Helen Fielding - Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason

"But that's incredible. That's extraordinary."

"What?"

"Well, it cost less than a hundred quid. That's less than dinner at Le Pont de la Tour!"

Cooked the chicken with Mark and he was really quite carried away, pacing around the room expansively, in between chopping.

"I mean it's been such a great week. This must be what people do all the time! They go to work, and then they come home and the other person's there, and then they just chat and watch the television and they cook food. it's amazing."

"Yes," I said, looking from side to side wondering if actually he might be mad.

"I mean, I haven't rushed to the answerphone once to see if anyone's aware of my existence in the world!" he said. "I don't have to go sit in some restaurant with a book, and think I could end up dying alone and. . ."

". . . Being found three weeks later half eaten by an Alsatian?" I finished for him.

"Exactly, exactly!" he said, looking at me as if we had just discovered electricity simultaneously.

"Will you excuse me a minute?" I said. "Of course. Er, why?"

"I'll just be a moment."

Was just rushing upstairs to call Shazzer with the ground-breaking news that maybe they are not the unattainable strategic adversary aliens after all, but just like us, when the phone rang downstairs.

Could hear Mark talking. He seemed to be on for ages, so could not ring Shazzer and eventually, thinking, 'bloody inconsiderate', went down to the kitchen.

"It's for you," he said, holding out the phone. "They've got him."

Felt as if I'd been hit in the stomach. Mark held my hand as I took the phone, shaking.

"Hello, Bridget, DI Kirby here. We're holding a suspect over the bullet. We've obtained a DNA match with the stamp and the cups."

"Who is it?" I whispered.

"Does the name Gary Wilshaw mean anything to you?" Gary! Oh my God. "He's my builder."

Turned out Gary was wanted for a number of petty thefts from houses he'd been doing up, and was arrested and fingerprinted early this afternoon.

"We have him in custody," said DI Kirby. "We haven't obtained a confession as yet but, now we can go ahead on the connection, I'm pretty confident. We'll let you know and then you'll be safe to go back to your flat."

Midnight. My flat. Oh blimey. DI Kirby called back half an hour later and said Gary had made a tearful confession, and we could go back to the flat, not to worry about anyt hing, and remember there was a panic button in the bedroom.

We finished the chicken then went over to my place, lit the fire, and watched Friends, then Mark decided to have a bath. The doorbell rang when he was in there. "Hello?"

"Bridget, it's Daniel."

"Um."

"Can you let me in? It's important."

"Hang on, I'll come down," I said, glancing towards the bathroom. Thought I'd better sort things out with Daniel but did not want to risk incensing Mark. The minute I opened the front door I knew I'd done the wrong thing, Daniel was drunk.

"So you put the police on me, did you?" he slurred.

I started inching backwards away from him while maintaining eye contact, as if he were a rattlesnake.

"You were naked under that coat. You . . ."

Suddenly there was a great bounding of footsteps on the stairs, Daniel looked up and - wham - Mark Darcy had socked him in the mouth, and he was slumped against the front door, blood coming out of his nose.

Mark looked rather startled. "Sorry," he said. "Um." Daniel started trying to get up and Mark rushed over and helped him up. "Sorry about that," he said again politely. "Are you all right, can I get you, um ... ?"

Daniel just rubbed his nose and looked dazed. "I'll be off then," he mumbled resentfully.

"Yes," said Mark. "I think that's best. Just make sure you leave her alone. Or, um, I'll have to, you know, do it again."

"Yup. Right," said Daniel obediently.

Once back in the flat, doors barred, it got pretty wild on the bedroom front. Could not bloody believe it when the doorbell rang again.

"I'll go," said Mark with a heavy air of manly responsibility, wrapping a towel round him. "It'll be Cleaver again. You stay here."

Three minutes later there was bounding of feet outside and the bedroom door burst open. Nearly screamed when DI Kirby put his head round. Pulled the blankets up to my chin, and followed his eye, scarlet with embarrassment, along the trail of clothes and underwear leading to the bed. He closed the door behind him.

"You're all right now," DI Kirby said in a calm, reassuring voice as if I were about to jump off a tall building. "You can tell me, you're safe, I've got people holding him outside."

"Who - Daniel?"

"No, Mark Darcy."

"Why?" I said, completely confused.

He glanced back at the door. "Miss Jones, you pressed the panic button."

When?"

"About five minutes ago. We got a repeated, increasingly frantic signal."

I looked up to where I'd hung the panic button on the bedpost. Not there. I fumbled sheepishly in the bedclothes beneath it, and produced the orange device.

DI Kirby looked from the button, to me, to the clothes on the floor, then grinned.

"Right, right. I see." He opened the door. "You can come back in, Mr Darcy, if you still have the, er, energy."

There was much smirking amongst the policemen as the situation was euphemistically explained.

"OK. We're off. Enjoy yourselves," said DI Kirby as the policemen trundled back down the stairs. "Oh, just one thing. The original suspect, Mr Cleaver."

"I didn't know Daniel was the original suspect" I said.

"Well. We've attempted to question him on a couple of occasions and he did seem quite angrily resistant. It might be worth a call to smooth things over."

"Oh, thanks," said Mark sarcastically, trying to be dignified in spite of the fact that his towel was slipping, "Thanks for telling us now."

He saw DI Kirby out and could hear him explaining about the punch-up and DI Kirby saying to keep him informed of any problems and all stuff about deciding whether to press charges against Gary.

When Mark came back in I was sobbing. I'd just suddenly started and once I'd started for some reason I couldn't stop.

"It's all right," said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. "It's all over. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."

11.15 a.m. Claridge's Hotel. Gaaah! Gaaah! GAAAAAAAAAH! Wedding is in forty-five minutes and have just spilt enormous splodge of Rouge Noir nail varnish down front of dress.

What am I doing? Weddings are insane torture concept. Torture-victim guests (though not, obviously, on same scale as Amnesty International clients) dressed up to nines in weird things such would never wear normally e.g. white tights, having to get out of bed practically in middle of night on Saturday morning, run round house shouting "Fuck! fuck! fuck!" trying to find old bits of wrapping paper with silver on, wrap up bizarre unnecessary gifts in manner of ice cream- or bread-makers (destined for endless recycling amongst Smug Marrieds, as who wants to lurch home at the end of the evening and spend an hour sieving ingredients into giant plastic machine! so when wake up in morning can consume entire giant loaf of bread on way to work instead of buying chocolate croissant when get cappuccino?), then drive 400 miles, eating petrol-station wine gums, vomit in car and be unable to find church? Look at me! Why me, Lord? Why? Looks as if have started period in weird backwards-way-round way on dress.

11.20 a.m. Thank God. Shazzer just came back to room and we have decided best thing is to cut out the nail varnish patch from the dress as material so stiff, shiny and sticky-outy that has not gone through to lining underneath, which is same colour and can hold bouquet in front.