rung 9 (g.).

  Thank God. Dad has had a phone call from Mum. Apparently, she said not to worry, she was safe and everything was going to be all right, then hung up immediately. The police were at Una and Geoffrey's tapping the phone line as in Thelma and Louise and said she was definitely calling from Portugal but they didn't manage to get where. So much wish Mark Darcy would ring. Was obviously completely put off by culinary disasters and criminal element in family, but too polite to show it at time. Paddling-pool bonding evidently pales into insignificance alongside theft of parents' savings by naughty Bridget's nasty mummy. Am going to see Dad this afternoon, in manner of tragic spinster spurned by all men instead of in manner to which have been accustomed: in chauffeur-driven car with top barrister.

  1 p.m. Hurrah! Hurrah! Just as I was leaving had phone call, but could not hear anything but beeping sound at the other end. Then the phone rang again. It was Mark, from Portugal. Just incredibly kind and brilliant of him. Apparently he has been talking to the police all week in between being top barrister and flew out to Albufeira yesterday. The police over there have found Mum and Mark thinks she will get off because it will be pretty obvious she had no idea what Julio was up to. They've managed to track down some of the money, but haven't found Julio yet. Mum is coming back tonight, but will have to go straight to a police station for questioning. He said not to worry, it will probably all be OK, but he's made arrangements for bail if it turns out to be necessary. Then we got cut off before I even had time to say thank you. Desperate to ring Tom to tell him fantastic news but remember no one is supposed to know about Mum and, unfortunately, last time I spoke to Tom about Mark Darcy I think I might have implied he was a creepy mummy's boy.

  Sunday 26 November

  9st 1, alcohol Units 0, cigarettes 1/2 (fat chance of any more), calories God knows, minutes spent wanting to kill mother 188 (conservative estimate).

  Nightmare day. Having first expected Mum back last night, then this morning, then this afternoon and having almost set off to Gatwick a total of three times, it turned out she was arriving this evening at Luton, under police escort. Dad and I were preparing ourselves to comfort a very different person from the one we had last been told off by, naively assuming that Mum would be chastened by what she had gone through

  'Let go of me, you silly billy,' a voice rang out through the arrival lounge. 'Now we're on British soil I'm certain to be recognized and I don't want everyone seeing me being manhandled by a policeman. Ooh, d'you know? I think I've left my sun hat on the airplane under the seat.'

  The two policemen rolled their eyes as Mum, dressed in a sixties-style black-and-white checked coat (presumably carefully planned to coordinate with the policemen), head scarf and dark glasses, zoomed back towards the baggage hall with the officers of the law wearily tagging after her. Forty-five minutes later they were back. One of the policemen was carrying the sun hat.

  There was nearly a stand-up fight when they tried to get her into the police car. Dad was sitting in the front of his Sierra in tears and I was trying to explain to her that she had to go to the station to see whether she was going to be charged with anything, but she just kept going, 'Oh, don't be silly, darling. Come here. What have you got on your face? Haven't you got a tissue?'

  'Mum,' I remonstrated as she took a handkerchief out of her pocket and spat on it. 'You might be charged with a criminal offense,' I protested as she started to dab at my face. 'I think you should go quietly to the station with the policemen.'

  'We'll see, darling. Maybe tomorrow when I've cleaned out the vegetable basket. I left two pounds of King Edwards in there and I bet they've sprouted. Nobody's touched the plants, apparently, the entire time I've been away, and I bet you anything Una's left the heating on.'

  It was only when Dad came over and curtly told her the house was about to be repossessed, vegetable basket included, that she shut up and huffily allowed herself to be put in the back of the car next to the policeman.

  Monday 27 November

  9st 1., alcohol units 0, cigarettes 50 (yesss! yesss!), 1471 calls to see Mark Darcy has rung 12, hours of sleep 0.

  9 a.m. Just having last fag before going to work. Completely shattered. Dad and I were made to wait on a bench in the police Station for two hours last night. Eventually we heard a voice approaching along the corridor. 'Yes, that's right it's mee! 'Suddenly Single' every morning! Of course you can. Have you got a pen? On here? Who shall I put it to? Oh, you naughty man. Do you know I've been dying to try one of those on . . . '

  'Oh, there you are, Daddy,' said Mum, appearing round the corner wearing a policeman's helmet. 'Is the car outside? Oof, d'you know – I'm dying to get home and get the kettle on. Did Una remember to turn on the timer?'

  Dad looked rumpled, startled and confused and I didn't feel any less so myself.

  'Have you walked free?' I said.

  'Oh, don't be silly, darling. Walked free! I don't know!' said Mum rolling her eyes at the senior detective and bustling me out of the door ahead of her. The way the detective was blushing and fussing around her I wouldn't have been in the least surprised if she'd got herself off by giving him sexual favors in the interview room.

  'So what happened?' I said, when Dad had finished putting all her suitcases, hats, straw donkey (' Isn't it super?') and castanets in the trunk of the Sierra and had started the engine. I was determined she wasn't going to brazen this one out, sweep the whole thing under the carpet and start patronizing us again.

  'All sorted out now, darling, just a silly misunderstanding. Has someone been smoking in this car?'

  'What happened, Mother?' I said dangerously. 'What about everyone's money and the time-share apartments? Where's my two hundred quid?'

  'Durr! It was just some silly problem with the planning permission. They can be very corrupt, you know, the Portuguese authorities. It's all bribery and baksheesh like Winnie Mandela. So Julio's just
paid all the deposits back. We had a super holiday, actually! The weather was very mixed, but . . . '

  'Where is Julio?' I said, suspiciously.

  'Oh, he's stayed behind in Portugal to sort out all this planning permission palaver.'

  'What about my house?' said Dad. 'And the savings?'

  'I don't know what you're talking about, Daddy. There's nothing wrong with the house.'

  Unfortunately for Mum, however, when we got back to The Gables all the locks had been changed, so we had to go back to Una and Geoffrey's.

  'Oof, do you know, Una, I'm so exhausted, I think I'm going to have to go straight to bed,' said Mum after one look at the resentful faces, wilting cold collation and tired beetroot slices.

  The phone rang for Dad.

  'That was Mark Darcy,' said Dad when he came back. My heart leaped into my mouth as I tried to control my features. 'He's in Albufeira. Apparently some sort of deal's been done with . . . with the filthy wop . . . and they've recovered some of the money. I think The Gables may be saved . . . '

  At this a loud cheer went up from us all and Geoffrey launched into 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow.' I waited for Una to make some remark about me but none was forthcoming. Typical. The minute I decide I like Mark Darcy, everyone immediately stops trying to fix me up with him.

  'Is that too milky for you, Cohn?' said Una, passing Dad a mug of tea decorated with apricot floral frieze.

  'I don't know . . . I don't understand why . . . I don't know what to think,' Dad said worriedly.

  'Look, there's absolutely no need to worry,' said Una, with an unusual air of calmness and control, which suddenly made me see her as the mummy I'd never really had. 'It's because I've put a bit too much milk in. I'll just tip a bit out and top it up with hot water.'

  When finally got away from scene of mayhem, drove far too fast on way back to London, smoking fags all the way as act of mindless rebellion.

  DECEMBER. Oh, Christ

  Monday 4 December

  9st 2 (hmm, must get weight off before Christmas gorging), alcohol units a modest 3, cigarettes a saintly 7, calories 3876 (oh dear), 1471 calls to see if Mark Darcy has called 6 (g.). Just went to supermarket and found self unaccountably thinking of Christmas trees, firesides, carols, mince pies, etc. Then I realized why. The air vents by the entrance which usually pump out baking bread smells were pumping out baking mince pies smells instead. Cannot believe cynicism of such behavior. Reminded of favorite poem by Wendy Cope which goes:

  At Christmas little children sing and merry bells jingle.

  The cold winter air makes our hands and faces tingle.

  And happy families go to church and cheerily they mingle,

  And the whole business is unbelievably dreadful if you're single.

  Still no word from Mark Darcy.

  Tuesday 5 December

  9st 2 (right, am really going to start dieting today), alcohol units 4 (start of festive season), cigarettes 10, calories 3245 (better), 1471 calls 6 (steady progress).

  Repeatedly distracted by 'Stocking Filla' catalogs tumbling out of the newspapers. Particularly keen on the shield-shaped burnished metal 'funfur'-lined Spectacles Holder stand: 'All too often spectacles are put down flat on a table, inviting an accident.' Couldn't agree more. The sleekly designed 'Black Cat' Key-Chain Light does indeed have a simple flip-down mechanism, as it 'casts a powerful red light on the keyhole of any cat lover.' Bonsai Kits! Hurrah. 'Practice the ancient art of Bonsai with this tub of preplanted Persian Pink Silk Tree shoots.' Nice, very nice.

  Cannot help but feel sad about the brutal trampling on the pink silk shoots of romance burgeoning between me and Mark Darcy by Marco Pierre White and my mother, but trying to be philosophical about it. Maybe Mark Darcy is too perfect, clean and finished off at the edges for me, with his capability, intelligence, lack of smoking, freedom from alcoholism, and his chauffeur-driven cars. Maybe it has been decreed that I should be with someone wilder, earthier and more of a flirt. Like Marco Pierre White, for example, or, just to pick a name totally at random, Daniel. Hmmm. Anyway. Must just get on with life and not feel sorry for self.

  Just called Shazzer, who said it has not been decreed that I must go out with Marco Pierre White and certainly not with Daniel. The only thing a woman needs in this day and age is herself. Hurrah!

  2 a.m. Why hasn't Mark Darcy rung me? Why? Why? Am going to be eaten by Alsatian despite all efforts to the contrary. Why me, Lord?

  Friday 8 December

  9st 5 (disaster), alcohol units 4 (g.), cigarettes 12 (excellent), Christmas presents purchased 0 (bad), cards sent 0, 1471 calls 7.

  4 p.m. Humph. Jude just rang and just before we said good-bye she said, 'See you at Rebecca's on Sunday.'

  'Rebecca's? Sunday? What Rebecca's? What?'

  'Oh, hasn't . . . ? She's just having a few . . . I think it's just a sort of pre-Christmas dinner party.'

  'I'm busy on Sunday, anyway,' I lied. At last – a chance to get into those awkward corners with the duster. I had thought that Jude and I were equal friends of Rebecca so why should she invite Jude and not me?

  9 p.m. Popped to 192 for refreshing bottle of wine with Sharon and she said, 'What are you wearing for Rebecca's party?'

  Party? So it is a party party.

  Midnight. Anyway. Must not get upset about it. This is just the sort of thing that is not important in life anymore. People should be allowed to invite who they want to their parties without others pettily getting upset.

  5:30 a.m. Why hasn't Rebecca invited me to her party? Why? Why? How many more parties are going on that everyone has been invited to except me? I bet everyone is at one now, laughing and sipping expensive champagne. No one likes me. Christmas is going to be a total party-desert, apart from a three-party pile-up on December 20th, when I am booked into an editing session all evening.

  Saturday 9 December

  Christmas parties to look forward to 0.

  7:45 a.m. Woken by Mum. 'Hello, darling. Just rang quickly because Una and Geothey were asking what you wanted for Christmas and I wondered about a Facial Sauna.'

  How, after being totally disgraced and narrowly escaping several years in custody, can my mother just plop back into being exactly like she was before, flirting openly with policemen and torturing me.

  'By the way, are you coming to . . . ' for a moment my heart leaped with the thought that she was going to say 'Turkey Curry Buffet' and bring up, in a manner of speaking, Mark Darcy, but no ' . . . the Vibrant TV party on Tuesday?' she continued brightly.

  I shuddered with humiliation. I work for Vibrant TV, for God's sake.

  'I haven't been invited,' I mumbled. There is nothing worse than having to admit to your mum that you are not very popular.

  'Oh, darling, of course you've been invited. Everyone's going.'

  'I haven't been.'

  'Well, maybe you haven't worked there long enough. Anyway – '

  'But, Mum,' I interrupted, 'you don't work there at all.'

  'Well, that's different, darling. Anyway, Must run. Byeee!'

  9 a.m. Brief moment of party oasis when an invitation arrived in the post but turned out to be party mirage: invitation to a sale of designer eyewear.

  11:30 a.m. Called Tom in paranoid desperation to see if he wanted to go out tonight.

  'Sorry,' he chirped, 'I'm taking Jerome to the PACT party at the Groucho Club.'

  Oh God, I hate it when Tom is happy, confident and getting on well with Jerome, much preferring it when he is miserable, insecure and neurotic. As he himself never tires of saying, 'It's always so nice when things go badly for other people.'

  'I'll see you tomorrow, anyway,' he gushed on, 'at Rebecca's.'

  Tom has only ever met Rebecca twice, both times at my house, and I've known her for nine years. Decided to go shopping and stop obsessing.

  2 p.m. Bumped into Rebecca in Graham and Greene buying a scarf for ?169. (What is going on with scarves? One minute they were stocking filler-type items which cost ?9.99 n
ext minute they have to be fancy velvet and cost as much as a television. Next year it will probably happen to socks or pants and we will feel left out if we are not wearing ?145 English Eccentrics knickers in textured black velvet.)

  'Hi,' I said excitedly, thinking at last the party nightmare would be over and she too would say, 'See you on Sunday.'

  'Oh, hello,' she said coldly, not meeting my eye. 'Can't stop. I'm in a real rush.'

  As she left the shop they were playing 'Chestnuts roasting on an open fire' and I stared hard at a ?185 Phillipe Starck colander, blinking back tears. I hate Christmas. Everything is designed for families, romance, warmth, emotion and presents, and if you have no boyfriend, no money, your mother is going out with a missing Portuguese criminal and your friends don't want to be your friend anymore, it makes you want to emigrate to a vicious Muslim regime, where at least all the women are treated like social outcasts. Anyway, I don't care. I am going to quietly read a book all weekend and listen to classical music. Maybe will read The Famished Road.

  8:30 p.m. Blind Date was v.g. Just going for another bottle of wine.

  Monday 11 December

  Returned from work to icy answerphone message.

  'Bridget. This is Rebecca. I know you work in TV now. I know you have much more glamorous parties to go to every night, but I would have thought you could at least have the courtesy to reply to an invitation from a friend, even if you are too grand to deign to come to her party.'