9st 1; Alcohol units 3 (because surely they do not really mean there are nine alcohol units in a bottle of wine); Cigarettes 8 (continuing good work); calories 1,954. No. of items washed up by me 24. No. of items washed up by Mark Darcy 0. (absolutely outrageous)

For so long, have been fantasising about being in relationship, yet now am in one realise to horror that some of it is really annoying. Last night got back from Tesco with 5 carrier bags; rushed round, tidying flat, putting food in oven, doing make-up etc. Then Mark Darcy came in (with no make-up) and basically just sat there all evening, while I did everything. At the end of the meal he said "Don't worry, I'll clear up," carried two plates to the sink, then sat down again.

Know Mark's job is more important than mine but I work all day too. Admit it was my idea to cook supper, but people cannot go out or get takeaways for every meal, and he never offers to cook. Have sneaky suspicion that although Mark says he is New Man he secretly thinks sharing means twiddling a couple of spoons under the tap and thinking he has done washing up. Am going round to Magda's tonight to discuss . . . Ooh goody telephone.

Was my Mum. "Oh hello, darling, guess what?"

"What?" I said, nervously.

"We're coming up to London on a countryside march on Sunday and we thought you'd like to come."

"But . . ."

"Now don't be silly, darling," she hissed, "everyone's coming: Una and Geoffrey and Daddy and . . ."

"Mum," I said firmly. "The march was last Sunday."

"I know! Wasn't it super? We all so enjoyed it we're going to do it again! Una didn't realise Dickins and Jones was open on Sundays, so we're going to have lunch in the coffee shop, then march."

"You're not going to march Daddy and Uncle Geoffrey from Dickins and Jones to Debenhams are you?"

"Well! It doesn't matter where we march, does it, darling?" she said in a horrible breathy Katie Boyle-type voice. "It's the principle of the thing. If you came with us, you could get your Colours done."

Grrrr. How can I be expected to get to work on time when I have this and all the washing up to do?

11.45pm. Just back from Magda's, where Jeremy came home too soon, interrupting feminist discussion.

"Bridget!" he said, flinging his briefcase down and pouring a Scotch. "You never get the timing right, do you? Just when it's absolutely de rigeur to be a single mother you have to go and saddle yourself with a boyfriend."

"What?" I said, laying the table.

"First Madonna now Jodie Foster. You'll just have to get rid of Darcy and get yourself a sprog."

"Just ignore, him, Bridge," said Magda, pouring the salad dressing. "I think what you were saying's right. I've never met a man of our generation who didn't secretly believe he should be looked after like his father was by his mother."

"That's completely absurd," said Jeremy, tucking into his salad.

"You're not trying to tell me you share 50/50 around the house," said Magda dangerously, getting up to turn down the oven.

"Well, I earn the money to pay for the household," said Jeremy.

"Yes and look after the kids all day," said Magda passing him the pepper.

"Well you do have help."

"And you have help," said Magda, as she and I got up to serve out the main course. "You have a secretary, don't you?"

"I think the work is on a rather different scale," said Jeremy as I handed him a plate of stew, "anyway you're constantly going out to lunch."

"Excuse me," said Magda, sieving the carrots, "I go out for lunch about once a fortnight. You go out for lunch every day."

"That's work," said Jeremy, pouring his second glass of wine.

"Yeah, right," I chipped in sarcastically . . .

"I'm just saying," said Magda, putting the carrots on the table. "When it gets to the end of the day, we've both done our day's work as our side of the bargain in this marriage, so how come you get to stop and I have to carry on?"

"I don't stop, I'm always helping you," said Jeremy turning up the telly for the football results.

By the time we cleared away the main course and started doing the pudding Magda was really cross.

"When was the last time you washed up?" she said as she spooned out Häagen-Dazs.

"Look," said Jeremy. "Men do just as much washing up and cooking as women, they just don't make a song and dance about it. Isn't there any chocolate sauce?"

As Magda and I were putting the last things in the dishwasher, Jeremy (possibly noticing that while he had been filling us in on how very 50/50-ly he shares the housework, Magda and I had served and cleared away an entire three-course dinner plus coffee and he had not moved off his bottom) suddenly leaped to his feet, snatched a teaspoon from Magda and said, "Here, I'll clear up."

Got home, feeling really feminist and cross, determined to ring up Mark Darcy and confront him, only to find answerphone light flashing:

"Hi, Bridge." Was Mark. "Listen, Rebecca's invited us to stay at her parents' house in Gloucestershire next weekend. Shall we go?"

A panicky electric carving knife started to cut through my liver. Have known Rebecca for seven years and she has never once in all that time asked me to go on one of her posh house-party weekends. She only met Mark last month and now she is ringing him up instead of me. Cannot believe have spent entire evening worrying about washing up when boyfriend is being stolen from beneath very nose, and will not have anyone to wash up after anyway.

No of pounds heavier than Rebecca: 7; no. of inches shorter than Rebecca 6; no. of minutes not spent imagining conversations with Mark Darcy after he has run off with Rebecca and realised has made biggest mistake of life: not many.

"Just don't bloody well go?" Shazzer was yelling while pouring herself another glass of Chardonnay. "Why should you put yourself through some hideous house-party horror just so she can hoover Mark into her social circle?"

"She's got to go," said Jude.

"Well I don't see what all the fuss is about," said Tom shoving a huge wodge of buttered ciabatta into his mouth. "Now: the flat. I've started to think less Morocco and more Mustique—ice-cream colours, wood, and just a hint of Princess Margaret in the ashtrays!!"

Humph. Obviously there is cause for fuss since Rebecca - having ignored me socially for seven years - has suddenly started phoning Mark and inviting us to social events culminating in invitation to her parents' country house in Gloucestershire.

"Why would he like Rebecca more than you?" said Tom.

"Well," I began. "She's prettier than me, thinner than me, poised-er than me, she's got nicer clothes, a better job, a nicer flat and. . ."

"She's. . ." interrupted Jude (Phew. Was beginning to think nobody was going to contradict me), ". . .not cleverer than you," (which, though nice remark, implied the other things were true).

"So how come she went to Cambridge and I went to Bangor?" I said. "He's got complete Mentionitis about her. Her name seems to come into every conversation."

There was a sympathetic pause. We all know about Mentionitis.

"House-party, shmouse-party," snorted Shazzer. "What kind of Bertie Wooster throwback is that?"

"Yurrrr," said Tom. "Did you hear about the chap who went on one and got taken short and did a poo out of the window into the garden and then went down to breakfast in the conservatory and looked up and saw. . ."

"Shut up, Tom," said Shazzer. "Just don't go, Bridge."

"Oh listen," said Jude, "Does anyone want to go to a debate on New Feminism tomorrow night?"

"I'd rather tear off my own head and eat it," said Tom pleasantly.

"Oh please, there's this guy going who works for the Guardian that I really like."

"Jude!" exploded Shazzer. "You can't go to a feminist debate because you want to get off with a man at it! I've a good mind to report you to Camille Paglia."

Wednesday, March 11

8am Right. Am going to keep Food Diary, so can improve figure and psychological state simultaneously for weekend. What am working towards is creating a feeling of calm equilibrium, and control.

So here is food diary for today:

1. Breakfast: camomile tea. Pear.
2. Snack: celery.
3. Lunch: Half carton soup.
4. Snack: Apple.
5. After-gym snack: celery.
6. Dinner: grilled chicken and steamed vegetables.

Hurrah! You see.

9am Cannot stop thinking about coffee. Come to think of it, may have read in anti-cellulite diet that it was all right to have one cup.

9.05am Also one's body needs calcium.

9.06am Sure cappuccino will be OK.

6pm Am marvellous! Patchouli in office put thing on my computer which says: Nothing tastes as good as being thin, whenever I Start-up. Have stuck to Food Diary all day. And been to gym. Food list makes me feel really hungry, though. There is packet of chocolate cars in fridge left over from Christmas. No, will go to Tesco and get chicken.

7pm On way to Tesco passed deli. Visit turned into buying delicious home-made pickles then shopman said I needed cheese to accompany same, and thought, "I do". When got out of shop with cheese, all could think about was eating it so hurried home instead of Tesco and have eaten it all. Anyway have learnt useful lesson: eat before hungry.

8pm Resisted chocolate cars for one hour, but now have eaten one as knew was going to eat it some time anyway and felt like conclusion of something. At least have not drunk any alcohol. Nothing is so disruptive to a diet as a hangover!

9.15pm If starting diet properly tomorrow, might as well have drink tonight.

9.30pm Hunger is death to a diet. Maybe will have crumpet.

10.30pm Hmmm. This is food diary now:

1. Breakfast: Cappuccino
2. Snack: celery (vg)
3. Lunch: Half carton Covent Garden soup (vg)
4. Snack: apple (vvg)
5. After-gym snack: 7oz cheddar cheese plus half jar pickle.
6. Dinner: packet chocolate cars; 3 crumpets with butter and marmalade; 2 chicken left over take-away sate sticks; remains of peanut sauce; remains of Thai curry; 8 raw tortellini; .5 packet Parmesan; .5 bottle wine; Hobnob.

Still, though. At least if hit rock-bottom, can rise up again tomorrow and purge. Also no one will see fatty areas at weekend as winter and covered in clothes so. . . ooh telephone.

10.45pm Was Mark. Had lovely chat until he said,

"So. . . all set for the weekend? Oh, Rebecca said to bring a swimsuit."

"Swimsuit?" I stammered. I mean when did she "say"? When? Where? How?

"Yup. There's an indoor pool apparently."

11.45pm Oh God. I have seen Rebecca in a swimsuit. She is 5ft 10 honed, tanned, bouncy breasted and. . . Gaaah! Doorbell.

1am Was Mark, all lovely in a jumper.

"You sounded so sad. What's the matter, darling?"

He was so sweet and kind I blurted the whole thing out to him about the swimsuits, the diet and worst of all: Rebecca.

At the time was completely reassured. He put his arms round me and said, "Oh don't be silly, I thought you'd be pleased if I was friends with your friends."

But now he is asleep I realise he did not say anything to contradict my fears. And Jude and Shazzie said on no account to mention them, as it might turn what he had only been dimly aware of into a reality. Am going to house-party of doom on Saturday, swim-suited, exposed and un-detoxed.

9 st 2 lb (swimsuit-diet total failure); minutes not filled with horror Mark-losing fantasies: 42.5 (approx.); cigarettes: 12 (necessary); alcohol units: 4 (beyond necessary).

Marooned in Land of Indecision re: Rebecca's hideous house-party weekend, designed to steal boyfriend from under nose.

Cons of going: two solid days of Self/Rebecca contrast will drive Mark into her toned, tanned, Tiffany-braceleted arms. Strong possibility that will have to put on swimsuit.

Cons of not-going: too late for excuse.

Actually probably will be fine. Is just paranoia.

Saturday, March 21

Turns out Rebecca's parents' "country cottage" has stable blocks, pool, full staff and its own church. As we scrunched across the gravel, Rebecca—snookerball-bottomed in jeans in manner of Ralph Lauren ad—was playing with a dog, sunlight dappling on her hair and an array of Saab and BMW convertibles.

"Emma! Get down! Hi-iiiiy!" she cried, at which dog broke free and put its nose straight up my coat.

" 'Mwah' come and have a Bloody one," she welcomed Mark as I wrestled with the dog's head.

Mark rescued me, shouting, "Emma! Here!"

"Oh, she adores you, don't you, darling, don't you, don't you, don't you," she cooed, fussing the dog's head like it was her and Mark's first-born baby.

My mobile rang. Typical. It never rings in London but minute am supposed to be child-of-nature, off it goes. Tried to ignore it.

"I think that's yours, Bridget," said Mark.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?"

"Mother, what are you ringing me on my mobile for?" I hissed watching Rebecca leading Mark away.

"I was just ringing to find out what day you and Mark are coming home for Easte . . ." Grrr. When got into house Mark and Rebecca had disappeared and was nobody around except dog, which put its nose up my coat again.

4pm: Just back from walk round "garden". Rebecca kept installing me in conversations with men, then dragging Mark off miles ahead of everyone else. Only normal person was Rebecca's nephew: sub-Leonardo DiCaprio lookalike, hunted-looking in a Oxfam overcoat, whom everyone referred to as "Johnny's boy".

"I mean, like, I do have a name," he muttered.

"Oh don't be absuuuuuuuuuurd!" I said, pretending to be Rebecca. He laughed and offered me a fag.

"Better not," I said, nodding in Mark's direction.

"Is he your boyfriend or your Dad?"

"Is he my boyfriend or Rebecca's, more like," I grumbled. He steered me off the path towards a mini-lake and lit me a cigarette.

Was v. nice, smoking and giggling naughtily. "We'd better go back," I said, stubbing cigarette out under my wellie.

Others were miles ahead, so we had to run. When we caught up Mark put his arms round me. "What have you been doing," he said into my hair. "Smoking like a naughty schoolgirl?"

Rebecca looked as if she wanted to boil my brains.

7pm: Mmm. Mmm. Mark just got all horny before supper. Mmmm.

Midnight: Doom. Rebecca made a great fuss of putting me next to "Johnny's boy," at dinner—"You two are getting on soooooooo well!!'—and herself next to Mark.

Everyone was braying about the Budget.

"He hasn't done so bloody bad, capital gains break pretty decent baaaaah."

"Oh but what about stopping the bed-and-breakfasting?" said Rebecca. "What do you think, Bridget? Isn't it heartless?"

There was an expectant silence. "Yees," I said, doubtfully, mind racing. "First the single mothers, now the homeless, but I do think the Third World charity thing is vg."

Rebecca shrugged her shoulders prettily at Mark and laughed.

"It's not to do with the homeless, Bridge," he said, looking uncomfortable. "It's to do with tax on selling and buying shares again overnight."

"Yah! I'm going to lose out so much I won't be able to offer you bed and breakfast any more!" hooted Rebecca.

Hated watching her and Mark—perfect together in their black tie. Black tie! Humph. As Jude said, was only because Rebecca wanted to show off figure in country casual gear and evening wear like ghastly Miss World entrant. Right on cue she went: "Shall we change into our swimwear now?"

"I'd rather die in a ditch," I whispered to the whippersnapper.

"Me too. I look like the 'before' in a bullworker ad."

People tripped off to change and I panicked, wondering if could hide on the radiator like at school, pretending it was my period. Was stealing self to compete when Rebecca appeared, stunning in immaculately cut black swimsuit, legs up to the chandelier. Mark gave her long look of pure lust.

"Coming?" she said straight into his eyes.

I should have done something, I should have quipped, "Actually he just did", but knew I was beaten.

"Later," he said with a half-smile, without looking at her.

When she'd swung off to the pool with a provocative backward glance, he came over to me, but in a way that made me feel like draggy older wife with a tight perm and shopping bag full of knitting.

"Are you going to swim?"

"Later," I said miserably.

He paused. Then said a quiet "Okay", went out and shut the door.

There was no one left in dining room. Wandered round miserably picking at chocolates. The door opened. Was the whippersnapper. Drunk.

"Bridget," he lurched forward, and started trying to kiss me in a really unattractive, dog-like way. Just then door burst open again. Was Rebecca and Mark.

"Oops! Sorry!" tittered Rebecca and shut the door.

"What do you think you're doing!" I wailed, horrified, at the whippersnapper.

"But . . . Rebecca said you told her you really fancied me, and, and . . ."

"And what?"

"She said you and Mark were in the process of splitting up."

I grabbed the table for support. "Who told her that?"

"She said . . ." He was running his hand through his hair so distraughtly that I almost felt sorry for him. "She said Mark did."

12st 4 (probably); cigarettes 100,000 (feels like); alcohol units 5 (since midnight and is only 7am); calories 3,275 (ditto)

7am. Weekend at snooty boyfriend-pinching Rebecca's "house-party" was from jaws of Beelzebub and all his sub-devils. Reached Climax of Doom on Saturday night when Rebecca duped her innocent nephew St. John into trying to kiss me then burst in with Mark Darcy at key moment. When we got back to room Mark stormed off to have bath while I sat in tiny nighty, planning my defence.

"It was not what you think," I said when he emerged.

"No?" he said, whisky in hand. He started striding around in his barrister mode, clad only in a towel. Was scary, but unbelievably sexy. "Had you a marble stuck in your throat, perhaps?" he thundered. "Was 'Sinjun' being, rather than the trust-funded teenage layabout he appears, actually a top ear, nose and throat surgeon attempting to extract it with his tongue?"

"No," I said, thoughtfully. "That is not what it was either."

"Then were you hyperventilating? Was 'Sinjun'—having garnered the rudiments of first aid into his marijuana-addled brain, perhaps from a poster on the wall of the many drug "rehab" units he has visited in his short and otherwise uneventful life—trying to administer the kiss of life? Or did he simply mistake you for a choice morsel of "skunk" and find himself unable to . . ."

I started to giggle, I couldn't help myself. "I'm sorry," I said. "It's just . . ."

Then suddenly Mark was upon me, "Oh God, Bridget . . . I . . . Oh . . . oh . . ."

Mmmmmmmmmm. Was fantastic and afterwards we fell asleep in each other's arms. In the morning thought might all be OK, but minute opened eyes and saw him already dressed knew was not anywhere near OK.

"I can explain," I said, dramatically sitting bolt upright. For a moment we looked at each other and started laughing. But then he went serious.

"Go on, then."

"It was Rebecca," I said. "St. John told me Rebecca told him that I told her I fancied him and . . ."

"And you believed him?"

"And that you told her we were . . ."

"Yes?" Suddenly I wanted to cry.

"Splitting up," I whispered.

Mark sat down and rubbed his fingers across his forehead.

"Did you?" I whispered. "Did you say that to Rebecca?"

"No," he said eventually. "I didn't say that to Rebecca, but . . ."

I daren't look at him.

"But maybe we . . ." he began.

The room started to go blotchy. Hate this about dating. One minute you're closer to someone than anyone in the world, next they only need to say the words "Time apart", "serious talk" or "space" and you're never going to see them again and will have to spend the next six months having imaginary conversations in which they beg to come back, and bursting into tears at the sight of the wall.

"You want to split up, don't you?" I said miserably.

Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. Was Rebecca radiant in dusky pink cashmere. "Last call for breakfast folks!" she cooed.

Ended up having to sit with mad unwashed hair, while Rebecca swung her shiny mane and served kedgeree. Mark behaved as though nothing had happened.

On the way home he drove in stormy silence while I struggled not to cry or say anything wet. Know from experience how awful it is trying to persuade someone you shouldn't split up when they have already made up their mind, and then you think back over what you said, and feel such an idiot.

"Don't do this!" I wanted to yell when we stopped outside my house. "She's trying to pinch you and it's all a plot. I didn't kiss St. John. I love you."

"Well, bye then," I said dignifiedly, and forced myself to get out of the car.

"Bye," he muttered not looking at me.

Watched him turn the car round really fast and screechily. As he drove off, I saw him angrily brush his cheek as if he was wiping something away.

When got back in, phone was ringing. Grabbed it, but was just Jude. "Hi!" she said. What do you think about the concept of an older man? 55 maybe, or 60? I mean just in general?"

For a second was distracted from nightmare. "Who is it?" I said, excitedly. "Where did you meet him? Is it Ken Livingstone?" Then I remembered.

"Oh Jude . . ."

"OK. Don't panic, don't panic." she said. "Stay by the phone. I'm coming round."

So now am asleep on floor and Jude and Shaz are in my bed . . . Do not know what would have done without the lovely girls last night.

When Shazzer bustled into the flat with armfuls of carrier bags, barking "Has he rung?" was like being in a hospital ward when the Staff Nurse arrives.

"No," said Jude popping a cigarette in my mouth like a thermometer.

"Only a matter of time," said Shaz, putting a video of Thelma and Louise on top of the television.

"Yup," said Jude unpacking the raspberry pavlova. "He'll be back."

Though plainly not true this was so much the right thing to say that was like being given morphine or opium.

"You've 1471'd I suppose?" said Staff Nurse Shaz airily.

Suddenly the morphine wore off.

"Oh, oh, oh," I wailed, screwing up my eyes.

"Quick get her a drink, get her a drink," yelled Shaz.

"Put Thelma and Louise on," gabbled Jude.

Was like being patient in E.R., having a cardiac arrest and realising even the doctors are frightened by your condition.

"I'm a love-pariah," I sobbed, "I thought heggggg . . ."

Was silenced by half a Twix, followed by neat brandy and pizza.

Was a bit like Christmas, or like when somebody dies and with all the funerals and fuss nothing is normal so people are distracted. Is when life goes back to what it was without the person and you have to go to work that the trouble starts. Like now, for example.

Number of times driven past Mark Darcy's house: 2 (vg); no of times looked up Mark Darcy's name in phone book to prove still exists: 18 (poor); 1471-calls: 12 (better); phone calls from Mark: 0 (tragic)

HAVE somehow got through three days since being chucked by Mark Darcy without calling him. Still no word from him. Recurring fear that Rebecca has stolen him is like periodically being disembowelled by electric carving knife. Keep thinking if had done this or that would have been different.

As if relationships are a game of skill and was chucked because I am too stupid to play rules properly. Am Love Pariah. Am going to be on own for rest of life with never any love or children or—oooh goody, new e-mail!

"Subject: Urgent top-level matters.

"Message: Should we be getting on with work instead of constantly e-mailing each other all day? Please e-mail back, urgent, with view—Jude."

Love e-mail—so much better than phone as short stream of consciousness and can take time to work out amusing replies. Love, also, Jude and Shaz constantly keeping in touch to make sure do not go over the . . . Gaaaaah!

Was bloody Richard Finch prancing about, portly frame squeezed into his worst bri-nylon Jarvis Cocker outfit and bellowing. Honestly, being chucked is much more detrimental to ability to work than having eg cold or whiplash or something, and yet . . .. Gaaaaaah!

"BRIDGUUUUUUUUUUT! Stop bloody staring at me with your mouth open like a moron. I'm thinking welfare to work, I'm thinking disability lobby - get me a person on disability allowance with nothing bloody well wrong with them in the studio. Get them to tell us why they think they bloody well deserve it."

I stared at him, feeling my eyes filling up with tears. You see I did have something wrong with me, ie broken heart, and yet . . .

"Ok, ok," said Richard, holding his hands out in front of him and backing off. "I know, I know, you're a pinko who cares about Africans and crips, just don't make me feel like I've murdered a puppy, all right?"

Hah! You see, something good comes out of everything. Without even trying, have given the impression of being marvellous caring person and got out of doing any work.

7pm: Hard to keep spirits from sinking, though. Got home to no message from Mark. Am not going to wait obsessively for phone to ring, though.

7.03pm: Mark Darcy has not rung.

7.04pm: Still has not rung. Thought was in purgatory between hell of chuckeedom and heaven of chucking redemption, but now realise was in hell all along. Hurrah, telephone!

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?"

Grrr. Was my mother.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" Hate the way she does this, repeating herself in manner of parrot until . . .

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?"

"WHAAAAAAAT?"

"There's no need to shout," she said, huffily. "Anyway. You know Una and I have been skiing the Net?"

"Surfing," I as usual corrected.

"Durrrr! Of course we haven't been surfing, darling! Skiing the Internet: you know—on these computers! Well! We're going to be on the e-mail! You just press 'send' and off it goes—marvellous!—but the thing is, what happens if you're not plugged in and someone sends you a message? Where does it go?"

Various emergencies raced through my brain, principally:

1) Horror of Mum discovering new form of communication with which to terrorise me. Only reassuring thing was near-certainty she would never actually use e-mail, since extent of her "skiing the Net" was to take one look at start-up page, say: "Well that's very silly, isn't it?", then never look at it again.

2) Horror of Mum—who is friends with Mark's parents—finding out about chucking and whole of Grafton Underwood lifeboat/Rotary scene being permeated by sense of self's romantic incompetence.

"Anyway, darling, Daddy and Una and I are coming up to see Miss Saigon tomorrow, so we thought we'd take you and Mark out for supper. Isn't that fun! When are you two coming home for Easter? We're having the egg hunt in the rockery again . . ."

"Mum, I've really got to go . . ."

"Oooh—did I tell you Mavis and Brian's daughter Julie's having her third? You know Julie, darling—that married Geoffrey who . . ."

Oh God. Cannot bear thought of Easter, wondering where Mark is without me, also whole summer stretching ahead, hot balmy days and tiny dresses and everyone else in couples rushing home from work to have sex with each other, and me just on own for rest of days going to die alone and be found half-eaten by dog.

Think will have Jaffa cake.

Thursday, March 26

Midnight: We're in Dad's car on way to restaurant, Dad driving with Una in the front, Mum and me in the back when incident happened. Mum had just plonked a pair of enormous, gold-trimmed glasses on her nose. 
"I didn't know you'd started wearing glasses, Mum," I was saying, startled by this uncharacteristic nod in the direction of acknowledging the ageing process.

"I haven't started wearing glasses," she snapped. "Mind that Belisha beacon, Colin."

"But," I said, "you are."

"No, no, no! I only wear them for driving."

"But, you're not driving," I said. At which I caught Dad's eye in the rear view mirror, just as she yelled: "Mind that Fiesta! Hoot him!"

"I'm afraid she thinks she is," he said.

"Isn't that Mark?" said Una suddenly. "I thought he was working."

"Where?" said Mum, bossily.

With dumb horror I followed Una's pointing finger to where, Mark, dressed in his dark blue overcoat and a very white, undone shirt, looking so gorgeous, so lovely, was paying a taxi.

As if in slow motion, I saw a figure emerging from the back of the cab: tall, slim with long dark hair, laughing up into his face and taking his arm.

It was Rebecca.

8st 13lb (solitary upturn to scenario); fantasy show-downs with Rebecca: 402; minutes not spent having imaginary conversations with Mark: 35 (approx.); No. correct lottery numbers: 2 (better).

AM through with love. Two nights ago was driving back from hideous post-Miss Saigon dinner with Mum, Dad and Auntie Una when I and everyone in the car (none of whom knew we had split up) saw Mark Darcy emerging from a taxi with hateful Rebecca. Had to pretend I knew all about it and she'd been at the same work meeting as him. Then got back to find message from Mark, after entire week of silence, which said . . .

Gaaah! Better go. Latest part of my "treatment" by staff nurses Jude and Shazzer is programme of evening movie-going to stop me obsessing. Last night was Jackie Brown—largely incomprehensible but fantastic because of 44-year-old, beautiful, sexy, independent heroine. Tonight is As Good As It Gets.

Midnight: "Bastards!" Shazzer was ranting slurrily, slurping chardonnay in front of my fire. "Until we see a sequel to Driving Miss Daisy in which Jessica Tandy gives Leonardo DiCaprio a full with-tongues on screen, I do not want to see one more sexually imbalanced attempt at mass social indoctrination by dirty old men studio bosses where some wrinkly elderly gentleman—even if it is Jack bloody Nicholson—gets off with a gorgeous young woman."

"Ugh, ugh," said Jude, reaching for the bottle. "When he snogged Helen Hunt I just wanted to go GAAAAAAAAH! and run out of the cinema."

"But what was he doing with Rebecca? What? What?" I wailed.

They looked at each other nervously, like top consultant brain surgeons none of whose treatments is working.

"OK," said Shaz wearily. "They might have come back from some dinner party of their ghastly mutual friend Charles Barking Pooh-Bottom . . ."

"They might have met at some City do," continued Jude. "And then she forced herself into his taxi!"

"So why were they getting out together not near either of their houses?" I muttered.

"With respect," said Jude, going into her merchant banker-in-board-meeting work mode. "I think we need to be looking at all of this in the light of Mark's message."

"Play it back again," said Shaz. I pressed Message Play:

"Hi, Bridget. We seem to have totally lost touch. I really think, whatever, I . . . I'm really. We - at least I feel I owe it to you to be friends, so I hope you'll . . . we'll. Oh God, anyway, give me a ring sometime soon. If you want to."

"'Seem to have totally lost touch'," snorted Shazzer. "As if it's nothing to do with him. Pah! 'I owe it to you to be friends'. Who does he bloody think he is?"

"Well, wait a minute," said Jude. "He was starting to say . . ."

"Shut up!" said Shaz. " 'Owe it to you!' Hggnah!"

I was really cross about that, too. Had spent all day rehearsing reply, in fact. "Yeah," I slurred,

" 'Owe it to me!' I feel like telling him. I feel like saying . . ."

"Yeah, tell him," said Shaz. "You should say, 'Honey, I don't need anyone in my life because they owe it to me'."

"Yur exactly," I said. "I'm gon tellim. I'm going say, 'Listen, I have got the best, most . . .' "

At that moment the phone rang.

"Hi." It was Mark. Heart was inconveniently overtaken with great wave of love.

"Hi," I said eagerly, mouthing "it's him" at the others.

"Did you get your message. I mean my message?" He sounded really miserable. Shazzer was jabbing my leg frantically, hissing, "Give it to him, go on."

"Yes, I did get your message," I said with dignity. "But as I got it minutes after I'd seen you emerging from a taxi with Rebecca, I wasn't in the most amenable of humours."

Shaz stuck her fist in the air going "Yesss!!!" and Jude put her hand over Shazzer's mouth, gave me a thumbs up and reached for the chardonnay.

There was silence on the end of the phone.

"Bridge, why do you always have to jump to conclusions?"

I paused, hand over mouthpiece. "He says I'm jumping to conclusions," I hissed, at which Shaz, furious made a lunge for it.

"Jump to conclusions?" I said hurriedly. "Rebecca's been making a play for you for three months, you chuck me without giving a reason. You don't call me, then next thing I see you getting out of taxi at half past eleven at night with Rebecca in tow."

"But it wasn't my fault, I can explain, and I just had called you."

"Yes—to say you thought you owed it to me to be my friend."

"But . . ."

"Go on!" hissed Shaz.

I took a big breath "Owed it to me? Honey . . ." At this Jude and Shaz collapsed on each other in ecstasy. Honey! Was practically being Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction.

"I don't need anyone in my life because they owe it to me." I went on hoity-toitily. "I have got the best, most loyal, wise, intelligent, witty, caring, supportive friends in the world. And if I were still to be your friend after the way you've treated me . . ."

"But . . . what way?" He sounded anguished.

"If I was," I was practically crying with self-pity now—"If I was still your friend after that, you would be really lucky, not me."

"All right, you've said enough," said Mark. "If you won't allow me to explain, I won't pester you with phone calls. Bye."

I replaced the handset, stunned, and looked round at the wise, intelligent, caring, supportive, witty friends. Sharon was lying on the rug, waving a fag triumphantly in the air and leafing through the pages of Marie Claire, while Jude was slumped with her head on a cushion, slurping chardonnay straight from the bottle. "Bridge," said Shaz, looking up at me drunkenly. "Do you think I should have these hair extensions in colours put in, just really thin ones? God, d'you know? When I look at you from this angle, you've got a real double-chin."

9st 1; cigarettes 14 (better); Instants 2 (vg); calories 3,824 (but no need to restrain eating since only a matter of time till arrival of anti-fat drug); 1471 calls 13 (g); minutes not spent a) crying b) reliving lovely times with Mark Darcy or c) obsessing re: Mark and Rebecca 52 (excellent progress); alcohol units 5: not fault of self—or society—but of low self-discipline.

10.30am: WAKE up Britain office. Hurrah! Cannot wait for lovely new fat-blocking drug to come out when will be able to eat exactly what want and still lose 10 per cent of weight which surely means almost one stone. Soon they will come out with a drug which lets you smoke without getting cancer and drink as much as you like without making a fool of yourself or getting a hangover. . . Gaaaaaah!

Was Richard Finch, enormous bacon sandwich falling out of his mouth, bellowing. "Bridguuuuuuuuuuut, I said Self discipline! Self discipline! Well?"

"Marvellous! I'm all for it," I purred smoothly. "What about it?"

At this, the great overdressed quivering creature started knocking on the top of my head in a really quite sexist and offensive manner.

"Hello? Hello?" he was yelling. "Have you seen the papers this morning at all? I'm talking New Self Discipline. I'm talking Faking It book. Get me one of those professors in the studio to call us a cry-baby nation of holistic, vegetarian, vicar-hugging ninnies and slag off Princess Diana."

"Slag off Princess Diana?" I said indignantly. "Certainly not."

"Shut up and do what you're told or I'll have you in the studio as an exhibit for the other side," he said. "Now read the story—and get on the bloody phone."

11am: Have read story now. Honestly. Obviously Great Outpouring of Grief after Diana death was not people being sentimental or faking it but because of the media in modern world allowing one to have daily contact with famous people for years and years as if they are one of your friends. If one of your friends who you really quite like—even if they did drive you a bit nuts sometimes—dies young, suddenly and violently in a car accident, you will grieve for them. So was just normal shocked grieving reaction demonstrated by 50 million people at the same time. Also how could you turn yourself out like Princess Diana did every day, going to all those dinners without being fat, going all round world—landmines, photographers, work, work, work—always v. smart and fit if are not self disciplined? Anyway self discipline is not everything. Look at Pol Pot. Aargh!

"I said get on the phone and get me a professor," hissed Richard beerily in my ear.

1pm: You see. If tracking down 12 professors all over globe in space of 2 hours is not self discipline then do not know what is.

"The book professors are all unavailable," I told Richard Finch who was lolling with his fat, pink trousered legs up on the desk, munching on a fairy cake.

"What—all of them?"

"Yup," I said smugly." Professor O'Hear is booked up, Professor Capaldi's in. . ."

"Look," he said, cramming the rest of the fairy cake into his mouth. "The whole bloody country's full of professors, lounging around senior common rooms drinking sherry, writing pointless papers while the rest of us have to work for a living. Just get me any professor to do the New Self Discipline bit by 3 o'clock—or you're in trouble."

2pm: Have got one!—Professor Michael O'Harlotte of Social Studies who says he will do the ranting as long as we mention his book, Kindness: the New Hysteria, with the price and publisher, show it on camera for five seconds and pay him 400 quid.

3pm: Professor arrived looking like Worzel Gummidge, saying: "I say, I am having hair and make up aren't I? And wardrobe—I mean this is all very last minute. I'll need a suit. And I don't want the back of my head showing."

"See to it Bridget, will you?" said Richard Finch, then proceeded to wind himself and the professor into an orgiastic blathering frenzy.

"I mean, just so sentimental, so self-indulgent," the professor was saying. "In the self obsessive universe she inhabited—the neurotic demand for pity, for praise, the total disallowal of accountability, of duty - oh look, really, no," he said as the wardrobe lady held up a smart grey suit. "No. Not grey. I'm sorry. Look I'm very busy. This is very stressful. I'm not prepared to have my image manipulated in front of the entire nation if I have no. . . Oh are these for me?" he said noticing the wine and sandwiches.

"Well actually they're for all the guests after the programme," I said. "We're supposed to ask people not to drink before the show. But I'm sure you could have a sandwich if you're hungry, and there's tea."

4pm: Went off to help the wardrobe lady get more outfits and could not believe what found when returned to hospitality room.

"How's it going?" snapped Richard Finch, as I approached.

"Fine," I said uncertainly. "Except he's drunk a whole bottle of wine and eaten all the sandwiches."

7pm: Was all going so well. Filled professor up with damage limiting coffee and mineral water and he was perfect on air, thundering: "Where is self discipline on our national agenda? Where is restraint? Why this ennobling of weakness, of spontaneity. . ." Then suddenly Marion, the presenter said: "Actually, professor, we have some film shot earlier by our security cameras in the hospitality suite which might help to illuminate your points."

Up popped grainy film of nervous professor cramming last of sandwiches into mouth, glugging entire plastic cup of wine straight down, and shoving empty bottle in bin. Have had to spend last 45 minutes attempting to placate incandescent professor who says he is going to sue me for allowing secret filming of him to be broadcast without his permission.

9st 0lb (vg); alcohol units: 3 (vg); cigarettes: 12 (exemplary); calories: 3,984 (off food)

8.05pm. V. much like looking at pictures of Robin Cook and Gaynor. Unsure why exactly, but certain is something to do with sex. Love idea of them getting ready to go out in evening dress together, all that bridled passion suddenly unbridled. Why does not Gaynor smile, though? Cannot help idea that she has huge black gaps in teeth in manner of pirate and, if once opened floodgates of smiling, would loose demure exterior and run round in eyepatch brandishing cutlass going, "Garrrrr! You black-livered devils from hell, I'm gonner eat yer kidneys."

Oh God, though. Suddenly imagine how would feel if suddenly saw pictures of Mark and Rebecca in full evening dress and stories of Mark darting round to open doors for Rebecca. Would be enough to make self want to tear out own kidneys and eat them. Hate idea of Margaret Cook—is she still called that, though?—having to look at hurtful photos. Funny how everyone is suddenly wearing camouflage trousers. Gaaaah! telephone.

Was Jude and Shaz saying, Where am I?, as supposed to be in 192.

Midnight. In 192 Shaz was going on about Paul and Linda. "I mean, 29 years and they only spent one night apart from each other," she said shaking her head.

"How can that be?" I said. "How? How? How?"

"Maybe some people are from a different sub-species, genetically programmed to be faithful partners for ever," Jude suggested.

"Like ducks," I agreed.

"Ducks, Bridge?" said Shazzer coldly.

"Yes, ducks are the only species which mate for life."

"Duck are the only species that gang-bang, more like," hiccupped Jude. "Apart from humans."

Unfortunately we were unable to explore the full depths of our combined zoological knowledge because Sharon suddenly released a hissing noise, like a swan having a cygnet stolen.

It was Rebecca, in top to toe Prada, talking into her mobile. For a second she looked horrified and embarrassed, then collected herself.

"Hi, hi, hi," she said, blowing kisses then talking back into the mobile. "Camilla, I'm in 192. I've just come in to look for Johnny, but he's not here. See you in five. Got to run," she said to us, making as if to go. "See you! Love you! Mwah!" But Shazzer jumped to her feet.

"Not so fast," she snarled, grabbing Rebecca by the ear.

"But ... but."

"Just sit down here and shut up."

"What on Earth do you think you're doing? I have to be at the RCA in 15 minutes," Rebecca hissed. Shaz was twisting Rebecca's arm behind her back now.

"Rebecca," Jude began, pleasantly. "Would you say that you were a friend of ours."

"Of course," she said furiously.

"And of Bridget's?"

"Let me go or I'll call the police."

"Are you a friend of Bridget's or not," said Shazzer, jerking on the armlock like something out of LA Confidential.

"Yes, ow, yes, stoppit."

"Then what," said Jude, suddenly banging her fist down on the table in a manner quite unlike her, "are you doing pinching Bridget's boyfriend?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yes, you do," I said. "Priming your nephew to make a pass at me during that countryhouse weekend, then bursting in on me with Mark. Flirting with him for three months before that. And what were you doing getting out of a taxi with him one week after we'd split up?"

"Bridget," said Rebecca, in a ghastly treacle smirk-voice. "Blame is not a helpful way of dealing with rejection. You have to own your pain without ..."

"Shuddup, you patronising old bag," said Shaz. "Are you shagging him or not?"

"Mark and I have a very precious friendship," said Rebecca primly.

"Yeah right, you've only known him three months," growled Shaz.

"He needs my support at this difficult ..."

"Shall I tell you something, Rebecca?" Jude interrupted dangerously. "Sometimes it seems like the people who get what they want in life are the ruthless, selfish, determined ones with no integrity and skins like elephant hide, who don't mind who they manipulate or trample on or bully on the way to get it. But actually I don't think that's true. The one thing a girl can rely on in life is her girlfriends. And you, Rebecca, are a rubbish girlfriend. No matter how much you swan in here saying 'Mwah' to us, we'll never, ever, like you again."

"No, we bloody well won't," said Shazzer. "We know you've pinched Mark Darcy."

"But you won't pinch him for very long," said Jude. "Because, although like any man he's capable of being seduced away for a while by a bossy, determined, ruthless operator, in the end it's Bridget he loves because she's honest and funny and sweet-natured and kind and bloody well worth 10 of you."

At this point was so pleased with self that could hardly contain own smugness. "Waiter!" I said imperiously, swinging round to demand celebratory bottle of chardonnay for marvellous new self when saw familiar chest ahead of me in dark grey shirt, slightly unbuttoned so could see beginnings of hairy chest. Looked up, struggling with overwhelming sense of being in massive sexual charge-field, to see Mark looking down at me with just the sweetest, tenderest expression in his brown eyes. How much had he heard?

"Let go of me!" Rebecca macawed out, dramatically wriggling in Shazzer's arm lock. "Help me, Markee, they're mad, get me away."

Shazzer was starting to get to her feet and do ranting, but Mark stopped her.

"Sharon," he said authoritatively. "Much as you doubtless think I deserve the f***wittage ranting speech, will you save it for another time? There are moments in life - and I think this is one of them—when women are best left to sort things out between themselves, and a man's place is somewhere remote in the Bhutanese highlands."

Next I felt him touch me on the back of my neck. "Talk to you soon," he said softly. And then he was gone.