Helen Fielding - Bridget Jones - The Edge of Reason

(I wrote that bit.)

"Ladies and gentlemen - the bridesmaids."

There was a huge roar of applause. Love Jude, love Shaz, I thought as everyone rose to their feet.

"The bridesmaids," said everyone. Was marvellous having all the attention. Saw Simon beaming at Shaz and looked across at Mark to see him beaming at me too.

Was all a bit hazy after that, but remember seeing Magda and Jeremy laughing together in a corner and catching her afterwards.

"What's going on?"

Turned out the trollop works in Jude's company. Jude told Magda all she knew was that the girl had had this distraught affair with a man who was still in love with his wife. She nearly died when Magda told her it was Jeremy, but all agreed we should not be horrible to the girl because it was really Jeremy who had been the fuckwit.

"Bloody old bugger. Anyway, he's learned his lesson now. Nobody's perfect and I love the old fart really." "Well, look at Jackie Onassis," I said encouragingly.

"Well, exactly," said Magda.

"Or Hilary Clinton."

We both looked at each other uncertainly then started laughing.

Best bit was when I went out to the loo. Simon was snogging Shazzer with his hand up her bridesmaid dress! There are sometimes those relationships that once you

see them starting you just know, click: that's it, it's perfect, it's going to work, they'll go for the long haul usually the sort of relationships you see starting between your immediate ex, who you were hoping to get back with, and somebody else.

I slipped back into the reception before Sharon and Simon saw me, and smiled. Good old Shaz. She deserves it, I thought, then stopped in my tracks. Rebecca was clutching Mark's lapel, talking passionately to him. I darted behind a pillar and listened.

"Don't you think," she was saying. "Don't you think it's perfectly possible for two people who ought to be together, a perfect match in every way - in intellect, in physique, in education, in position - to be kept apart, through misunderstanding, through defensiveness, through pride, through . . ." She paused, then rasped darkly, "the interference of others and end up with the wrong partners. Don't you?"

"Well yes," murmured Mark. "Though I'm not quite sure about your list of . . ."

"Do you? Do you?" She sounded drunk.

"It so nearly happened with Bridget and me."

"I know! I know. She's wrong for you, darling, as Giles is for me ... Oh, Mark. I only went to Giles to make you realize what you feel for me. Perhaps it was wrong but ... they're not our equals!"

"Um . . ."said Mark.

"I know, I know. I can sense how trapped you feel. But it's your life! You can't live it with someone who thinks Rimbaud was played by Sylvester Stallone, you need stimulus, you need. . ."

"Rebecca," said Mark quietly, "I need Bridget."

At this, Rebecca let out a horrifying noise, which was something between a pissed wail and an angry bellow. Gently determined not to feel any shallow sense of triumph, nor gloating, unspiritual glee that the two-faced, stick-insect-legged snooty bitch from Bogoffland had got her comeuppance, I glided away, beaming smugly all over my face.

Ended up leaning against a pillar by the dance floor, watching Magda and Jeremy locked in an embrace, bodies moving together in a ten-year-old practised dance, Magda's head on Jeremy's shoulder, eyes closed, peaceful, Jeremy's hand roaming idly over her bottom. He whispered something to her and she laughed without opening her eyes.

Felt a hand slip round my waist. It was Mark, looking at Magda and Jeremy too. "Want to dance?" he said.

9st 3 (seems, alas to be true that weight finds own level), cards sent 0, presents purchased 0, improvement in hole in wall since originally made: single holly sprig.

6.30 p.m. Everything is lovely. Usually, week before Christmas, am hungover and hysterical, furious with self for not escaping to tiny woodman's cottage deep in forest to sit quietly by fire; instead of waking up in huge, throbbing, mountingly hysterical city with population gnawing off entire fists at thought of work/cards/present deadlines, getting trussed up like chickens in order to sit in grid-locked streets bellowing like bears at newly employed mini-cab drivers for trying to locate Soho Square using a map of central Addis Ababa, then arrive at parties to be greeted by same group of people have seen for last three nights only three times more drunk and hungover and want to shout 'WILL YOU ALL JUST SOD OFF!' and go home.

That attitude is both negative and wrong. At last have found way to live peaceful, pure and good life, hardly smoking at all and only a bit pissed once at Jude's wedding. Even drunk man at party on Friday did not really disturb equilibrium when called me and Sharon 'glib media whores'.

Also got brilliant mail today, including postcard from Mum and Dad in Kenya saying Dad has been having a whale of a time on Wellington's jet-ski and did the limbo with a Masai girl on buffet night and they hoped Mark and I won't be too lonely without them at Christmas. Then a PS from Dad saying, "We haven't got twins, it's well over six foot and more than satisfactory on the bouncy front! Hakuna Matata."

Hurrah! Everyone is happy and at peace. Tonight, for example, am going to write Christmas cards not with reluctance but with joy! - for as it says in 'Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk', the secret of spiritual happiness is not doing the washing up in order to get the washing up done but to do the washing up. Is exactly the same with Christmas cards.

6.40 p.m. Bit of a boring idea though, just sitting in all evening writing Christmas cards when is Christmas.

6.45 p.m. Maybe will have one of chocolate tree decorations.

6.46 p.m. Maybe - too - will just have little festive glass of wine to celebrate Christmas.

6.50 p.m. Mmm. Wine is delicious. Maybe will have one cigarette also. Just one.

6.51 p.m. Mmm. Cigarette is lovely. I mean self-discipline isn't everything. Look at Pol Pot.

6.55 p.m. Will start cards in a minute when have finished wine. Maybe will just read letter again.

Cinnamon Productions

Sit Up Britain FiveAlive Blind Snog

From the Desk of Grant D. Pike, Chief Executive

Dear Bridget,

As you may have been aware, a Staf-trak programme has been under way during the last year monitoring staff performance and the flow of ideas throughout Cinnamon Productions.

You will be delighted to hear that 68 per cent of the fun "And finally" end of programme items on Sit Up Britain have originated with you. Congratulations!

We understand that your resignation in September arose through disagreements with Sit Up Britain's Executive Producer Richard Finch. Richard, as I'm sure you have heard, was suspended from his position in October due to 'personal difficulties'.

We are currently re-organizing the staffing on the show and would like to invite you to rejoin the team, either promoted to Assistant Producer or in consultatory capacity, providing a flow of ideas on a freelance basis. The period since your resignation would be considered as paid leave.

We believe that - injected with new positive energy and get up and go - Sit Up, as the flagship of Cinnamon Productions, has a great future in the twenty-first century. We hope that you will be a major creative force in our new revamped team. If you will telephone my secretary to arrange an appointment I will be delighted to discuss revised terms and conditions with you.

Yours, Grant D. Pike

Chief Executive, Cinnamon Productions

You see! You see! Also Michael from the Independent says I can have another go at a celebrity interview as they got quite a few letters after the Mr Darcy interview. As he said, anything that gets letters is good no matter how bad it is. So I can be a freelance. Hurrah! And then I never have to be late. Think will have a top up to celebrate. Ooh goody, doorbell!