Helen Fielding - Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason

Elaine pressed a couple of Sobranies into my hand as they left - "I think you might need these for the drive back. I do hope we see you again" - which seemed encouraging but not enough to build one's life on. It was Mark I wanted to go out with again not, unfortunately, his parents.

"Right, darling," said Mum, bustling out of the kitchen with a Tupperware box. "Where've you put your bag?" "Mum," I said through clenched teeth. "I don't want any food."

"Are you all right, darling?"

"As all right as I can be under the circumstances," I muttered.

She gave me a hug. Which was nice but startling. "I know it's hard," she said. "But don't take any nonsense from Mark. It'll all work out for you. I know it will." Just as I was enjoying the unaccustomed mummy-comfort she said, "So you see! Hakuna Matata! Don't worry. Be happy! Now. D'you want to take a couple of packets of minestrone back with you when you go? How about some Primula and some Tuc biscuits? Can I just get past you into that drawer? Ooh, I'll tell you what. I've got a couple of pieces of fillet steak."

Why does she think food is better than love? If I'd stayed in the kitchen a minute longer I swear I would have thrown up.

"Where's Dad?"

"Oh, he'll be out in his shed." What?"

"His shed. He spends hours in there and then comes out smelling of . . ."

"Of what?"

"Nothing, darling. Off you go and say goodbye if you want to."

Outside, Wellington was reading the Sunday Telegraph on the bench.

"Thanks," I said.

"No problem," he said, then added, "She is a good woman. A woman of strong mind, good heart and enthusiasm, but maybe . . ."

"... about 400 times too much, sometimes?"

"Yeah," he said, laughing. Oh my God, I hope it was just enthusiasm for life he was on about.

As I approached the shed, Dad came out looking rather red in the face and shifty. His Nat King Cole tape was playing inside.

"Ah, off back to the big, big, smokeedeesmoke of London?" he said, stumbling slightly and grabbing hold of the shed. "You a bit down, old love?" he slurred gently.

I nodded. "You too?" I said.

He folded me up in his arms and gave me a big squeeze like he used to do when I was little. It was nice: my dad. "How have you managed to stay married so long to

Mum?" I whispered, wondering what that vaguely sweet smell was. Whisky?

"Sssnot so complicated really," he said, lurching against the shed again. He cocked his head on one side, listening to Nat King Cole.

"The greatest thing," he started to croon, "you'll ever learn is how to love and be loved in return. Just hope she still loves me not the Mau Mau."

Then he leaned over and gave me a kiss.

9st 2 (good), alcohol units 0 (excellent), cigarettes 5 (a pleasant, healthy number), number of times driven past Mark Darcy's house 2 (v.g.), no. of times looked up Mark Darcy's name in phone book to prove still exists 18 (v.g.),

1471 calls 12 (better), no. of phone calls from Mark 0 (tragic).

8.30 a.m. My flat. Very sad. I miss Mark. Heard nothing all day Sunday and Monday then got back from work last night to message saying he was going to New York for a few weeks. "So I guess it really is goodbye."

Am trying best to keep spirits up. Have found that if when wake up in morning, immediately before feeling first stab of pain, put on Radio 4 Today programme even if programme does appear to consist of hours and hours of Just a Minute-type game with politicians trying not to say "Yes' or "No" or answer any of the questions then I can actually avoid getting caught in obsessive "if only" thought cycles and imaginary Mark Darcy conversational loops that only increase sadness and inability to get out of bed.

Must say Gordon Brown was v.g. on programme this morning, managing to go on about European currency without hesitating, pausing or actually saying anything, but all the time talking calmly and fluently with John Humphreys shouting, "Yes or No? Yes or Not like Leslie Crowther in the background. So ... well, could be worse. I suppose.

Wonder if European currency is the same as single currency? In some ways am in favour of this as presumably we would have different coins, which might be quite European and chic. Also they could get rid of the brown ones, which are too heavy and the 5ps and 20ps, which are too tiny and insignificant to be pleasurable. Hmm. We should hang on to the F1s though, which are fantastic, like sovereigns, and you suddenly find you have F-8 in your purse when you thought you had run out. But then they would have to alter all the slot machines and ... Gaaaaaah! Doorbell. Maybe Mark coming to say goodbye.

Was just bloody Gary. Eventually managed to get out of him that he had come to tell me that the infill extension would 'only' cost E7,000.

"Where am I going to get F-7,000?"

"YOU could get a second mortgage," he said. "It would only cost you another hundred a month."

Fortunately even he could see I was late for work so managed to get him out of the house. F-7,000. Honestly.

7 p.m. Back home. Surely it is not normal to be treating my answerphone like an old-fashioned human partner: rushing home to it from work to see what mood it is in, whether it will tinklingly confirm that I am loveable and an acceptable member of society or be empty and distant, like now for example. Not only is there no message from Mark for the 42nd day running, but also no message from anyone else. Maybe should read a bit of The Road Less Travelled.

7.06 p.m. Yes, you see love is not something that happens to you but something you do. So what didn't I do?

7.08 p.m. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance. My sense of self comes not from other people but from ... from ... myself? That can't be right.

7.09 p.m. Anyway. Good thing is am not obsessing about Mark Darcy. Am starting to detach.

7.15 p.m. Goody, telephone! Maybe Mark Darcy! "Bridget, you're looking so thin!" Tom. "How are you doing, my baby?"

"Crap," I said, taking my Nicorette gum out of my mouth and starting to mould it into a sculpture. "Obviously."

"Oh come on, Bridgelene! Men! Ten a penny. How's the new interviewing career?"

"Well, I rang Colin Firth's agent and got out all the cuts. I really thought he might do it because Fever Pitch is coming out soon and I thought they might want the publicity."

"And?" "They rang back and said he was too busy."

"Hah! Well, actually that's exactly what I'm ringing about. Jerome says he knows. . ."

"Tom," I said dangerously, "would this be Mentionitis by any chance?"

"No, no ... I'm not going to go back with him,," he lied transparently. "But anyway, Jerome knows this guy who worked on the last film with Colin Firth and he said do you want him to put in a good word for you?"

"Yes!" I said excitedly.

Realize is just another excuse for Tom to keep in touch with Pretentious Jerome but then all kind acts are a mixture of altruism and self-interest, and maybe Colin Firth will say yes!

Hurrahs! Will be perfect job for me! Can go all over the world interviewing famous celebrities. Also with all the extra money could get the second mortgage for the office and roof terrace then give up hateful Sit Up Britain job and work at home. Yes! Everything is falling into place! Am going to ring up Gary. You cannot expect anything to change unless you change. Am taking things into my own hands!

Right, am not going to lie in bed being sad. Am going to get up and do something useful. Like. Um. Have a fag? Oh God. Cannot bear the thought of Mark calling up Rebecca, going through all the little details of the day like he used to do with me. Mustn't, mustn't be negative. Maybe Mark is not going out with Rebecca and will come back and be with me! You see? Hurrah!