The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  10:30 a.m. Loos, work. Was Richard Finch bellowing at self. “Come on, Bridget. Don’t be coy,” the great lump roared in front of everyone, twitching and chewing in now-obvious post-cocaine-binge frenzy. “When are you going?”

  “Er . . .” I said, hoping I could ask Patchouli, “Where?” later.

  “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you? It is literally unbelievable. When are you going on holiday? If you don’t fill it in on the chart now you won’t be going.”

  “Oh, um, yar,” I said airily.

  “No charto no departo.”

  “Sure, sure, yar, just need to check out the dates,” I said clenching my teeth. As soon as the meeting was over, shot in here to loos for cheering cigarette. Does not matter if am only person in whole office not going on holiday. It does not. Does not mean am social outcast. Definitely. All is well in my world. Even if do have to do item on surrogacy, again.

  6 p.m. Nightmare day trying to get women in to talk about quease-inducing egg-hatching permutations. Cannot face thought of going straight home to building site. Is gorgeous, soft sunny evening. Maybe will go for a walk on Hampstead Heath.

  9 p.m. Unbelievable. Unbelievable. Just shows if you stop struggling to work everything out, and go with Flow in Zen-like positive way, solutions appear.

  Was just walking along path towards the top of Hampstead Heath thinking how fantastic London is in the summer with people loosening their ties after work and spreading out shaggily in the sunshine when eye was caught by a happy-looking couple: she on her back with her head on his stomach, him smiling, and stroking her hair while he talked. Something about them looked familiar. As I got closer, I saw that it was Jude and Vile Richard.

  Realized had never seen them alone together before—well, obviously because if I’d been there they wouldn’t have been. Suddenly Jude burst out laughing at something Vile Richard had said. She looked really happy. I hesitated, wondering whether to walk past or go back, then Vile Richard said, “Bridget?”

  I paused, frozen, and Jude looked up and gawped unattractively.

  Vile Richard got to his feet brushing the grass off him.

  “Hey, good to see you, Bridget,” he said with a grin. Realized had always seen him before in Jude-based social situations, when I’d been flanked by Shazzer and Tom and he’d been chippily resentful.

  “I’m just going off for some wine, you sit down with Jude. Oh, come on, she won’t eat you. She won’t touch anything with dairy.”

  When he’d gone, Jude smiled sheepishly. “I’m not pleased to see you or anything.”

  “Not pleased to see you either,” I said gruffly.

  “So do you want to sit down?”

  “All right,” I said, kneeling down on the rug at which she biffed me awkwardly on the shoulder nearly knocking me over.

  “I missed you,” she said.

  “Shut-urrrrp,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. For a moment, thought I was going to cry.

  Jude apologized for being insensitive about Rebecca. She said she’d just got carried away by the thought of anyone who was pleased she was marrying Vile Richard. Turns out she and Vile Richard are not going to Tuscany with Mark and Rebecca, even though they were invited, because Vile Richard said he didn’t want to be bossed around by a deranged social engineer and he’d rather they just went on their own. Found self unaccountably warming to Vile Richard. I said I was sorry for falling out over something so stupid as whole Rebecca thing.

  “It wasn’t stupid. You were really hurt,” said Jude. Then she said they were delaying the wedding because it had all got so complicated but she still wanted me and Shaz to be bridesmaids. “If you want to,” she said shyly. “But I know you don’t like him.”

  “You really love him, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said happily. Then she looked anxious. “But I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing. It says in The Road Less Traveled that love isn’t something you feel but something you decide to do. And also in How to Get the Love You Want that if you go out with someone who doesn’t properly earn their own living and accepts help from his parents then they haven’t deparented and it’ll never work.”

  What was going through my head was the Nat King Cole song my dad was playing in the shed. “The greatest thing . . . you’ll ever learn . . .”

  “Also I think he’s an addict because he smokes dope and addicts can’t form relationships. My shrink says . . .”

  “. . . is how to love and be loved in return.”

  “. . . I shouldn’t have a relationship for at least a year because I’m a relationship addict,” Jude went on. “And you and Shaz just think he’s a fuckwit. Bridge? Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, yes, sorry. If it feels right I think you should go with it.”

  “Exactly,” said Vile Richard, towering above us like Bacchus with a bottle of Chardonnay and two packets of Silk Cut.

  Had fantastic time with Jude and Vile Richard and all piled into taxi and went back together. Once home, immediately called Shazzer to tell her the news.

  “Oh,” she said when I’d fully explained the Zen-like miracle workings of Flow. “Er, Bridge?”

  “What?”

  “Do you want to go on holiday?”

  “I thought you didn’t want to go with me.”

  “Well, I just thought I’d wait till . . .”

  “Till what?”

  “Oh, nothing. But anyway . . .”

  “Shaz?” I prodded.

  “Simon’s going to Madrid to see some girl he met on the Internet.”

  Was torn between sorriness for Sharon, huge excitement about having someone to go on holiday with, and feelings of inadequacy for not being six-foot architect with penis when could not be further from same.

  “Baaah. It’s just pashmina-ism. She’ll probably turn out to be a man,” I said to make Shazzie feel better.

  “But anyway,” she said lightly, after a pause which sent huge pain vibes down the phone, “I’ve found these fantastic flights to Thailand for only £249 and we could go to Koh Samui and be hippies and it would hardly cost us anything!”

  “Hurrah!” I said. “Thailand! We can study Buddhism and have a spiritual epiphany.”

  “Yes!” said Shaz. “Yes! And we’re not having anything to do with any BLOODY MEN.”

  So, you see . . . Oh, telephone. Maybe Mark Darcy!

  Midnight. Phone call was from Daniel, sounding different from usual, though still, obviously, drunk. He said he was really down because things were going badly at work, and he was sorry about the Germany thing. He accepted that I was actually very good on geography and could we have dinner on Friday? Just to talk. So said yes. Feel v.g. about same. Why should I not be friend to Daniel in his hour of need? One must not harbor resentment as that only holds one back but must forgive.

  Also as Jude and Vile Richard shows—people can change and I was really crazy about him.

  And am v. lonely.

  And is just dinner.

  Am definitely not going to sleep with him though.

  FRIDAY 18 JULY

  127 lbs. (excellent omen), condoms attempted to purchase 84, condoms purchased 36, usable condoms purchased 12 (should be plenty, think. Especially as not intended for actual use).

  2 p.m. Am going out in lunch hour to buy some condoms. Not going to sleep with Daniel or anything. Is just to be on safe side.

  3 p.m. Condom expedition proved total failure. Initially was totally enjoying sudden feeling of being condom consumer. When do not have sex life always feel sad when passing condom section as whole side of life that is denied to me. However, when got to counter found bewildering range of varied condoms: Ultra Safe “for extra sensitivity,” Variety Pack “for extra choice” (alluring Kellogg’s-style suggestion), Ultra Fine “spermicidally lubrica
ted,” Gossamer, “lubricated with a gentle lubricant without” (horrible repulsive word coming up) “spermicide,” Natural styled for Extra Comfort (does that mean bigger—then what if too big?). Stared downwards furiously looking under eyelashes at condom array. Surely what one would want is Extra Sensitivity and Extra Comfort and Ultra Fine so why does one have to choose between?

  “Can I help you?” said nosy chemist with knowing smirk. Obviously could not say I wanted condoms, as tantamount to announcing “Am about to have sex”: almost as when people are walking round obviously pregnant and is like saying “Look, everyone, I have had sex.” Cannot believe condom industry whose very existence is virtual admission that everyone has sex all the time (apart from me), instead of continuing pretense that no one does, which is surely more normal in our land.

  Anyway. Just bought some throat lozenges.

  6:10 p.m. Irritatingly detained at work till 6 p.m. and now chemist’s is shut and have not got condoms. I know: will go to Tesco Metro. Will surely have as is store designed for impulsive Singletons.

  6:40 p.m. Wandered surreptitiously up and down toothpaste aisle. Zilch. Eventually, in desperation, sidled up to supervisor-style lady and whispered, with an attempt at all-lads-together, one-eyebrow-raised smirk, “Where are your condoms?”

  “We are going to do them,” she said thoughtfully. “Maybe in a couple of weeks.”

  “Fat lot of good that is to me!” I felt like yelling. “What about tonight?” Though am not going to sleep with him, obviously!

  Huh. Soi-disant modern, urban, Singleton-directed store. Humph.

  7 p.m. Just went to local stinky double-price corner shop. Could see condoms behind counter with cigarettes and vile tights but decided against as whole setting too sordid. Wish to purchase condom product in pleasant clean Boots-style environment. Also parlous choice. Just Premium Quality Teat-Ended.

  7:15 p.m. Have had brain wave. Will go to petrol station, wait in queue whilst secretly looking at condoms then . . . Actually must not conform to outdated male stereotypes feeling forward or sluttish for carrying condoms. All clean girls have condoms. Is hygiene.

  7:30 p.m. Lalala. Have dunnit. Was easy. Actually managed to grab two packets: one Variety Pack (spice of life) and Improved Ultra Lightweight Latex Teat Ended for Even Greater Sensitivity. Assistant looked startled at range and quantity of condom choice yet strangely respectful: probably thought was biology teacher or similar purchasing condoms to teach early developing school pupils.

  7:40 p.m. Startled by frank drawings in instruction leaflet, which disturbingly made me think about not Daniel but Mark Darcy. Hmmm. Hmmm.

  7:50 p.m. Bet they had a difficult time deciding on sizing of pictures not to make anyone feel crestfallen or over-arrogant. Variety Pack is insane. “Mates colored condoms are vibrantly colored for extra fun.” Extra fun? Suddenly get garish image of couples with vibrantly colored rude bits wearing paper hats, hooting with gay sexy laughter and hitting each other with balloons. Think will throw mad Variety Pack away. Right, better get ready. Oh God, telephone.

  8:15 p.m. Oh bloody hell. Was Tom moaning that he’d lost his mobile and thought he left it round here. Forced me to look all over for it, even though was really late, but could not find it and eventually suspected might have thrown it away with the self-help books and newspapers.

  “Well, can you go and get it?” he said eagerly.

  “I’m really late. Can’t I do it tomorrow?”

  “But what if they empty the bins? What day do they come?”

  “Tomorrow morning,” I said with a sinking, bitter heart. “But the thing is, they’re those big communal dustbins and I don’t know which one it’s in.”

  Ended up flinging long leather jacket on top of bra and knickers and going out into street to wait till Tom rang the phone so could find out which it was in. Was just standing on wall peering into the dustbins when a familiar voice said, “Hello.”

  Turned round and there was Mark Darcy.

  He glanced down and I realized was standing with—fortunately coordinated—underwear on full display.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I’m waiting for the dustbin to ring,” I replied with dignity, pulling jacket around self.

  “I see.” There was a pause. “Have you been waiting . . . long?”

  “No,” I said carefully. “A normal amount of time.”

  Just then one of the dustbins started to ring. “Ah, that’ll be for me,” I said and started to try to reach into it.

  “Please, allow me,” said Mark, put down his briefcase, leapt, rather agilely, on to the wall, reached into the dustbin and picked out the phone.

  “Bridget Jones’s phone,” he said. “Yes of course, I’ll put her on.”

  He handed it to me. “It’s for you.”

  “Who’s that?” hissed Tom, hysterical with excitement. “Sexy voice—who is it?”

  I put my hand over the earpiece. “Thank you so much,” I said to Mark Darcy who had picked a handful of self-help books out of the bin and was looking at them with a puzzled expression.

  “Not at all,” he said, putting the self-help books back. “Er . . .” He paused, looking at my leather jacket.

  “What?” I said, heart racing.

  “Oh, nothing, er, just, um, well, nice to see you.” He hesitated. “Well . . . nice to see you again.” Then he gave an attempt at a smile, turned and started to walk off.

  “Tom, I’ll call you back,” I said into the protesting mobile. My heart was beating wildly. By all the laws of dating etiquette I should just let him go but I was thinking about the overheard conversation behind the hedge. “Mark?”

  He turned round looking full of emotion. For a moment we just stared at each other.

  “Hey! Bridge! Are you coming out for dinner without a skirt?”

  It was Daniel, walking up, early, behind me.

  I saw Mark take him in. He gave me a long, painful look then turned on his heel and strode away.

  11 p.m. Daniel had not spotted Mark Darcy—both fortunately and unfortunately because on the one hand did not need to explain what he was doing there but on other hand could not explain why was feeling so churned up. The minute we got in the flat Daniel started trying to kiss me. It felt very strange not to want him to after all the time I spent last year desperately wanting him to and wondering why he wasn’t.

  “OK, OK,” he said, holding out his hands, palms towards me. “No problem.” He poured us both a glass of wine and sat down on the sofa, long lean legs all sexy in his jeans. “Look. I know I hurt you, and I’m sorry. I know you’re feeling defensive but I’m different now, I really am. Come and sit down here.”

  “I’ll just go put my clothes on.”

  “No. No. Come here,” he said, patting the sofa beside him. “Come on, Bridge. I won’t lay a finger on you, I promise.”

  I sat down gingerly, pulling my jacket around me, hands folded primly on my knee.

  “There, there,” he said. “Now come on, have a drink of this and just relax.”

  He put his arm gently round my shoulders.

  “I’m haunted by the way I treated you. It was unforgivable.” It was so lovely to be held again. “Jones,” he whispered tenderly. “My little Jones.”

  He pulled me to him, laying my head against his chest. “You didn’t deserve it.” The old familiar scent of him wafted over me. “There. Just have a bit of a cuddle. You’re all right now.”

  He was stroking my hair, stroking my neck, stroking my back, he started slipping my jacket off my shoulders, his hand reached down and with one flick, he’d undone my bra.

  “Stoppit!” I said trying to pull the coat back round me. “Honestly, Daniel.” I was half laughing. I suddenly saw his face. He wasn’t laughing.

  “Why?” he said, pulli
ng the jacket roughly off my shoulders again. “Why not? Come on.”

  “No!” I said. “Daniel, we’re just going out for dinner. I don’t want to kiss you.”

  He dropped his head forward, breathing unsteadily, then sat up, head back, eyes closed.

  I got to my feet, pulling my coat around me, and walked to the table. When I looked back, Daniel had his head in his hands. I realized he was sobbing.

  “I’m sorry, Bridge. I’ve been promoted downstairs. Perpetua’s got my job. I feel redundant, and now you don’t want me. No girls will want me. Nobody wants a man at my age without a career.”

  I stared at him in astonishment. “And how do you think I felt last year? When I was bottom of the pile in that office and you were messing me around and making me feel like a retread?”

  “Retread, Bridge?”

  Was going to explain about the retread theory, but something made me decide I just wouldn’t bother.

  “I think it’d be best if you go now,” I said.

  “Oh, come on, Bridge.”

  “Just go,” I said.

  Hmm. Anyway. Will just detach from whole thing. Glad am going away. Will be able to free self’s head of all men issues in Thailand and concentrate on self.

  SATURDAY 19 JULY

  129 lbs. (why? On bikini-purchase day, why?), confusing thoughts about Daniel: too many, bikini bottoms fitted into 1, bikini tops fitted into: half, rude thoughts about Prince William 22, no. of times wrote “Prince William and his lovely date Miss Bridget Jones at Ascot” on Hello! magazine 7.

  6:30 p.m. Bloody, bloody, bloody. Have spent all day in changing rooms of Oxford Street trying to squeeze my breasts into bikini tops designed for people with breasts either arranged one on top of the other in the center of their chests or one under each arm, with the harsh downlighting making me look like River Café frittata. Obvious solution is one-piece but then will return with already squashily textured stomach highlighted against rest of body by whiteness.