9st 1oz (excellent); alcohol units: 4; cigarettes: 24 (entirely understandable).

8am: Gaah! Gaaaah! Doorbell!.

8.05am: Was Magda's builder, Gary. Forgot he was coming round to put shelves up. "Ah! Super! Hello! Could you come back in 10 minutes. I'm just in the middle of something," I trilled, then doubled up, cringing in nighty. What would I be in the middle of? Sex? Making a vase on a potter's wheel which absolutely couldn't be left in case it dried funny?

Still had wet hair when doorbell rang again. Felt surge of middle-class guilt as Gary smirked at decadence of those who loll idly in bed while a whole different world of genuine hardworking folk have been up for so long is practically time for their lunch.

"Would you care for some tea or coffee?" I said graciously.

"Yeah. Cup of tea. Four sugars, but don't stir it."

I looked at him for a moment, wondering if this was a joke or a bit like smoking cigarettes but not inhaling. "Right," I said, "right," and started making the tea, at which Gary sat down at kitchen table and lit up a fag. Unfortunately, however, when came to pour out tea realised did not have any milk or sugar.

He looked at me incredulously, surveying the array of empty wine bottles. "No milk or sugar?"

"The milk's . . . er . . . just run out and actually I don't know anybody who takes sugar in . . . though of course it's great to . . . er . . . to take sugar," I tailed off.

"I'll just pop to the shop."

When came back thought somehow he might have got his tools out of the van, but he was still sitting there, and started telling long complicated story about coarse fishing on reservoir near Hendon. Was like business lunch where everyone chats away from the subject for so long it becomes too embarrassing to destroy fantasy of delightful purely social occasion. Eventually, I crashed into the seamlessly incomprehensible fish anecdote with, "Right! Shall I show you what I want doing?" and instantly realised had made crass, hurtful gaffe, suggesting that I was not interested in Gary as person but merely as workman, so had to re-enter fish anecdote to make amends.

When finally got into office found meeting in full swing.

"We definitely shouldn't cover it. I'm like, what is it with this Mary Bell media feeding frenzy?" Patchouli was mouthing off.

"Bridget," said Richard Finch. "Nice to see you here so early for a change. What do you think?"

"Well, I don't like it, but I can see why everyone wants to read about it," I said.

"Really? Will you share this incisive shard of insight with us?"

"Hmmm," I began thoughtfully. "It's partly a Silence-of-Lambs-style ghoulishness made OK by fact that Gitta thingummy thinks it vital that people like us should understand the minds of child killers; it's partly one-upmanship at the thought that the scary intellectual writer may have made an error of judgment; and also massive fit of national self-righteousness that for once we've found something which unconfusingly seems Wrong and gives legitimate reason for being furious someone else getting more money than you."

There was an impressed (I think) pause.

"So how would you feel if you, like, suddenly found out your mother was a child killer," Patchouli muttered. 
Fighting back rogue, unforgivable "Not in least surprised" thought, I said: "It's unthinkable. And the money should set up a help-charity for victims' parents. But I was just explaining the media-fest."

Have been given an item to do on green cars. "That's environmentally green, Bridget," said Richard Finch. "Not green-coloured."

6pm: Peaceful day. Became clear early on green car item would never make it, so was free to fantasise re Mark Darcy while ordering up captions for other people's items. Am certain, after last week's meeting, that Mark does not really like Rebecca and maybe they are not going out. Also, because Mark whispered "Talk to you soon", have formed impression that he is about to call and invite me away for Bank Holiday mini-break. Will probably be message at home. And new shelves. Hurrah!

8pm: Got back to find Gary still there. "What do you think?" he said proudly. "They're great! They're great!" I gushed, feeling mouth going into funny tight shape. "There's just one little thing. Do you think you could make it so the supports are all in line with each other?"

Shelves, in fact, were put up in mad asymmetrical matter with supports here, there and everywhere, different on each layer.

"Ah well, now, you see . . ." he began, at which the telephone rang. Dived for it. Was Magda.

"Hey! How's Gary doing?" she said. "I thought you said Mark and Rebecca aren't going out."

"Um . . ." I said, feeling an evil snake-razor slithering through me.

"I don't really know how to tell you this, hon. We were at Cosmo Barton-Hodge's for dinner last night and they were there together."

"Well maybe they both know him . . . or maybe she got herself invited because . . . er . . ."

"Well maybe, except that they're going away together this weekend. Up to the Altnaharrie Inn, in Scotland."

Slumped against wall to find Gary looking at me oddly.

"They're fine, absolutely lovely just like that," I gabbled, desperate to get him out of the house so I could burst into tears.

"Weeeell, I could come back tomorrow," he started, taking out his spirit level. "But you see . . ."

Have just paid Gary £120 in cash for insane shelves. Actually maybe they will be OK when books are in. Also maybe Rebecca is just forcing Mark's hand and . . . Ooh, doorbell.

Was my mother, bursting in with armfuls of Country Casuals carrier bags.

"Oh hello, darling. What on earth is that on the wall. Is it supposed to be shelves? It looks like something out of Blue Peter! Now what's all this about your Mark carrying on with someone called Rebecca?"

Fear am on point of becoming mother murderer and writing book about it to pay for builder. Ugh. Why did mind think such a thought?

9st 1; cigarettes 13; alcohol units 4; moments of happiness 1 (while asleep).

9pm: Having got rid of a) the builder and b) my mother, sat down, shaking at unbearable rumour that Mark Darcy was going to Scotland with Rebecca for Bank Holiday. Mind thrashed wildly through monster thought: Mark and Rebecca together, romantic on highland beach—her in oatmeal sweater, looking perfect even in wind, running after sticks—while self sulked alone eating alternate spoonfuls of jam and dry muesli resolving to go to gym then not doing.

Instinct was to call him immediately—give him earful then cry and beg him in sheep's voice to take me to Scotland me, me, me, me, but sensed this was not the right thing. Happily Shaz rang from 192 so am off to meet them.

Midnight: "Don't call him." Shazzer was ranting. "He's being a total fuckwit. Why didn't he speak out for himself when he found us all in here torturing Rebecca?"

"Because he thought it was going to set you off into a lecture about fuckwittage," said Jude.

"He's a barrister, isn't he?" bellowed Shaz. "He ought to be able to bloody defend himself."

"Men hate confrontation."

"Hate confrontation? Of course they hate confrontation," roared Shaz. "That's just male propaganda so they can behave as horribly as they like and make women terrified of objecting. It's back to the Middle Ages. It's Hutus and Tutsis. It's practically bloody SLAVERY!"

"Shaz, have you got PMT?" said Jude, not particularly feministically, "What is he doing, though, Bridge? He's obviously still in love with you."

"What? Why?" I said eagerly.

"His eyes go all gooey when he looks at you." Basked radiantly at notion. "But why chuck you for no apparent reason?"

"No apparent reason?" snorted Shaz. "If a bossy ruthless self-seeking jellyfisher Rebecca is no apparent reason then I am a bowl of soup."

Briefly imaged Shaz as soup: little head floating crossly between croutons, snapping at male spoons.

"But Rebecca is no apparent reason," said Jude. "He can't prefer her to Bridget, it's beyond all human sense. He must think Bridget doesn't want him."

"But how can he think that? How? How?" I said.

"Have you said anything to make him think otherwise?"

I thought about this thoughtfully. Truth is, although have had many fantasies about same, have never done it. Am so confused by different theories - men wanting to be pursuer. . . seemed better to keep self aloof.

12.05am: Anyway now am home have resolved to tell him how feel.

12.06: Was answerphone, "Hi, Mark here. I'm going to be away till Tuesday so leave a message and I'll get back to you." Oh. Oh. Oh.

Tuesday, May 5

Just got back in from work and doorbell rang. Hurrah! Mark Darcy! Back from Scotland saying it's all been a terrible mistake.

"It's Gary," went the entryphone.

"Oh hi, hi, Gareeeee!" I overcompensated without a blind idea who he was. "How are you?"

"Cold. Are you gonna let me in?" Recognised the builder's voice. "Oh Gary," I gushed even more overcompensatorarily. "Come up!!!"

Hit self hard on head. What was he doing here?

"Hi," he said, plonking self down at the kitchen table as if he was my husband or something. Was unsure how to deal with two-people-in-room-with-totally-different-concepts of-normality scenario.

"Now, Gary," I said. "I'm in a bit of a rush. Have to go out in a mo!"

He said nothing and started rolling a cigarette. Suddenly began to feel scared. Maybe he was a mad rapist, or. . . 

"Was there something you'd forgotten?" I said in a high, strangled voice.

"Nope," he said, still rolling the cigarette. I glanced at the door wondering whether if I dashed for it, he'd grab me and strangle me. Then he said: "No There's something I've thought of. You could get an infill extension between..." The phone rang. I dived for it.

"Bridget, it's Mark."

"If you could get planning. . ." Gary went on.

"Have you got someone there?" said Mark.

"Er, yes I have actually, but he's just, er. Can I call you back?"

"Oh don't worry. I just got one of these phones which tell you which numbers have called. . ."

I nearly screamed. I must have rung his answerphone 28 times over the weekend.

". . .and I realised you'd called my answerphone rather a lot. Call me when you can, OK? Bye."

I slumped dizzily at the kitchen table.

"You could get a second bedroom in," Gary was ploughing on. "Mind you, I'll have to look at the soil pipe."

"Gareeeeeeeee!" I wanted to yell. "Go away. Just go away. He hasn't rung me for three weeks and now you've wrecked it with your mad soil pipe in full gibberish."

"Little roof terrace on top. . ."

"Roof terrace?"

"Mind you, your boiler's in your bathroom isn't it? Ah well, you see. Let's have a look."

"Noooo!" I yelled, remembering there was an open tub of Jolene bleach and packet of Lil-lets on the washbasin.

"Look, can you come back another. . .

"Where does the soil pipe go?"

"Gary," I said, drawing myself up to my full height. "I'm very keen to discuss all this but you've just got to go away. I've got to make a phone call."

He gave a knowing grin. "I'll be here at 8 o'clock in the morning."

8pm: Goody, can call Mark.

8.01pm: Was answerphone. What to do? Gaaah! Telephone.

9.01pm: "Hello?" I said eagerly.

"Bridget," Mark said in such a lovely way.

"How's things!" I said chirpily not wanting any horribleness." "I see Arsenal won!" Ended up having mad conversation about Arsenal's solid England midbacks and dazzlingly prancing forward strikers. Was lovely, all the old tender flirty playfulness until he said "Well, best be going", at which I wailed: "WHEEEEEEERE? You've been to Scotland with Rebecca, haven't you?. You're going out with her instead of me. Why? Why?"

There was a long silence.

"Because," he said simply, eventually. "I didn't know you cared."

9st 4lb (bloated with general horror); cigarettes: 17 (ugh); alcohol units: (unable to think about same); calories: 3,752 (poor).

8.30am: "Didn't know you cared?" Shazzer was snorting in 192 last night. "What is he talking about? You had a lovely happy relationship. You were evidently crazy about him. Did he have to chuck you and go off with Rebecca to reassure himself that you'd be devastated? I hope you told him to sod off."

"Yup, yup, yup," I said, nodding obediently while trying not to meet either Jude's or Shazzer's eyes.

"Bridget?" said Jude suspiciously.

"Mmm?" I said innocently.

"Did you tell him to sod off?"

"Well . . . in a roundabout sort of . . ."

"Oh, God." Shazzer crashed her head on to the table. "You slept with him, didn't you?"

"Well . . ." I began, querulously, then started giggling.

The thing was, after I lost my self-control on the telephone and wailed "You've been to Scotland with Rebecca haven't you? Why? Why?" and Mark said, softly, "Because I didn't know you cared," we got so moony with each other and he only lives five minutes away it seemed more sensible to talk in person. Also pre-events were not exactly as Shaz described. He ran all the way and when he appeared he was so sexy and dishevelled with his shirt all undone. He'd picked some flowers out of the communal gardens and had this totally hungry, passionate yet tender look in his eye and it was just . . . impossible not to.

Fortunately Jude, just back from Paris, had already self-obsessively changed the subject.

"It's just so . . . civilised in Paris. There's this sense that people enjoying themselves is taken seriously by the city. Why don't we use our river like that? Why don't we have a pedestrian bridge like the Pont des Arts, where everyone can hang out and drink wine and play guitars and . . ."

"Yes! yes!" I gabbled, eager to keep conversation off my transgression. "They should have made us a lovely new Millennium pedestrian bridge with pavement cafes and restaurants underneath, instead of the stupid Millennium Dome. They could have a Millennium Bridge in every major city, with the rivers running underneath symbolising the ceaseless passage of time and the bridge bridging the two banks like bridging the two . . ."

"Shut up, Bridge," said Shazzer, coldly. "You're drunk."

"Millennium pissed Bridges in every major bar, more like," giggled Jude. "Anyway, I've got some news."

"What?" I said, sulkily.

"I'm getting married."

Shazzer and I gawped in mute horror as Jude looked down, blushing winningly. "I know, isn't it wonderful? I think when I chucked him the last time he realised you don't know what you've got till it's gone - and that finally jerked him into being able to commit!"

Finally jerked him into realising he'd have to get a bloody job if he couldn't live off you any more, more like, could not help self thinking.

"Er, Jude," Shaz began bravely. "Did you say you were marrying Vile Richard?"

"Yes," said Jude. "And I wondered - will you two be bridesmaids?"

Is doom. Doom! Jude must not marry Vile Richard because a) he is mad, b) he is vile: Vile by name and vile by nature, c) is intolerable to have to dress up as pink puffball and walk down aisle with all . . . oh, God, I'm so hungover. Gaaaaaaah! Doorbell. Maybe Mark.

It's Gary the builder. Again.

Noon: Wake Up Britain office. Cannot have Gary coming round every morning like this. This time he produced cappuccinos, beaming all over his face like they were an engagement ring or something. "Thought you might not have any milk," he said smugly. Grrr. Is something about Gary which always makes him have the upper hand. Worse was yesterday, when had to not let him in as Mark was still here and he waited outside in his van till Mark left, then was all smirky about it. "It'll never work," he said as he snuffled around in the soil pipe.

"Why not," I said, glowering at him in my dressing gown.

"Anyone who gets you in a state like he does isn't looking after you proper, is he?"

Humph. Trouble is, last night with Jude and Shazzer felt v. confident and high-spirited about whole Mark thing, as seemed so obvious that he really loves me and was going to tell Rebecca. But now he has not rung and am supposed to be setting up mock trial of Emma Noble, with prosecution (made up of people who love appearing on TV going on about things about which they know nothing and are none of their business anyway) saying she is just engaged to James Major to advance her career; and defence saying it is True Love. Cannot concentrate on beyond-stupid item. Ugh. So hungover. This is what have consumed this morning in feeble attempt to ease sick, acidic feeling in stomach: 1 carton orange juice: 300; 2 Müller Light yogurts: 200; 2 apples: 80; 1 banana: 80; 3 pots of coffee (small): 0; most of past sell-by date Tesco sushi: 300 maybe. So 1,060 already. Doom. Oooh goody, telephone.

Was Magda saying do I want to go round tonight. Better than spending evening staring psychopathically at phone.

11pm: . . .I thought. Huh.

"How's Gary doing? On the potty, on the POTTY." Magda was breezing round her immaculate blond-wood kitchen, casually cooking something delicious-smelling and herb-strewn, while the children pooed playfully on the floor.

"Well. His mate at the planning office says we'll definitely get permission, so he wants to knock a hole in the wall. But . . ."

"Bridge," said Magda, sitting down at the table and looking at me hard. "I want to ask you if you mind about something."

"What?" I said vaguely. "You see, the thing about Gary is . . ."

"Rebecca called me today."

A great surge of hope surged through me. "Did Mark tell her we're getting back together?" I said eagerly, thinking it's summer, the nightmare's over, it's all going to be all right.

"Er, not exactly. She and Mark are having a dinner party on Saturday. She wanted to know if Jeremy and I would come."

9st 1lb; alcohol units: 3 (vg); cigarettes: 12 (excellent); calories: 3,425 (off food); minutes spent planning how to stop Jude and Vile Richard having doom wedding: 247; minutes spent planning own perfect-style wedding: 835.

JUDE has gone completely mad. Went round her house last night to find entire place strewn with bridal magazines, lace swatches, gold-sprayed raspberries, tureen and grapefruit-knife brochures, terracotta pots with weeds in and bits of straw.

"I want a gurd," she was saying, "or is it a yurd? Moroccan instead of a marquee. It's like a nomad's tent in Afghanistan. And long-stemmed patinated oil-burners."

"What are you wearing?" I said, leafing through pictures of embroidered stick-thin models with flower arrangements on their heads and wondering whether to call an ambulance.

"I'm having it made. Abe Hamilton! Lace and lots of cleavage."

"What cleavage?" muttered Shaz, murderously.

"That's what they should call Loaded magazine," I giggled.

"I'm sorry?" said Jude, coldly.

"You know, What Cleavage?, like What Car?"

"It's not What Car?, it's Which Car?," said Shaz.

"Girls," said Jude, over-pleasantly, like a gym mistress about to make us stand in the corridor in our knickers. "Can we get on?"

Weird how "we" had crept in. Suddenly was not Jude's wedding, but our wedding, and we were having to do all these mad tasks like tying straw round 150 patinated oil burners and going away to a health farm to give Jude a shower.

"Can I just say something?" said Shaz.

"Yes," said Jude.

"Don't bloody marry Vile Richard! He's an unreliable, selfish, idle, unfaithful ----wit from Hell. If you marry him, he'll take half your money and run off with a bimbo. I know they're introducing the pre-nuptial agreements Act but ..." Jude went all quiet. Suddenly realised—feeling her shoe hit my shin—that I was supposed to back Shazzie up.

"Listen to this," I said, hopefully, reading from the Bride's Wedding Guide. "Best Man: the groom should ideally choose a level-headed, responsible person ..." I looked round smugly, as if to prove Shaz's point, but the response was chilly. "Also," I ploughed on, "don't you think a wedding puts too much pressure on a relationship? Like Annabel Heseltine going on in the papers about getting engaged to that knitting pattern-cover man. It's not exactly playing hard to get, is it?"

Jude breathed in deeply through her nose while we watched on tenterhooks. "Now!" she said eventually, looking up with a brave smile. "The bridesmaids' duties!"

Shaz lit a Silk Cut. "What are we wearing?"

"Well!" trilled Jude. "I think we should have them made. And look at this!" - it was an article entitled "50 Ways to Save Money on the Big Day"—" 'For bridesmaids, furnishing fabrics can work surprisingly well'!"

Was funny, really, because at same time as feeling really pissed off with Jude was simultaneously fantasising about own wedding to Mark Darcy—thinking maybe a yurd or gurd would be nice, all ethnic and rustic. But then, with chill lurch of doom, remembered about lunch last Saturday in Sugar Club garden.

Started off v. well, with me and Mark enthusing about accidental night of passion. "It was irresistible, overpowering," he was saying, running his hands through his hair desperately. "I couldn't help myself."

"I know, I know," I said, joyously. "It's bigger than ..." - cannot believe said this - "both of us. We can't help it, it's just meant to be. Oh let's ... let's run away. Maybe to Mexico, or the Four Seasons in Ubud."

Unfortunately this did not have quite the hoped-for response.

"Look, love," he said, squeezing my hand (hate it when he calls me "love"). "I've caused enough mess and pain. I've done all this to you and know I'm involved in this 'thing' with Rebecca. I can't make another mess so soon."

"But," I whispered, head lowered, hand shaking on wine glass, "are you happy with Rebecca?"

There was a long pause while he stared fixedly at his glass. "She's been incredibly good to me," he said. "And she's got all these things fixed up: dinner parties, holidays, it would just look so ... so indecisive and shabby."

Could not believe what was hearing. Was as if he cared not about love, but just social occasions and what everyone thought of him. Also have spent all this time trying not to be pushy and respecting him taking his pace, then it seems what really works is being manipulative and ruthless. Or maybe he just didn't love me. 
"You see"—was suddenly aware of Jude pronouncing - "with the guest-list it says, don't feel you have to invite guests' new partners—but the minute I mentioned it she said: 'Oh we'd love to come'."

"Who?" I said.

"Rebecca." I looked at Jude, dumbstruck. Then tears started pricking my eyelids. She wouldn't, she wouldn't expect me to walk down the aisle in furnishing fabrics with Mark Darcy sitting with Rebecca, would she? 
"And, I mean, they have asked me to go on holiday with them. Not that I can go, of course. But I think Rebecca was a bit hurt that I hadn't asked her to be a bridesmaid."

"What?" exploded Shazzer. "Have you no concept of the meaning of the word 'girlfriend'. Bridget's your best friend joint with me, and Rebecca has shamelessly stolen Mark, and instead of being tactful about it, she's trying to Hoover everyone into her revolting social web so he's so woven in and he'll never get away. And you're not taking a bloody stand. That's the trouble with the modern world - everything's forgivable. Look at Mary Bell and those nurses. Well, it makes me sick, Jude. You can stuff your patinated oil burners. If that's the sort of friend you are, you can walk down the aisle with Rebecca behind you in furnishing fabrics, and not us. And then see how you like it."

So now Shaz and I are not speaking to Jude. Seems like Rebecca is infesting and ruining every aspect of life. First Mark, then Magda, now Jude. Have got to make a plan

9st 1 (vg); alcohol units 5 (vg); cigarettes 10 (excellent); correct lottery numbers 2 (g but still useless); days Gary has not come to get on with hole: 5.

"BRIDGE," said Shaz, flinging herself plus carrier bags down on the sofa. "What's that bloody great hole doing in the wall?"

"Nothing!" I trilled.

"Nothing?" expostulated Shaz, looking at the—admittedly—enormous gap to the outside world, covered in a polythene sheet.

"Actually, it's an infill extension," I said, pulling the cork out of the chardonnay with a delicious resounding pop.

"Oh," said Shaz, immediately losing interest and starting to leaf through the Rural Retreats brochure. "Have you heard from Jude?"

Was unsure how to reply. Ever since Jude confessed to jellyfishingly inviting Mark and Rebecca to her wedding, we are not supposed to be speaking to her. Today, though, she called me on the mobile when I was shopping, sobbing in sheep's voice and did not have heart to remain speechless.

Weird thing was, four minutes later, bumped into Shaz and Simon (our main heterosexual male friend) arm in arm in the Conran Shop, giggling over bedlinen like a pair of newlyweds in spite of being "just good friends". Jude, on the other hand—about to be a newlywed with Vile Richard—was hysterical because he had not rung her for three days and wasn't returning her calls.

Weirdy weirdy. What is it about modern Singletons that only way they can have a lovely normal relationship is if it isn't supposed to be a relationship? Last summer Sharon had a medium disastrous fling with Simon where he turned classically commitment-phobic at thought of friendship being combined with sex, insisting on keeping whole thing secret and only seeing her clandestinely once a week. Eventually, she told him to sod off and now they are back to just being friends, are more inseparable than any possible Smug Marrieds—attending all social events as a duo, wandering through parks being over-friendly to bemused infants, and buying cutlery together.

"Don't you think you and Simon. . ." I began, only to be interrupted by the telephone and mobile ringing simultaneously. Jude, obviously.

"I've just called to say," she began in a high, tight voice, "that you and Sharon don't have to do the table decorations."

"Um," I said, "Oh, um."

"It's all off: the wedding."

"HURRAH!" I yelled throwing the phone in the air. "It's all off, Shazsie," at which loud sobs emerged from the receiver.

Ten minutes later Jude was safely ensconced in a ball on the hearthrug. (Not actually inside a ball, that is.) (Do not in fact own ball.) (Of any kind.) "I am never," she declared, slurping chardonnay straight from the bottle, "never going to see that bastard again."

I stared worriedly at the hole in the wall. Yesterday they were going to spend the rest of their lives together and now they were never going to see each other again. Seems to me people should not say they are "just good friends" since friendship is only thing which lasts lifetime. Rather they should say they are "just going out" or "just getting married".

"Bridge," said Jude, "what's that bloody great hole in the wall?"

Explained about infill extension, thinking at least was talking point - sort of thing many people try so hard to create.

"How long's it going to be a hole?"

"Oooh, not so long!" said brightly. Truth is, hole was made last Monday in alarming 12-hour bashing marathon by Gary the builder. Since then have not seen hide nor hair of him apart from telephone message saying his grandmother is in intensive care. Just then the phone rang.

"Darling! I've just met a pair of the most divine twins!" (Tom, obviously.) "And guess what? They're having an affair with each other!"

Tom was about to set off to pop festival in Gloucestershire where twins were thought to be, and wanted us to come.

"Where are we sleeping?" said Jude suspiciously.

"We're camping!" said Tom, which was perhaps stating the obvious coming from him.

Sunday, May 24

Tent pegs put in (5); tent pegs tripped over (11); tent pegs stayed in (1).

2pm: Just woken up in sun-boiled hot tent, with Shaz fast asleep on my legs. Tried to leap up excitedly to cook sausages but monster pain slashed head, like lampshade frame rammed into brain. Slumped on to Shaz, trying to remember what happened.

Arrival was retarded as Jude insisted on going to late-night chemist to buy battery-operated hot brush and portable shower so when got here was dark but vg with fire blazing, people dancing and beautiful mirror ball glittering in trees.

Was quite difficult putting up tent, with Shaz crashing about in high-heeled Miu Miu mules trying to bash pegs in with one of Jude's platforms while Tom tried to safety-pin a Prada label on the tent to arouse the twins. Eventually set off toward bonfire armed with chardonnay. Unfortunately, however, first person bumped into was Vile Richard with a 22-year-old blonde in a tiny slip dress who was talking in a pretend Irish accent and falling all over him.

"It's not what you think, Jude. . ." he began, horrified as Shazzer swung at him with the chardonnay bag.

"Bridguuuuuuuuuut!" said a voice. Whirled round eagerly to find Gary the builder holding an enormous hand-rolled cigarette and doing great whooshing noises into it with his mouth.

"Gary!" I said indignantly. "What are you doing here?"

"Blurry posh birds," he slurred. "Why should I be'ere? Bin 'ere all week." Humph. Intensive care grandmother my. . . Gaaaah!

2.10pm: Just realised is someone else in this tent apart from me and Shazzer. Is Simon, fast asleep with all his clothes on. What is he doing. . . Gaaaah!

2.15pm: Was Gary. "Morning dear," he said to me with a leery smile. "Thanks for last night. Brought you a cappuccino. Can I come in?"

Oh my God, what did I do?

9st 1oz (vg); alcohol units: 4 (but mixed with tomato juice - v. nutritious); no. of days since saw Gary the Builder, who made hole in wall, disappeared, reappeared at pop festival, pretended something had happened between us, then disappeared again: 13 ( good, yet bad in terms of hole).

"THERE'S only one explanation," declared Jude. "Mark Darcy's gay."

Had just, unfortunately, got into Sunday morning decline re Mark Darcy leaving me for Rebecca and ended up sheep-voicing: "What's wrong with me-e-e-e?" down the telephone, so the girls immediately rushed round.

"Of course he's gay," snarled Shazzer, pouring Bloody Marys.

"Do you really think so?" I said, excited by the bizarre yet ego-comforting theory.

"Why else would he go off with someone freakishly tall, with no sense of girlfriend-hood and no bottom: ie a virtual man?"

"Gay," slurred Jude, reaching for her glass. "Gay, gay, gay. Mind you, so's Tom thing that was in whatsit we saw at the Kensington Odeon."

"What?" I gasped.

"Oh yes!" growled Jude. "How else do you think they've stayed married for so long?"

"But they've got children," I said, shocked.

"No, no," hiccuped Shaz. "The children are given to them by religious officials as part of the arranged marriage package."

"But you can't say just because someone's been married a long time it means they're gay," I reasoned. Look at President Clinton."

"Gay," said Jude.

"Or Mrs Thatcher?"

"Gay."

"Or Prin . . ."

Just then the phone rang. It was Tom—ironically, since he actually is gay—after my Mum's phone number.

Tom has always been rather keen on my Mum in what, I suspect, is a Danny La Rue/Elizabeth Taylor kitsch sort of way. Suddenly suspected Tom was going to ask my mother to perform "Non, je ne regrette rien" in a sequinned dress in a club called Pump, which she would—naively yet ego-maniacally—agree to.

"What do you want it for?" I said suspiciously.

"Isn't she in a book club? Jerome's sensing his poems are ready, so I'm finding him book club venues. He did one in Stoke Newington and it was awesome."

"Awesome?" I repeated, heart sinking with the realisation that Tom was falling back under Pretentious Jerome's spell.

"What is it about book clubs?'' Jude said as I put the phone down. "Is it just me, or have they suddenly sprung up from nowhere? Should we be in one or do you have to be Smug Married?'

"Yes," said Shaz. "That's because they feel their minds are being sucked dry by the paternalistic demands of . . ."

"Oh my God, look at Prince William," interrupted Jude, holding up his picture. Tried not to. Although, clearly, wish to admire as many pictures of Prince William as possible, preferably in a range of outfits, realise urge is both intrusive and wrong.

Cannot, though, ignore impression of great things fermenting around in young royal brain and sense that, at maturity, will rise up like ancient knight of round table, thrusting sword in air and creating dazzling new order that will make Alastair Campbell and Tony Blair look like passé elderly gentleman.

"Do you really think Mark Darcy's gay?" I said, to take my mind off the whippersnapper Princeling. At which the phone rang again.

"Oh hello, darling. Guess what?"—my mother. "Your friend Tom's bringing a poet to read at the Lifeboat Book Club! He's not going to be one of these 'homos', is he? He's going to read us romantic poems like Lord Byron! Isn't that fun?"

"Well! . . . that's, er, that's great!" I floundered.

"Actually, it's nothing special," she sniffled airily. "We often have visiting authors."

"Really? Like who?"

"Oh lots of them. Darling Penny's very good friends with Salman Rushdie. Anyway, I was just ringing to see what time you're arriving."

"Arriving where?"

"At the book club. Una and I are doing vol-au-vents hot with Chunky Chicken."

Wednesday, June 24

Oh God. Had really wanted to go to party at Cobden Club with Jude and Shaz, but realised more important to support Mum, Tom's love life, Art etc. Arrived late owing to motorway signpost obstacle (if war today, better, surely, to confuse Germans by leaving signposts up). Was led by Penny Husbands-Bosworth through ripply-glassed French doors, into swirly carpeted lounge where Pretentious Jerome, pierced nipple clearly visible through black wet-look vest, was standing in front of Penny's cut-glass dish collection, bellowing belligerently: "I watch his hard, bony, horny, hams. I watch, I want, I grab", at a semi-circle of appalled Lifeboat Book Club ladies on reproduction regency dining chairs.

"I want," Jerome bellowed on. "I seize his horny, hairy, hams. I have to have. I heave, I hump, I . . ."

"Well! I think that's been absolutely smashing!" said Mum, jumping to her feet. "Does anyone fancy a vol-au-vent?"

Midnight. Luckily, Cobden Club party was still going on when returned. Was just regaling Shaz and Jude with horror tale when Tom burst in dramatically.

"It's all terrible, terrible . . ." he cried.

"It doesn't matter," I said. "You watch. Once the dust has settled, they'll all be hooting with laughter about it at the Rotary."

"Oh, it wasn't the book club," said Tom blinking, heartbroken. "Your Mum was great. But on the way home I mentioned us getting back together, and Jerome said, he said . . ." Tom brushed angrily at one eye ". . . he just didn't fancy me."

There was a stunned silence. Pretentious Jerome had committed a vicious, selfish, unforgivable, ego-destroying crime against all the laws of dating decency.

"I'm not attractive," said Tom despairingly. "I'm a confirmed love pariah."

Instantly we swung into action, Jude grabbing Chardonnay while Shaz put her arm round him and I brought a chair gabbling: "You're not, you're not!"

"Then, why did he say that? Why? WHYYYYYYYYY?"

"It's obvious," said Jude, handing him a glass. "It's because Pretentious Jerome is Straight."

"Straight as a die," said Shaz. "I've known that boy wasn't gay since the first time I set eyes on him."

9st 1oz; cigarettes: 3 (vg); alcohol units: 2 (vg); calories: 4,845 (poor); minutes spent obsessing re Mark Darcy: 6,045; minutes obsessing re football: 2.2.

8.45pm  Maybe Jude is right. Is no point just wondering why Mark Darcy behaved as he did, whether he loves me and thinks I didn't love him, or didn't love me and loves Rebecca, or is gay. Only solution is to ask.

8.50pm Oh God, though. What if ring him and he and Rebecca are sitting by candlelight on terrace popping oysters into each other's ... Ow, ow, horrible hurtful notion.

8.55pm Am going to ring. Trouble with modern relationships (or ex) is there just isn't enough communication. 
9pm Right, am going to do it.

9.01pm Here goes.

9.10pm Gaaah ... Mark Darcy answered by barking "Yesssss?" in incredibly impatient voice, with all noise in background. Crestfallen, I whispered: "It's me, it's Bridget," at which he yelled: "Bridget have you gone out of your mind? Don't you know what's going on? You haven't called me for six weeks and you ring me in the middle of the most important, the most crucial—Noooooo! Nooooo! You stupid ... Jesus Christ. You stupid—right beside the ref. That was a foul! You'll be ... it's a red card. Beckham's going off. Oh, Jesus—look I'll call you back when it's over."

9.15pm Of course knew it was World Cup, had just forgotten owing to emotional thought-bog. Sort of thing that could happen to anyone. Anyway, am going to watch it now. Love the World Cup actually, with thrilling sense of nation pitted against nation.

10.30pm Humph. Tried to concentrate on game, but too racked by remorseful self-loathing. How could I be so stupid? How? How?

10.35pm Oh goody—telephone! Mark Darcy!

Was Jude. "Isn't it terrible? Terrible?" she cried. "Didn't they fight like kings amongst lions, only to lose to the hateful tyranny of penalties, with history repeating itself in the most callous manner imagina ...?"

"Jude! Jude! Get off the phone!" I yelled.

"Why?" she said, hurt.

"Mark Darcy's about to ring."

Midnight Mark Darcy has not rung. Have missed sharing in all national fervour in manner of left-out person. Am going to sleep.

Wednesday, July 1

Just got paper. Hurrah! You see. Even the Queen did not know what time match was starting and was going to a dinner party and she is the Queen of England.

Thursday, July 2

6.30pm Frenzy of anticipation. Mark Darcy rang yesterday, sounding unbelievably miserable. "Bridge, I'm sorry I didn't call back. I was just ... I'm just really depressed about everything." Hurrah! All thus cannot be well with Rebecca and he says he will come round tonight to Talk (v. promising. vg).

Midnight When Mark Darcy appeared at door, lungs got in throat. Always forget how tall, strong yet kind, and irresistible he is. "So can I come in?" he said, with a tired smile. "Or are you just going to stare?"

He walked in purposefully like he always does, inspecting everything.

"What's that great hole doing in the wall?"

Weird how have just got used to hole now. Sure, in fact, could live with it forever, suggesting that am not materialistic person but could live in a tent without ...

"Mmmm?" he said. "The hole in the wall? The six foot by eight foot one? Did a lovely elephant drop round for tea? Or did you and Shazzer tumble over one night, carrying a pneumatic drill?"

As started to explain about potential roof terrace and Gary the Builder, Mark began to move towards me, with a lovely look in his eye, then turned away and sat down on the sofa.

"Oh God," he said. "I'm just really down about it all, aren't you?"

Trying to suppress mounting hope, I fixed him a drink and some v. posh olives had got in specially.

"Do you want to talk about it?" I said gently, like professional, caring therapist. He took a sip of his drink and rubbed his hand over his forehead.

"I just keep thinking ... why?"

"I know," I said. "I feel exactly the same."

At this he sprang to his feet and started pacing. He was still in his work suit, with top buttons all undone showing his hairy chest: all hot and rumpled and manly.

"So stupid and unnecessary," he said, anguished. "A pointless, emotional error with devastating consequences."

"I know," I nodded, thinking which particular emotional error? Leaving me? Going out with Rebecca? Saying he couldn't come back because he'd got so dug in with Rebecca?

"How can a man live with that?"

"Well, everyone's only human," I said thoughtfully (had just been browsing through You Can Heal Your Life). "People have to forgive each other and ... themselves."

"Chuh! It's easy to say that," he said, coming to sit beside me. "But if we'd kept Beckham we'd never have been subjected to the tyranny of the penalty shoot-out. We fought like kings among lions, but it cost us the game."'

I stared at him, mind reeling. Surely it cannot be true that men have football instead of emotions? Realise World Cup is exciting and binds nations together with common goals, but surely anguish, depression and mourning, whole days later, is taking ...

"Bridget?" said Mark "Are you all right? What's the matter? Oh darling!" He pulled me to him, and started
stroking my hair, tenderly. "It's only a game, you have to remember that. It's only a game. When you called during the match, I knew you needed me, but I was so caught up in my own feelings that ... I'm a klutz, a stupid, selfish klutz." Then next thing we were kissing desperately, passionately.

"I'd better go," he said eventually, getting to his feet all dishevelled and emotional. "I'll call you tomorrow, I'll sort everything out. I never realised you felt so ... so much. Oh darling." Then he started kissing me again and practically had to drag himself out of the door.

Blimey. Had best ring up Jude now and find out what did happen in match.

9st (vg); alcohol units: 5 (poor); cigarettes: 17 (terrible).

6pm. Feel strangely impotent. Last night Mark Darcy got into fervour, kissing me passionately and saying he would "sort everything out" with Rebecca and call me today. (At least, I think he meant with Rebecca: whole conversation turned out to be cross-purposed, with me all upset about him and him all upset about World Cup.) Oooh. Hurrah! Telephone.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?"—my mother—"Viagra!"

"What?" I said, nervously.

"Viagra, darling! Everyone at the Rotary's wild with excitement!"

Garish vision loomed of newly priapic Rotary Club organising a frenzy of orgiastic Tarts and Vicars parties.

"Of course, Daddy won't be needing it. Oof! He's exhausting enough as it is!" This was just a tiny bit more information than I needed, actually. "But Una's in raptures. Geoffrey's a bit ten bob short of a pound coin in that department, apparently."

And it'll take more than Viagra to sort it out, I thought, mind reeling back to night in a Portobello pub when I spotted Uncle Geoffrey "chatting" with lithe young whippersnapper in black leather. When finally got Mum off the phone with light-tone joshing and heart attack warnings, I found Patchouli slouching towards my desk.

"Someone called Mike rang, right?"

"Mark?" I said, practically grabbing her ears and shaking her.

"Yeah, right, Mark. He said he's going away for the weekend, but he'll call you. OK?" Gaaaah! Is off on mini-break again with Rebecca.

7pm Determined not to submit to low mood. As it says in the self-help book, "Don't sweat the small stuff"; when you are in a low mood, it does not mean everything is awful, it just means s ... ooh telephone. You see!

7.30pm Was Shaz. "Bridge. I think you should know, I've just had a phone call from Rebecca asking if me and Jude want to come on a villa holiday with her and Mark in August."

7.35pm Is not just mood. Everything is awful. Anyway, am going out with Jude and Shazzer tonight. Hurrah. Yes.

Saturday, July 4

Actually was v. interesting discussion last night.

"The trouble with you, Bridge," Shaz was slurring, "you're not really a feminist." Could not avoid feeling hurt. Am feminist, definitely. Believe in equality, give money to third-world women's charity, have own job, independent life and home (even with large hole in). So what was Shazzie's point?

"Well ... you'sh obsessed by men."

"Well so'sh blurry well Jude."

"You'sh totally indoctrinated by the media and advertising culture into trying to improve yourself in every area, fitting into some paternalistic, sales-led ideal."

"I'sh not." I hiccuped, realising I'd already drunk four glasses of wine, which was probably 320 calories, wrecking diet and not supposed to be drunk.

"Leave 'er alone," hiccuped Jude. "She's got enough problems. Rebecca press-ganging Mark into endless social engagements so e'll never blurry escape."

"Is he man?" snorted Shaz, "or a mousse?"

"Mouse," said Jude.

"I meant mousse," said Shaz, coldly.

"What you mean, Shaz," said Jude, "is that your feminist ideals do not encompass the need to be loved. And Bridget is prey to the influence of whatever society and media deem to be loveable."

"Well so's blurry well you," I said, practically in tears, looking at Jude, all slim in lacy dress with bosoms heaved up by pink lejaby bra.

"Sorry, sorry," slurred Shaz affectionately, seeing my face.

"Sorry," said Jude.

Obviously forgave lovely girls for making self feminism study in manner of laboratory mouse with human ear on back. But still left early and could not help, as walked home, feeling failure, not only for failing to live up to feminist ideals, but having wrong feminist ideals in first place.

Was just fumbling with key, when heard someone approaching behind me. Froze, trying to remember rudiments of t'ai chi, then nearly screamed as felt hands around waist. Was about to do really good backwards karate/yoga kick when suddenly familiar scent wafted over me and Mark Darcy started kissing my neck.

When we got up to flat, though, suddenly felt completely feminist.

"Are you a man," I said, turning to face him belligerently, "or a mousse?"

"A mousse, Bridge?"

"Yes, one of those Walls soft, synthetic pink ones."

He started to look agitated and hurt.

"You left me for Rebecca on the flimsiest of excuses," I said, glowering. "She's very pretty, thin and bossy. And maybe that's what you want. But if it is, don't, every time you see me, pretend you're still in love with me, and say you're going to 'sort it out' and have that lovely soft look in your eye and ..."

Suddenly, I think I was crying.

"Listen," he said, standing opposite, like we were about to start a boxing match. "I know I've been changeable and awful. When you love one person and are hooked up with another, you get stuck in a ghastly tangled tissue of guilt and obligation and ..."

Struggled not to slump on floor. "Guilt and obligation". So that was all it was. Was object of guilt, obligation and imaginary shared football obsession.

"I've left Rebecca," he said, running his hand through his hair, weekend shirt all rumpled and undone. He started pacing about the room. "I told her the dinner parties, the group holidays, this weekend's mini-break will all just have to be cancelled. They have all been forcibly arranged without reference to me. This is not about social arrangements it's about ... it's about ... us."

He held out his hand. I took it and, like voodoo zombies, we wandered into the bedroom. It ought to have been very romantic, but we were both too upset and for the first time ever with Mark nothing seemed to be well ... happening. Just as was reassuring him did not matter, sort of thing that could happen to anyone etc. etc., the phone rang and my mother's voice boomed out on the answerphone.

"Oh hello, darling. Now Viagra! Una and I think you really should start to take it more seriously."

9st (weight evaporated through joy); cigarettes 0; alcohol units 1 (off toxins); calories 984 (who needs same).

6pm: Although in heaven-scent joy re: newly re-being with Mark for whole week, also in secret panic re: football final. Always, when watching with Jude and Shaz, is fine if momentarily forget which direction teams going in; if unable to define difference between penalty and drop on; or if miss one of goals by talking. Now, though, am facing perhaps impossible level of revision so can contribute suitable insights—"Ronaldo's penalty thrust-outs are daintily on-side but the midfield left volleyballing is, frankly, poor" etc.

Was v. bad start to re-togetherness last week when, post-failed sex, mother's voice boomed out of answerphone: "Viagra, darling! Una and I think you should take it more seriously."

Shot out of bed and grabbed phone.

"It's very good when they can't. . ."

"Shut up mother, shut up," I hissed.

"There's no need to be rude," she said, huffily, voice still booming out. "Any way, darling. I was just ringing to say that Una and Geoffrey and Daddy and I are thinking of going to America in the autumn. The only nigger in the woodpile is. . ."

"Mother!" I said, horrified.

"What? We're only going for a few weeks."

"You can't say. . . you know. . . in the woodpile. It's racist."

"We're not going to put anyone in a woodpile, silly! Daddy and I have got central heating."

Honestly. Definitely know my Mum is not racist as invited Masai tribesman to stay, but is still always gaily saying things like "nigger brown" and "piccaninny".

"If expressions like that are allowed to linger in the vocabulary," I said, "it poisons attitudes and. . ." 
"Durrrr! Sometimes you do. . ."

Felt Mark's hand on my shoulder. He took the phone from me.

"Mrs Jones," he growled sexily, "Bridget and I very much want to enjoy a private evening together. Where can we reach you in the morning?"

You see this is what is vg. about Mark—where I fail to get rid of annoying things but still offend everybody, he has this way of charmingly making them go away without offending anyone at all.

"Well! tomorrow morning," Mum tittered coyly. "Ooof, let's see. . . Una and I will probably pop out to the garden centre, but maybe about 11? My place?"

After that was heaven-scent night, though not too much sleeping, so maybe Mum has benefits after all.

Was v. lovely feeling leaving house with Mark in morning. Love thing of being cocooned together in love shack for 14 hours then going out to face world. Was just out of door when noticed sleek black convertible of type which would not usually park in our street unless belonging to Mark, which was not. Car door opened and elegant leg slid out followed by long swinging hair and sunglasses. Rebecca.

"So," she said with evil smile, in manner of Cruella De Vil, Snow White's Mother or similar. Heard Mark, behind me, shutting front door.

"So, stealing your friends' boyfriends are we, Bridget? I thought you girls didn't approve of that sort of thing." 
I stood mouth open, trying to unravel complicated reality-twisting cheek. Surely truth was Mark was my boyfriend, then Rebecca pinched him, thereby not being friend to me—so how did. . .

"Bridget," said Mark, "why don't you go wait for me in the cafe, while I discuss this with Rebecca?"

Almost obeyed but stopped. Rebecca is v. manipulative. If left alone would doubtless attempt to lock Mark into sequence of elaborate social events for next 40 years.

"Why don't we all go back up to the flat?' I purred, smoothly.

"What a good idea," purred Rebecca, smootherily.

Hah, thought, am also v. manipulative, can keep eye on everything on own lovely territory. Unfortunately, however, had overlooked sink full of washing-up, trail of clothes leading to the bed, Champagne bottle in bedroom and giant hole in wall.

"Ugh," sneered Rebecca, flinging open the window. "This place stinks," then barged into the bedroom. "You've slept with her," she shrieked and started hitting him. "You rotten, cheating, lying. . ."

"I've never lied to you," said Mark. "Calm down."

He made her sit on the sofa.

"Rebecca, I'm sorry. I'm far more deeply involved with Bridget than I realised. I have tried to explain that several times. I've tried to treat you with kindness and respect but you've insisted on ignoring what I say and forcing a scenario that I cannot go through with. No one is 'pinching' me. I'm my own man."

"What?" screamed Rebecca. Could not believe luck. She, the arch queen of Rules-style behaviour, had become a thwarted more-mad Mrs Rochester. "You don't want to live in this pigsty, with some silly bimbo who spends her entire life getting weighed and being sick into the toilet with Jude and Shazzer."

"No," said Mark Darcy, "but I do want to live with Bridget."

Just then, answerphone boomed out. "Oof! Mark are you there? I've probably missed your call. I've been working like a black in the garden and. . ."

"You bastard!" screamed Rebecca. "You only left me last night and you're already sucking up to her mad, racist mother. Well I'll tell you what: marry her then! And see how you like it. You two losers deserve each other." Then sobbing, tripping over her shoe, she slammed her way out.

Felt a bit sad for Rebecca, to tell truth, as is usually what happens to me. But Mark said was not my fault but his, as he had not been very nice to either of us, through pathetic indecision. Also I was v. sad when he left me that morning and did not scream at him. But have had whole lovely week together apart from football revision terror, which must get on with. . .

7pm: Ooh goody, telephone! Was Mark, sounding nervous. "Listen, don't take this wrong. . ." heart sank: Rebecca? "But would you understand it if I watched the match with the boys. I mean. . . just the boys."

Huge smile spread over face. "Of course not," I said, beatifically. "You just enjoy yourself"

"Oh darling," he said, sounding blissfully happy. "This is all such a relief." 

Friday, July 24

9st 2lb (vg); alcohol units: 2; phone calls: 14; godchildren: 10.

ONE thing difficult about having a boyfriend is they do not realise how much time it is necessary to spend on the phone. Mark had just come round when the phone rang. Out of habit, I lunged at it, thinking it might be him.

Was Magda. "Hi. Just ringing to invite you to Harry's birthday party."

"Gaah!" I went guiltily. Trouble with being single is have now got six godchildren, the last two being mistakes. Am definitely not having any more.

"When is it?"

"Sunday," said Magda. "Don't be hungover."

"Bouncy castle?" I said, looking lustfully at Mark.

"Good God no, too passé. We're having a petting zoo."

"Yur," I sniggered. "Give him a couple of years and the whole party will be a petting zoo."

"And you'll be teetering around after his friends, slurring: 'Want a sherry, darling?'." Had just put phone down when it rang back straight away. Was Jude.

"Guess who just called me? Bill."

"What?" I gasped. "Sharon's Bill?" (Bill is this weird architect Sharon has been seeing.)

"He said he'd rung up to see how Sharon was."

"What?"

"I said, why don't you call her and ask her. He said, 'Right, good idea', and that was that."

"My God. Have you told Sharon?"

"Do you think I should?"

"Well," I said thoughtfully. "It will definitely upset her, but she has a right to know, and anyway he might tell her."

"So yes?"

"Yes."

Two minutes later she rang back. "Pick-up, pick-up, pick-up. You know Laura, my sister that's just had a baby, she wants you, me and Shaz to be godmothers. Also just rang Shaz and she's not there—so should I leave a message?"

"Hi," I said, grabbing it, as Mark mimed throat slitting. "Don't leave a message, too startling. Try her later, bye."

"You're like War Command, aren't you, you three," said Mark, putting his arms round me. "Planning your campaigns, going out on forays, running everything past the committee."

"But surely you talk to your friends like that?"

"No."

I blinked at him, puzzled. "Didn't you talk to them when we split up?"

"I may have briefly mentioned to Giles that there'd been a ground swell in the frilly blouse department." Honestly, sometimes he sounds like such a Hooray.

"Didn't Giles ask you about it?"

"No, of course not."

"How do you know what to do?"

"I work it out for myself."

Hah! I thought. Maybe that explains why he was so useless at handling the Rebecca thing. Maybe if men do not cross-refer with their friends, it is one reason why, as Shaz maintains, they will soon be so catastrophically un-evolved in a complex world where skilful living is prerequisite, that they will just be kept for sex and forced to live in kennels: especially if do not read self-help books, either.

Just then the doorbell rang with the take-away. Was just getting the plates out of cupboard (am practically Martha Stewart!) when the phone rang again. Mark gave me a dangerous look, as Shazzer's voice quavered out.

"Bridget, will you call me? It's about Bill."

I made a move, at which Mark dived across the room and thrust me down in the chair. "Leave it till after supper," he said. "This is completely insane."

I munched in silence, glowering.

"So what's the story with Sharon?" he said.

"Well," I began, "she met this really nice architect six weeks ago."

"Good, good."

"Then she spent the night with him, but they didn't do anything because he felt guilty about this girl he'd just split up with."

"I see."

"Eventually they did start sleeping together, but then he went all distant because he was in love with another girl."

"The one he'd just split up with?"

"No. A different one. From Thailand. Actually, Sharon thinks they were both prostitutes."

"Yeeeeees. And your advice at that point was . . ?"

"Well, Jude said it was a good sign that he was breaking a pattern and . . ."

Just then the phone rang. "Briiiiiiiidge," sheep-voiced a sobbing Shaz. Mark crashed his head on the table as I reached for the phone.

"I don't think it means he's after Jude," I ventured when Shazzie calmed down.

"No," she conceded. "Maybe he was jealous and checking to see if I was at Jude's so that when I came back . . ."

Suddenly Mark took the phone.

"My dear Sharon," he growled charmingly. "Take it from me, as a man. There is NO EXPLANATION other than sadistic insanity. Have nothing more to do with him. Don't call him. Don't return his calls. He'll know exactly why. All right? Jolly good. I'll tell her. Bye now."

"That should all be fine now," he said smugly. "And apparently Tom's sister has given birth and wants the War Command Committee to be joint godmothers—God help the child. How many godchildren is that now, darling?"

"It depends if you divide them by three or not," I muttered. "It's either eight—or six-and-two-thirds."

The phone rang again. "Leave it," he barked, really quite bad temperedly. Would not have obeyed like chattel except that it says in Don't Sweat the Small Stuff not to always answer the phone.

My mother's voice boomed out. "Darling, you're an auntie! Jamie and Saffron have just had twins and they want you to be godmother!"

"Ten," said Mark, "and counting. Which do you think you'll get more of tonight, darling, phone calls or godchildren?"

Three minutes it rang again: this time an unfamiliar bossy man's voice.

"Ah, hi, Giles Forden here, friend of Mark's. Don't suppose he's there, is he? It's just . . ." suddenly his voice cracked. "It's just my wife says she's leaving me and . . ."

"Good God," said Mark and grabbed the phone. An expression of pure panic spread across his face. "Giles dear boy. . . steady on. . . um. . . ah. . . um, Giles, I think I'd better give you to Bridget."