The Edge of Reason

by Helen Fielding

  “Exactly where you belong and where I intend to keep you till the end of your days.”

  Fortunately he was still holding me tight, so could not hit him anymore. Then he said the house was big, cold and lonely without me. And he really liked it best in my flat where it was cozy. And he said that he loved me, he wasn’t exactly sure why, but nothing was any fun without me. And then . . . God, that stone floor was cold.

  When we got up to his bedroom noticed a little pile of books beside his bed. “What are these?” I said, not believing my eyes. “How to Love and Lose but Keep Your Self-Esteem? How to Win Back the Woman You Love? What Women Want? Mars and Venus on a Date?”

  “Oh,” he said sheepishly.

  “You bastard!” I said. “I threw all mine away.” Fistfight broke out again, then one thing led to another and we just shagged, like, all night!!!

  8:30 a.m. Mmm. Love looking at him when he’s asleep.

  8:45 a.m. Wish he would wake up now, though.

  9 a.m. Will not actually wake him up, but maybe he will wake up himself just through thought vibes.

  10 a.m. Suddenly Mark sat bolt upright and looked at me. Thought he was going to tell me off or start screaming again. But he smiled sleepily, sank back down and pulled me roughly to him.

  “Sorry,” I said afterwards.

  “Yes, you should be,” he murmured hornily. “What for?”

  “Waking you up by staring.”

  “You know what?” he said. “I kind of missed it.”

  Ended up staying in bed quite a long time after that, which was fine because Mark didn’t have any appointments that couldn’t wait and I didn’t have any appointments ever again for the rest of life. Just at a crucial moment, though, the phone rang.

  “Leave it,” gasped Mark, carrying on. The answerphone boomed out.

  “Bridget, Richard Finch here. We’re doing an item on the New Celibacy. We were trying to find a personable young woman who hadn’t had sex for six months. Didn’t have any joy. So I thought we’d settle just for any old woman who can’t get laid and try you. Bridget? Pick up the phone. I know you’re there, your loopy mate Shazzer told me. Bridget. Bridguuuuuuuurt. BRIDGURRRRRRRRRRRT!”

  Mark paused in his activities, raised one eyebrow in manner of Roger Moore, picked up the phone, murmured, “She’s just coming, sir,” and dropped it into a glass of water.

  FRIDAY 12 SEPTEMBER

  Minutes since had sex 0 (hurrah!).

  Dreamy day, highlight of which was going to Tesco Metro with Mark Darcy. There was no stopping him putting things into the shopping cart: raspberries, tubs of Pralines and Cream Häagen-Dazs, and a chicken with a label on saying “extra fat thighs.”

  When we got to the checkout it was £98.70.

  “That’s incredible,” he said, taking out his credit card, shaking his head in disbelief.

  “I know,” I said ruefully, “do you want me to chip in?”

  “God, no. This is amazing. How long will this food last for?”

  I looked at it doubtfully. “About a week?”

  “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 groundbreaking 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 on the envelope it came in and the cups in your flat.”

  “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 anything, 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 sa
fe, 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.”

  * * *

  14

  For Better or Worse?

  SATURDAY 6 DECEMBER

  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 four hundred 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 color and can hold bouquet in front.

  Yes, sure that will be fine. No one will notice. Might even think it part of design. As if whole dress is part of extremely large piece of lace.

  Good. Calm and poised. Inner poise. Presence or otherwise of hole in dress is not point of occasion, which is to do with other things. Fortunately. Sure it will all be serene and fine. Shaz was really far gone last night. Hope she is going to get through it today.

  Later. Blimey! Arrived at church only twenty minutes late and immediately looked for Mark. Could tell he was tense just from back of head. Then the organ started up and he turned round, saw me and, unfortunately, looked as if he were going to burst out laughing. Could not blame him really as dressed not as sofa but as giant puffball.

  We set off in stately procession down the aisle. God, Shaz looked rough. Had that air of intense concentration to prevent anyone noticing hangover. Walk seemed to go on forever to the tune of:

  Here comes the bride

  Sixty inches wide.

  See how she wa-ddles from side unto side.

  I mean, why oh why?

  “Bridget. Your foot,” hissed Shaz.

  Looked down. Shazzer’s Agent Provocateur lilac bra with fur on was attached to the heel of my satin kitten-heel shoe. Considered kicking it off but then bra would be left lying tellingly in aisle throughout ceremony. Instead tried unsuccessfully to flip it under my dress causing brief interlude of awkward leaping gait with little result. Was blessed relief when got to front and could pick bra up and stuff it behind bouquet during hymn. Vile Richard looked great, really confident. He was just wearing an ordinary suit which was nice—not all dressed up in some insane morning suit–style outfit as if one of the extras from the film Oliver singing “Who Will Buy This Wonderful Morning?” and doing a high-kicking formation dance.

  Unfortunately, Jude had made the—it was already beginning to seem—crucial mistake of not excluding tiny children from the wedding. Just as the actual wedding ceremony began, a baby started crying at the back of the church. It was top-level crying, of the sort when they start it off, then there’s a pause while they draw breath like waiting for the thunder to come after the lightning, then a huge primal scream follows. Cannot believe middle-class modern mothers. Looked round to see this woman was jigging the baby up and down, rolling her eyes smugly at everyone as if to say “Durrrr!” It didn’t seem to enter her head that it might be nice to take the baby out so the audience could hear Jude and Vile Richard pledge their souls together for a lifetime as one. A swish of long shiny hair at the back of the church caught my eye: Rebecca. She was wearing an immaculate soft gray suit and craning her neck in the direction of Mark. Beside her was a glum-looking Giles Benwick, holding a present with a bow on top.

  “Richard Wilfred Albert Paul . . .” said the vicar in a resounding tone. Had no idea Vile Richard had so many Vile names. What were his parents thinking of?

  “. . . Wilt thou love her, cherish her . . .”

  Mmmm. Love the wedding ceremony. V. heartwarming.

  “. . . Comfort and keep her . . .”

  Dumph. A football crashed down the aisle into the back of Jude’s dress.

  “. . . For better, for worse . . .”

  Two tiny boys, wearing, I swear, tap-dancing shoes, broke free from their pews and tore after the ball.

  “. . . So long as you both shall live?”

  There was a muffled noise, then the two boys started having an increasingly loud whispered gibberish conversation while the baby started crying again.

  Above the din could faintly hear Vile Richard say “I will,” though could possibly have been “I won’t” apart from the fact that he and Jude were beaming at each other gooily.

  “Judith Caroline Jonquil . . .”

  How come I have only got two names? Has everyone except me got great long lists of gibberish after their name?

  “. . . Wilt thou take Richard Wilfred Albert Paul . . .”

  Was vaguely aware of Sharon’s prayer book starting to sway out of the corner of my left eye.

  “. . . Hapag . . .”

  Shazzer’s prayer book was definitely swaying now. Looked round in alarm, just in time to see Simon, in full morning dress, rush forward. Shazzer’s legs started to fold under her in a slow-motion-type curtsy and she collapsed in a heap, straight into Simon’s arms.

  “. . . Wilt thou love him, cherish him . . .”

  Simon was now dragging Shazzer shiftily towards the vestry, her feet trailing along the ground out of the lilac puffball as if she were a dead body.

  “. . . Honor and obey . . .”

  Obey Vile Richard? Briefly considered following Shazzer into the vestry to see if she was OK but
what would Jude think if she turned round now in her worst hour of need, to find Shazzer and I had buggered off ?

  “. . . So long as you both shall live?”

  There was a series of bumps as Simon manhandled Shazzer into the vestry.

  “I will.”

  The vestry door slammed shut behind them.

  “I now declare you . . .”

  The two little boys emerged from the font area and set off back down the aisle. God, the baby was really yelling now.

  The vicar paused and cleared his throat. Turned round to see the boys kicking the football against the pews. Caught Mark’s eye. Suddenly he put down his prayer book, stepped out of the pew, picked one of the boys up under each arm and marched them out of the church.

  “I now declare you man and wife.”

  The whole church burst into applause and Jude and Richard beamed happily.

  By the time we emerged from signing the register the atmosphere amongst the under-fives was positively festive. There was, effectively, a children’s party going on in front of the altar and we walked back down the aisle behind a furious Magda carrying a screaming Constance out of the church going “Mummy will smack, she will smack, she will smack.”

  As we emerged into freezing rain and high winds, I overheard the mother of the footballing boys saying nastily to a bemused Mark, “But it’s wonderful having children just being themselves at a wedding. I mean that’s what a wedding is all about, isn’t it?”

  “I wouldn’t know,” said Mark cheerfully. “Couldn’t hear a bloody thing.”

  Returned to Claridge’s to find Jude’s parents had unbridledly pushed the boat out and the ballroom was festooned with bronzed, be-leaved and be-fruited streamer things and copper-colored pyramids of fruit and cherubs the size of donkeys.

  All you could hear, when walked in, was people going:

  “Two hundred and fifty grand.”

  “Oh come on. It must have been at least three hundred thousand.”

  “Are you kidding? Claridge’s? Half a million.”

  Caught sight of Rebecca, looking frantically round the room with a fixed smile like a toy with a head on a stick. Giles was nervously following her, his hand hovering round her waist.