Monday, July 27

9st 2lbs; alcohol units: 3; cigarettes 7 (excellent).

HURRAH! Mark and I are going on a mini-break. As both agreed, would be less than tasteful to go off immediately on proper holiday, owing to his recent split-up from Rebecca, who was in process of forcing him to host giant group holiday with her in manner of social King and Queen Buzzy-Bee of Showy Offy Land. Anyway, am being flown out to join Mark on business in Strasbourg then go to lovely country house hotel in manner of Papa and Nicole.

Tuesday, July 28

Cigarettes: 0, honestly. Definitely. Swear to God.

3pm Business class lounge, Heathrow. Mmmm. Everywhere one looks are top executives and bottles of champagne. Wish Jude and Shazzy were here. Realise, obviously, from Mars and Venus on a Date, is not appropriate to lunge at executives in manner of post-pay-day girl in Joseph's shop, instead must be Assured, Receptive, and Responsive, making eye contact, then looking modestly away. You see, just did it on executive and really works. Not, of course that want to get off with executive, merely scientific experiment. Now executive is raising eyebrow and nodding towards door. Hmmm, maybe senses should not really be in lounge.

4pm On plane. Executive experiments subject (ghastly lounge lizard on close inspection) just slipped business card into hand. Oh my God. Thinks I'm prostitute or high class call-girl.

4.05 Lizard Executive has just asked Nice Executive beside me to swap as wants seat by window. Nice Executive said certainly not. Think will accept air hostess's gracious offer of champagne.

4.30 Wish did not have hiccups. Could murder cigarette.

4.32 Yuk. Executive Lizard has got himself on other side of aisle from self.

4.33 Actually really do need to have cigarette now.

4.35 Air hostess just walked past. Raised hand and whispered, "Could you tell me where the smoking section is?

"I'm sorry?", she purred icily, as if I had asked if I could urinate on the other passengers.

"Have one of mine," murmured the Lizard Executive flashing his silver cigarette case.

"This is a no smoking flight," snaps the air hostess.

4.50 Nice Executive just told v amusing story about being on African airline flight when, in fit of bonhommie, both pilot and co-pilot emerged to chat amongst passengers only to find the cockpit door slammed shut behind them, eventually having to break through door using axe.

"God, I could murder a cigarette too," he kept growling.

Executive Lizard got up. "I'm going to the loo," he leered. Ignored him. Next Nice Executive went off to loo. Started to panic as landing would be soon and had not done make-up. When Nice Executive returned, got up with handbag to go to loo.

"The toilets are no smoking," said the air hostess.

"Good, excellent," I said sweetly.

5pm Just back from loo where froze with terror as someone had been smoking in there and was completely reeking of smoke. Realised could report last person but maybe was nice executive. Decided to spray toilet with Coco Chanel then do full make up to allow smoke to disperse. Then door handle started to rattle. Hurriedly opened door to find nice looking girl clutching packet of Silk Cut. "Phew thanks," she said.

5.05 Aargh, was just kerfuffle outside loo. "Someone has been smoking in here," shrieked the air hostess.

5.10 Pilot's deep voice just boomed out sepulchrally, "Ladies and gentlemen, I regret to inform you that one of our passengers has taken it upon him—or her—self to risk the lives of fellow passengers by not only smoking in the lavatory, but by obstructing the smoke detector device using lavatory paper. Will the person responsible please make themselves known to the cabin staff."

Could feel the air hostess's eyes burning into me. Stared straight ahead feeling cheeks burning red. Felt like jumping to feet and yelling, "It wasn't me! It wasn't me!"

5.25 Phew, landing just went ahead without a hitch, air hostess is safely strapped into seat and pilot seems to have shut up. Phew.

5.35 Oh my Gold. Pilot just came on again: "Ladies and gentlemen I must request that passengers remain in their seats until the irresponsible addict who so recklessly risked all of our lives has made himself known to the cabin staff."

5.36 Nice Executive just patted my knee. He thinks it was me. But was not.

5.40 Lizard Executive just looked across and winked. He thinks it was me as well.

6pm Air of panic now. All executives talking madly on phones, getting to feet and haranguing air hostesses while pilot keeps going, "I'm wai-ting!" over PA in mad, over-calm voice.

6.05 Air hostess just paused by my seat and brandished toilet paper at me. Maybe she will force feed me toothpaste-style dessert until come out with false confession.

6.15 Aargh, Aargh. Police cars are zooming towards us across the Tarmac. Will meet Mark in handcuffs. Just felt self rising in seat, when Nice Executive firmly took arm. "Just sit down," he said.

6.50 Policemen have arrested the pilot. It was pilot who was smoking after all—in manner of people who murder own wives and go sobbing on TV press conferences.

7pm Hmmm. Do not think can have been pilot actually, as was flying plane.

7.45 Huge relief to be met by Mark in arrival hall. "Don't tell me, he grinned, taking my bag, "it was you, wasn't it?"

"No!" I yelled just as Lizard Executive oozed past. "Don't breath a word, my darling," he leered. "You and me babe, we're in this together."

"Bridget?" said Mark, beginning to look like thunder, as Nice Executive overtook us.

"Well done my dear," said Nice Executive twinklingly, nodding conspiratorially at Mark, "Magnificent sang froid."

Had just about got Mark believing as drove away from airport, when he suddenly looked in the mirror and said, "Oh Jesus Christ, Bridget!" Turned to see three police cars, blue lights flashing, screaming along slip road after us.

Thursday, August 13

9st 3, alcohol units 3 (vg), cigarettes 4 (excellent), minutes spent wondering why Mark hasn't rung 4,325 (not very enjoyable)

The phone just rang. Freakishly, it was my Dad.

"Ah, Bridget," he said in a stiff, military-style voice. "Will you speak to your mother? Seems to have got herself worked into a bit of state."

There was a series of sobs, shrieks and unexplained crashes. Finally, my Mother came on the phone.

"Darling," she croaked, in a hoarse, self-pitying whisper. "There's something I have to tell you. I cannot keep it from my family and loved ones any longer."

Trying not to dwell on the distinction between "family" and "loved ones" I said brightly: "Well! Don't feel you have to tell us if you don't want to."

"What would you have me do?" she yelled histrionically. "Live a lie? I'm an addict, darling, an addict!"

I racked my brains as to what she could have decided she's addicted to. My Mum has never drunk more than a single glass of cream sherry since Mavis Enderbury got drunk at her 21st birthday party in 1952 and had to be taken home on the crossbar of a bicycle. Her drug intake is limited to the occasional Fishermans Friend in response to a tickly cough during which tends to be triggered during the bi-annual performances of Kettering Amateur Dramatic Society.

"I'm an addict," she said again then paused, dramatically.

"Right," I said. "An addict. And what exactly are you addicted to?" "Relationships," she said. "I'm a relationship addict, darling. I'm co-dependent." I crashed my head straight down on to the table in front of me.

"Thirty six years with Daddy!" she said. "And I never understood."

"But Mum, being married to someone doesn't mean. . ."

"Oh yes it does," she growled, "look at Glenys Kinnock. I've told Daddy I. . . Ooh must whizz. Una's coming up the path."

Friday, August 14

9st 2. Alcohol units 5 (bad but still too good), cigarettes 7 ( neither here nor there), drugs 0 (completely useless)

11 pm: Decided to ignore whole addict drama as another attention grabbing lunacy from Mother. Spent evening in 192 with Jude and Shaz discussing worrying issue of Paula Yates. Although Yates is pretty, with nice figure etc. etc. is nothing to explain how managed to move smoothly from Bob Geldof to usurping younger, longer, thinner, more beautiful supermodel to win Michael Hutchence—and now, only months after being left alone, is going out with sex-God 26-year-old whippersnapper. Meanwhile, me, Jude, Shazzer and similar flounder for years between romances without so much as a decent date.

"She's older than us as well," wailed Shazzer.

"Maybe it's just because she's famous?" I ventured.

"No," said Jude portentously. "It's because Paula Yates instinctively understands how to deal with men. And we don't."

We looked at her, stunned at such a negative, anti-spirit-of-girlfriendom suggestion.

"But Bridget is in a functional relationship with a responsible adult male," argued Shaz.

I gave weird frozen smile. Since our France mini-break, things have been tense between me and Mark. Atmosphere never quite recovered from his suspicion that was me who had caused an on-plane drama by smoking in toilets. Worst was, on leaving airport, when we were chased by four police cars, Mark pulled over, saying: "I'm sorry, Bridget, but we both know what you've done, and my legal career is at stake here," at which the police cars sped past and turned out to be heading for a motorway pile-up.

"You see in Mars and Venus on a Date. . ." Jude began, at which Shaz and I groaned miserably. ". . .it explains why some women who aren't obviously the most gorgeous or young have all the luck with men while perfect irresistible-style girls get dumped and given the runaround. Also why selfish spoilt lazy girls have men running round after them and integrityful girls who do their share just end up carrying even more shopping."

"That's rubbish," said Sharon.

"Look at Bridget's Mum," said Jude. "Bridget's Dad gets more crazy about her the more selfishly she behaves and she can't have a meeting with a tax man without him falling in love with her."

"That's not true," I said defensively. "Anyway, she hasn't had an admirer since. . ."

"What does the book say?" muttered Shaz.

"Um. . ." said Jude. Grrrr. She always does this: going on to the point of pathological obsession about a new self-help book theory but being unable to communicate to any one else what it was actually about. "Hang on," she said, scrabbling in her bag, for the book. She blinked uncertainly. "It's about men wanting to please instead of be pleased, and needing to pursue so they think they've earned someone," she mumbled lamely. "And the woman needs to present her best side but not try to make an impression."

"Well that can't be true, then," snorted Shaz. "Paula Yates met the whippersnapper in a rehab clinic."

11.30pm: The phone just rang.

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" My mother.

"What?" I muttered sulkily.

"I'm in a clinic called Clouds darling. Isn't that a super name? It's ever so expensive but Daddy insisted nothing but the best would do to get me right. And guess what? I've met some super new 'friends' already."

I let out a long, heavy sigh. "What's his name?" I said wearily.

"Ooof! Naughty—naughty! How did you know it was a he?" she tittered. "Anyway he's absolutely charming. I asked him to carry my handbag up to my room, because it was full of books and talc and then he wanted to join me for lunch so of course I said no and I wouldn't have him for dinner either.

Next thing he's following me out of the affirmation session practically grabbing my bag out of my hands. I'm meeting him for breakfast in the morning and he's only 32!"

Mark has not rung me for almost two days. Am going to get Mars and Venus book from Jude and check into a rehab clinic to read it at earliest opportunity.

Friday, August 21

9st 1lb (must start bikini diet again); alcohol units: 4 (v. bad for eggs); calories: 2,453 (vg for eggs); minutes spent looking at brochures: 235 (mmmm).

"GOD," said Mark Darcy, flinging himself down on my brochures, sorry sofa, after work and sexily loosening his tie.

"What?" I said, hoping it would not just be more stuff about Nigel.

"Do you know what Nigel does? When he gets a suit made he gets two jackets—so he can leave one on the back of his chair when he leaves for lunch, so everyone will think he's still somewhere in the building."

Honestly, sometime really wish Mark Darcy would read a few more self-help books. It explicitly says in Don't Sweat The Small Stuff that couples should not always tell each other horror stories about work, but start the evening afresh and have fun.

"Also," he went on, "Charlotte and Hermione have spent the whole bloody day bellowing across the partition about having their eggs frozen."

"Well, it's an important issue for we women."

"Pah. It's just one more bloody superwoman efficiency for all those suity City women. Give it another generation and every upper-middle-class girl will have her eggs frozen at puberty as a gift from her godmother and kept in an engraved refrigerated silver casket. You'd never do that, Bridge, would you?" he said gruffly.

"Well. . ." I began.

At that moment the phone rang. "Oh hello, Mrs Darcy, it's Yolande here from Something Special holidays. I was just ringing to inquire as to whether you would be wishing to extend your option for the Villa Loukia."

I froze.

"Bridget?" said Mark. "Mrs Darcy? Villa Loukia? What in the name of arse is going on?"

"Oh nothing," I said airily, panicking.

"How do you mean, nothing?"

Eventually had to confess that had already put an option on a different villa under Bridget Jones, on my work number, and just said Mrs Darcy as the first name that sprang to mind.

"But we're not going on holiday," he said, looking at me as if I was mad. "Are we?"

"No," I said determinedly, following his gaze. To tell the truth, there did seem to be quite a few holiday brochures around. French Chapters (mmmm, mmmm Villa du Parc with master suite with own bathroom and shady terrace), Corfu Villas (mmmm Villa Petroti with lipless pool—though car—and boat-hire recommended, so possibly a little inaccessible), Spanish and Moroccan Chapters (villa in Marrakesh with star-shaped pool and colourful ethnic wallhangings).

"What's this?" he said. Unfortunately it was the option details for the Casa Nuove in Umbria. He sank down on the sofa with his head in his hands. "Bridget," he began. "As you know, I do love you, but sometimes I think I have got involved with a member of a brigade of lunatics."

Just then the phone rang. "Bridge, pick up, pick up, it's Jude," boomed out over the answering machine. "I've had a brilliant idea for what we could get Shazzie for her birthday. We could get her one of her eggs frozen. It might be a bit difficult to do as a surprise, but call me. Bye."

"Anyway!" I said brightly, "shall we get a takeaway?"

"Not so fast," he said, frog-marching me back to the sofa. "The options, the Mrs Darcy. Is this some hidden romantic agenda so that I'm going to end up having to marry you before the option expires, then present you with frozen eggs in a honeymoon villa?"

"No," I explained. "It's not so much the actual holiday that's important, it's imagining it, especially with the summer being over when there wasn't one in the first place anyway."

"But why do you have to put an option on?"

"It is a replacement for the hunter-gatherer instinct."

"Yees?" he said, raising one eyebrow.

"Brochures allow you to go in pursuit of perfection, honing your brochure-reading skills to the highest peak of perfection, making thorough inquiries as to the proximity of noisy roads and airfields, checking the accessibility of local restaurants and shops and the exact dimensions of the pool."

"How much time do you spend reading these things?" he said, leafing through Corfu Villas.

"Oh, not much," I said casually. "A normal amount of time."

"I won't ask you to define the word normal at this precise moment. Okay, let's see. Villa Skynos? Name the village?"

"Nissaki," I said confidently.

"Good, very good. Number of bedrooms?"

"Chuh, that's a trick question, isn't it?" I said. "Because it's actually got six bedrooms, but it only sleeps four to six, because the owners don't want too many people."

"And is the Villa Skynos a good bet, would you say?"

"Well, there's no pool, but it has got its own beach and the house is full of unusual, often witty, touches brought back by the widely travelled owners."

"Maid service?"

"Three hours, six days a week."

"And what did President Clinton do yesterday?"

"Um. . ." I panicked wildly.

"Something to do with the word 'cruise'," he said, "and it wasn't in the Caribbean."

"Missiles!" I said triumphantly. "He sent cruise missiles."

"To? The House of the Shooting Star in Morocco? The Zawa Kili Al Bader camp in Afghanistan? Or the Calo Crabor in Ibiza?"

"Afghanistan," I said triumphantly.

"I can't believe I've spent an entire evening talking about brochures," he said later, just before we went to sleep.

"Just because people are interested in brochures does not mean they are uninformed about the news," I said. "And at least it stopped you going on and on about work."

"I suppose it did," he growled, pulling me closer to him. "So does that mean you don't want to go on holiday, you just want to stay developing your insights into terrorist activities in the Arab world?"

"Well, they do have newspapers in the Mediterranean," I whispered.

"So what do you think about the Villa Lucia," he whispered back. "Mrs Darcy?"

Hmm. Wonder if I should tell him it might be a shared pool?

Friday, August 21

9st 4, cigarettes 4 (vg), minutes worrying re Russian economic crisis also 4, minutes obsessing re Corfu villa brochures 400.

9am: HURRAH! Next week Mark and me are going . . . oooh, telephone:

"Oh hello, darling, guess what?" My mother.

"What?"

"Go quietly amidst the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence."

There was a long pause.

"Mother?" I said eventually.

"Shhh, darling. Silence. Remember what peace there may be in silence."

I tucked the phone under my chin and carried on looking for the keys. You see, this is what has happened since she went to the rehabilitation clinic. (After a week during which they managed to persuade her that being married for 37 years is not necessarily a symbol of co-dependency, they chucked her out - bizarrely - for being too normal!) Unfortunately, however, she now thinks she has become the Dalai Lama of Grafton Underwood and . . . oooh the mobile is ringing.

Was Mark.

"Bridge, you've been engaged for about 20 minutes. About the holiday . . ."

"Yes!" I said excitedly. "I'm just about to confirm the option on the Villa Lucia!"

"The thing is, I've just taken on this huge Hispanic case based in Los Angeles. I've got to go 
there next week. No way round it."

Trying to ignore the other phone which had started vibrating and yelling, "Bridget, you'll never find equilibrium if you won't work with silence", I squeaked: "But, Mark, we agreed you had to stop being a workaholic."

"They're going to put me up in a house, sorry, a villa, Bridge. It'll be great. And I thought maybe you could come, too, and bring Jude or Shazzer as company."

"Jude or Shazzer?" I said, gasping at the notion of making a choice.

He laughed. "OK. Jude and Shazzer. But best behaviour. No drunkenness or messing about, all right?"

Thursday, August 27

Los Angeles. 

Cannot believe this whirlwind is happening. Jude could not get out of the City because of the Russian economical crisis so it is just me, Mark and Shaz. It is fantastic here, exactly like in a movie: sunshine, big roads with big green verges, palm trees and big houses in a range of contrastingly tasteless designs. Tonight Shazzer and I are going to a fantastic trendy hotel-bar from her guidebook and Mark is going to meet us there later with a colleague. Really we think we have found ourselves in LA and are not going to drink or smoke but be relaxed modern women of substance.

Midnight. Oh God. Hotel was insane, with giant-bus-high door outside and sneering greeters in suits. Shaz and I went nervously through the completely white interior with 60ft-high white curtains and got stopped by a girl behind a lectern.

"You know what?" she sing-songed, as if about to suggest something lovely. "I'm going to ask you to come in to the Skybar through a different entrance if you're not actually staying with us in the hotel."

Ended up going all the way out through white foyer, up the street, through separate entrance, along clunking metal corridor only to emerge in exactly the same space to be greeted by the same woman, cooing: "Good evening, how may I help you?" without a trace of embarrassment.

Once in the bar we gasped, it was open to the stars, overlooking the twinkling lights of Los Angeles, with a softly lit turquoise pool, trees in giant plant pots, wooden decking all around and thin orange young people lounging all over a giant Bacchanalian mattress talking on mobile phones.

Nervously, we sat on the mattress and leaned back on our cushions. Shaz hissed: "I'm going to have to have a cigarette, is that all right?" at the waitress, at which she looked as if Shaz had asked to urinate on the mattress.

When she brought drinks we sat up, at which a floppy-haired youth reached out and swiped our cushions for his flock of cawing modelly friends. Weirdly, the normally strident Shaz seemed too intimidated to protest.

"Anyway, what was I saying?" she said airily as if nothing had happened. "Oh yes, Mark."

Mark had unfortunately got driven mad by Shaz on the plane as she obsessed over whether she should be doing The Rules or Mars and Venus on a Date on an anaesthetist called Gerald.

"What Mark doesn't understand," she said earnestly, "is that when relationships are just starting up, you have to obsess about them to your inner girlfriends in the absence of anything actually happening - that's the point he's not really grasping."

Suddenly the mattress lurched and we turned to see three of the floppy youth's friends loudly vacating the cushions.

"Right," said Shaz, and before I could do a thing she had swiped our cushions back.

"Hey," whined the floppy-haired boy. "Those are our cushions"—and grabbed them back, tipping Shazzie's cranberry juice on to the mattress.

"To be fair," said Shaz, like an English headmistress, "you didn't care about the notion of possession when we were using them, did you?" then reached and snatched at them.

The boy immediately grabbed for the cushions again, tipping over their whole tray of drinks. Shaz hung on in a dogged manner, at which the model girls returned and fell on the two of them.

More people joined in, two people started kissing, and within seconds the whole idyllic scene was transformed into a writhing mass of people fighting and snogging all over the mattress.

Initially I tried to escape, but suddenly my mother's voice came over me: "Go quietly amidst the noise and haste and remember what peace there may be in silence," so I just stayed perfectly still and calm in the middle of it all.

"Bridget," a voice suddenly barked out. I looked up from under the person I was under to see Mark, smartly besuited, standing with a small Oriental man.

"What in God's name are you doing?" he said coldly. "I thought this was a respectable bar, and I come here to find you unprotestingly participating in a sordid Bacchanalian orgy."

Tuesday, September 1

9st 2lb (morning) 9st 4lb (evening); alcohol units: 0 (vg); cigarettes 0: (vg); happened bad things: 0 (an excellent day's progress).

WHEN bad things happen it is very important to draw lessons from them and move along, enriched. Spent a long time thinking about the fight at the Skybar last week.

At first was depressed about the many ways it may have been my fault, but when Mark had calmed down he said it was merely the escalation of an altercation over cushions which was nothing to do with me. What I should have done, I realised, was got myself away from the fight before Mark appeared, instead of just lying underneath it. So the lesson is, if you get in a bad situation, walk away. Or at least crawl out.

Mark says there is no point trying to draw lessons as I am just a magnet for trouble, but that is false as all negative concepts are. Assured, receptive and responsive is how a woman should be, according to Mars and Venus on a date. As an assured receptive and responsive woman I will cease to attract trouble. So good. Hurrah! Also Shaz and I are going off to the desert tomorrow in manner of Thelma and Louise. We have found a place to stay called 29 Palms, which is only £30 each and Mark has lent us his car. Am really excited. Will be marvellous air of freedom etc. etc. Shaz thinks we should get a gun.

Thursday, September 3

110lb (confirmed by representative of the law); alcohol units: 6 (necessary); cigarettes: 12 (permitted in desert); happened bad things 1.

Wheeee! Was indeed fantastic air of freedom zooming in fast car along freeway, with mountains silhouetted against the sunset. Were just congratulating ourselves on ability to deal with wrong-side-of-road freeway when suddenly caught sight of ambulance in rear-view mirror with flashing light. Was unsure what to do as in middle lane and freeway jammed with cars, so slowed down slightly so maybe it could get past.

"Actually I think it's a police car. Yesss! Thelma and Louise," said Shaz excitedly. It really was like in a movie, with blue and red lights flashing and whooping. "Er, Bridge," said Shaz after a while. "He seems to be coming up behind us." Watched in fascination in the mirror.

"Bridge, I think maybe you should pull over," said Shaz.

It was all very well for her to say that, but it was quite difficult to pull over, actually, what with all the other cars. But it was becoming increasingly obvious that maybe he did mean us.

"Pull over!" yelled Shaz.

"I can't!"

When eventually got on to the hard shoulder, the police car pulled up behind us. Terrified, I got out of the car, at which a loudspeaker boomed: "Get back into the car. Get back into the car."

Got back in to find Shaz collapsing in a fit of giggles.

"Shut up, shut up," I said as the policeman loomed up at the window, dressed in khaki with a gun in his holster.

"Flirt," hissed Shaz, as I frantically pressed all the buttons trying to open the window. Eventually the policeman opened the door and leant in.

"Ma'am, would you explain why you failed to pull over"—his tone was really serious and cold - "when signalled to do so by a police vehicle?"

"I thought you were an ambulance," I whispered.

"Why did you continue to drive when you saw that it was a police vehicle?"

I thought hard about the true reason for this. "Because I wouldn't have presumed to think that, out of all the cars on the road, you would have picked me."

"Ma'am, are you aware of the reason why I have pulled you over and the gravity of the offence?"

Vision was going blotchy. Was like a horrible dream. I shook my head. "Why did you slow your vehicle when I approached?"

"Because I thought you were an ambulance."

"Ma'am, you were driving at 100 miles an hour. Stay in the car."

He turned on his heel and went back to his vehicle, which still had the flashing lights on.

"Drive off," said Shaz out of the corner of her mouth. "Drive off," then started giggling again. Shaz seemed to have no understanding of the seriousness of the situation. It was me that was driving Mark's car and he is lawyer.

The policeman reappeared with a form.

"What colour are your eyes?" he asked.

It is really amazing how, as it says in Mars and Venus on a date, attention from a man can make you relax and radiate. Maybe this is what they teach the police in the States. Straightaway, I felt different.

"Blue, well, bluey grey," I said, responsively looking into his eyes so he could see I was telling the truth.

"And how much do you weigh?"

"Well," I said. "That depends. I'm 9st stone 1 or 2 in the mornings, and at night maybe . . . 9st 4, depending on . . ."

He looked at me as if I was mad. "I'll put 110lb."

I knew from the hotel scales this was only about 8st! "Thank you," I smiled, graciously, responding rather than reacting to his compliment.

"That's really, really nice of you," Shaz gushed, which was foolish. One should seem pleased, but not surprised, by compliments and sure enough his tone instantly changed.

"I'm not sure you have understood me here. I'm not waiving the offence," he said. Then he suddenly smirked, went "What the hell", scribbled something on the form and handed it to me.

When he'd stopped following us, we turned off the freeway and looked at the form. It said we had to go to a police station in Los Angeles within the next three days.

"What did he write?" said Shaz. I peered at his handwriting. In the box labelled "penalty", it said: "Counselling Recommended".

Do not know how am going to tell Mark about all this.

Monday, September 7

9st 2lb, alcohol units 3, traffic convictions 1, minutes spent identifying with Monica Lewinsky self-loathing 425.

Los Angeles

6pm: Am just a mistake. Am sitting on paradise-esque terrace listening to tropical birds tooting in palm trees, waiting for Mark to come home from work, but heart is full of dread. Just when he had forgiven me for the fight in the Skybar and lent me and Shaz the car to go off to the desert, now I have to tell him was done for speeding by policeman with gun. And he is lawyer. Have shamed the man I loved and Gaaaah! Telephone! Police!

6.30pm: "Oh hello darling, guess what?" Was my mother.

"Oh Mum!" said miserably and blurted out the whole story.

"Darling! You must go to encounter group! Honestly, since I came out of rehab I've been sharing with the group every Tuesday - you know, my name's Pam and I'm a whatever . . ."

"What?" I said ". . . ever?" (Madly over-confident nightmare? Lump-free gravy obsessive adulteress? Girl-child torturer?)

"Well, never mind, darling. Anyway, I'm sure it would help you with you're self-esteem problems, 'I'm a mistake'. Durrrr! You sound like Monica Lewinksy!!! Silly girl! She should be riding high on her triumph . . ."—tried to ignore unfortunate choice of expression—" . . . and she'd have half the men in America after her, including President Clinton. There's nothing a wise woman can't turn to her advantage. Speeding fine, nonsense, darling. Oh, did I tell you I've got a job demonstrating a boiled-egg peeler? Anyway, must whiz, I've left Una with the gravy."

Humph. No way would put self through ritual humiliation of encounter group. Maybe she is right, though only about speeding fine. Oooh. Here is Mark.

Midnight: Was indeed Mark, grumpy. (Think Hispanic political refugee case is not going well.) "Can I get you a cold drink?" I said graciously. Was dressed very neatly in short red dress in manner of assured woman of substance.

"Come'ere," he growled. Was clearly not moment to bring it up. Later we heard Shazzie back from shopping, so had to emerge from bedroom as if nothing had happened. Then somehow was never right moment to tell him. Was going to confess when went to bed, but he just murmured, "Sweetheart I'm so glad you got back without getting into trouble", then turned over and went to sleep. So now me and Shaz have to go to police station tomorrow.

Tuesday, September 8

Police station was fantastic: same big white Spanish building as in Beverly Hills Cop! When got to desk had to fill all forms in, then policewoman said: "Miss Jones, you will be required to attend Traffic School tomorrow." 
Traffic School? Shaz and I looked at each other with mixture of bewilderment and delight, then suddenly an all-too-familiar voice echoed out, "Bridget?"

Was Mark, with same lawyer who was with him at the Skybar. "Would you excuse me a moment?" Mark said, then took me really quite hard by the arm. "What in the name of God alive are you doing here?"

Had to explain in a whisper. "You're just a trouble magnet," he said, disappointedly, after he had found out everything from this policewoman. "And you weren't even honest with me about it."

Really think I have done it with Mark this time. He went out with the colleague, came back really late and just rolled over and went to sleep. Without kissing me good night.

Wednesday, September 9

Arrived a bit late for Traffic School, expecting to be taught American Highway Code, to find windowless room with circle of people and blonde leader woman in huge hippy dress introducing herself in creepy, silvery voice as "Angel".

"Welcome! This is your first time with the group, so we'd like you to introduce yourself, beginning with your Christian name."

Everyone stared expectantly, apart from a very tall, good-looking chap whose eyes were going in different directions round the room. "My name is Bridget," I began.

"And I am . . . ?" prompted Angel.

Looked uncertainly from side to side. "A traffic violator!" coaxed Angel in a sing-song baby voice. "Try it?"

"My name is Bridget, and I am a traffic violator," I whispered.

"Because . . . ?" Angel was nodding at me with wide eyes.

I stared back, speechless.

"Hmm, I'm not sure Bridget is ready to be honest with herself, or the group, yet," twinkled Angel. "Let's move on for now, shall we?"

Suddenly noticed tall man's mad eyes had fixed themselves on me. "Where are you staying?" he said.

"Sunset Marquee" I shot back to show I was prepared to be honest with myself and the group.

"Alexander!" said Angel, sharply. "My name is . . ."

"My name is Alexander," drawled the tall man in a laconic English aristocratic voice. "And I am a traffic violator because I am a junkie, an alcoholic and . . . "—his eyes settled in my direction again—". . . a sex addict."

After we'd gone round the whole group—"My name is Chabang and I am a traffic violator because I am a bulimic relationship addict", "My name is Grossman and I am a traffic violator because I am a firearm obsessive"— proceedings moved on to a playlet. The girl called Chabang wanted to relive an incident of paternal abuse, followed by a re-enactment of her shooting a red light on the Santa Monica freeway, at which Alexander was sent out of the group for offering to play the parental role.

"See you tomorrow, Bridget!" cooed Angel at the end. "And then we'll be expecting you to share."

Returned shaking to the apartment to find Mark and Shazzie had cooked a meal for me. Told them all about it, at which Mark started to laugh. "Did you tell them you were a trouble magnet?" he said. "Maybe you'll be cured now."

Just then there was a commotion outside. A figure was crashing about in the undergrowth.

"Briduuuuuuuuurt," roared the figure. "I wanna shag Bridget the Traffic Violatoooooor!"

Oh my God. Was Alexander the sex addict.

Friday, September 11: On plane, coming back from LA

9st 1lb (g); alcohol units: 5; cigarettes: 0; calories: 6,875 (obliged, obviously, to eat everything put in front of self, including toothpaste-flavour dessert, pie with no discernible filling and raw albino sausage).

INCREASINGLY puzzled by Clinton case and all it seems to suggest re: them being alien shag-beasts fighting urges to mount every woman they meet, only restrained by global opinion, wives, trousers etc. Mood added to by self-help book purchased to read on plane. Entitled What Men Want, it is by three young professional men—Gerstman, Seldes and Pizzo—who claim to "tell it like it is", examples of "it" being:

"We are not saying that all men cheat. But all men do think about it. Men have these desires eating at them all the time. We try to contain our sexual urges . . . But sometimes, instinct overrides higher-level thinking."

"A man will stare at, approach or bed a woman with small breasts if he is involved with a woman with large breasts. You may not believe variety is the spice of life, but, believe us, your boyfriend thinks so."

"It is no secret that men have sex with women they have no feelings for whatsoever. If you think you are being used for sex in a relationship, you probably are."

"When a man considers marriage, the first thing he thinks about is not being able to have sex with other women."

"If you have a beautiful sister, rest assured that your boyfriend is having thoughts about sex with her." 
Gaaah! If Clinton stays in power and Hillary stays married to him, will be more or less endorsing entire self-help book theory in global sense. Surely Mark has not been imagining having sex with Shazzer whole time we were in LA?

Saturday, September 12

9st 4lb (have clearly inflated on aeroplane in manner of silicone breast); swimming pools: 0; room service: 0; sun: 0; palm trees: 0 (completely intolerable).

5pm Oh my God alive. Had arranged to meet Mother in Debenhams to watch her doing her new job demonstrating boiled-egg peeler.

"There you go, madam," she was trilling at the top of her voice at an appalled volunteer, attempting to fit a hard-boiled egg into a rubber holder on the end of a kitchen tap. "You stretch the rubber back and grip it nice and hard. That's the way! Then squeeze and stroke, squeeze and stroke, and off it comes in your hand! Super! Oooh, mind the overspray!"

In the basement coffee shop later, after 45 minutes of intense deconstruction of Mum's presentational style and plans to move on to a gadget to take stuck lids off jars, I broached the subject of President Clinton and the self-help book.

"Do you think all men are like that?" I said.

"Well of course they are, you silly billy!"

"But even Daddy? Do you think when he looks at Auntie Una he . . ."

"Well maybe not with Una, darling. She does look a bit like a kettle. But they're just like little animals. Our job is to train them up so they can perform some sort of useful role in society."

Cannot help feeling annoyed with Mum for not including this information in my upbringing. Could have saved me a lot of trouble, actually.

6pm Think am going to ring Mark. Need to get to the bottom of this. Right.

7pm Could not find right moment to bring it up, so eventually just blurted: "Do you want to have sex with Sharon?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Do you want to have sex with Sharon, and Jude?"

"Well," he said, "obviously I'd be delighted to oblige. I realise women have their needs. Did you mean both at the same time?"

"It's not funny," I muttered. "When Shazzer and I were staying with you in LA, did you want to sleep with her?"

"But I was sleeping with you."

"But did it cross your mind ever?"

"Well of course it crossed my mind."

"What?" I exploded.

"She's a very attractive girl. It would have been odd, surely, if it hadn't."

"You mean you actually imagined sleeping with Shazzer?"

"Look, you brought this up. I'm not saying I spent a lot of time on the idea—I hardly had a chance, what with fights breaking out, speeding fines and traffic violators crashing about in the bushes. But—yes, it crossed my mind."

"And Jude?" I said coldly. "Sleeping with Jude. Has that ever 'crossed your mind'?"

"Well . . . from time to time, fleetingly, I suppose it has. Not that I would ever act on it. It's just human nature."

"Human nature?" I said coldly. "I've never imagined sleeping with. . . with Giles or Nigel from your office."

"No," he murmured, "I'm not sure that anyone else has either, unfortunately."

"But does that mean you're just wanting to have sex with other people all the time? And being with me is like having to eat pizza every day, when you keep fancying a steak or an Indian takeaway, like it says in the book?"

"What book?" he said. "Oh God. Don't tell me. It's another self-help book. Bridge, you do realise you're probably building up the largest body of theoretical knowledge about the behaviour of the opposite sex in the known universe? Don't you think you'd be better working on putting it into practice?"

Was horrible thing to say. Obviously I am not obsessed with self-help books, nor do I need them to guide my behaviour in any way. Was just interested because of President Clinton.

8pm Humph. Have just read a bit more of book. It says: "Do not ask your boyfriend if all this is true or he will just lie through his teeth."

Oh God! Maybe Mark was lying and the truth is actually worse than he said. Or maybe he is telling the truth. But that, then, must surely call the whole premise of the book into doubt? Do not know what to think or do now.