Chapter One
SUNDAY 1 JANUARY
129 lbs. (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 14 (but effectively covers2 days as 4 hours of party was on New Year's Day), cigarettes 22, calories5424.
Food consumed today:
2 pkts Emmenthal cheese slices
14 cold new potatoes
2 Bloody Marys (count as food as contain Worcester sauce and
tomatoes)
1/3 Ciabatta loaf with Brie
coriander leaves--1/2 packet
12 Milk Tray (best to get rid of all Christmas confectionery in
one go and make fresh start tomorrow)
13 cocktail sticks securing cheese and pineapple
Portion Una Alconbury's turkey curry, peas and bananas
Portion Una Alconbury's Raspberry Surprise made with
Bourbon biscuits, tinned raspberries, eight gallons of
whipped cream, decorated with glace cherries and angelica.
Noon. London: my flat. Ugh. The last thing on earth I feel physically,emotionally or mentally equipped to do is drive to Una and GeoffreyAlconbury's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet inGrafton Underwood. Geoffrey and Una Alconbury are my parents' bestfriends and, as Uncle Geoffrey never tires of reminding me, have knownme since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. My motherrang up at 8:30 in the morning last August Bank Holiday and forced meto promise to go. She approached it via a cunningly circuitous route.
"Oh, hello, darling. I was just ringing to see what you wanted forChristmas."
"Christmas?"
"Would you like a surprise, darling?"
"No!" I bellowed. "Sorry. I mean ..."
"I wondered if you'd like a set of wheels for your suitcase."
"But I haven't got a suitcase."
"Why don't I get you a little suitcase with wheels attached. Youknow, like air hostesses have."
"I've already got a bag."
"Oh, darling, you can't go around with that tatty green canvasthing. You look like some sort of Mary Poppins person who's fallen onhard times. Just a little compact case with a pull-out handle. It'samazing how much you can get in. Do you want it in navy on red or redon navy?"
"Mum. It's eight-thirty in the morning. It's summer. It's very hot.I don't want an air-hostess bag."
"Julie Enderby's got one. She says she never uses anything else."
"Who's Julie Enderby?"
"You know Julie, darling! Mavis Enderby's daughter. Julie! The onethat's got that super-dooper job at Arthur Andersen ..."
"Mum ..."
"Always takes it on her trips ..."
"I don't want a little bag with wheels on."
"I'll tell you what. Why don't Jamie, Daddy and I all club togetherand get you a proper new big suitcase and a set of wheels?"
Exhausted, I held the phone away from my ear, puzzling about wherethe missionary luggage-Christmas-gift zeal had stemmedfrom. When I put the phone back she was saying: "... in actual fact, you canget them with a compartment with bottles for your bubble bath andthings. The other thing I thought of was a shopping cart."
"Is there anything you'd like for Christmas?" I said desperately,blinking in the dazzling Bank Holiday sunlight.
"No, no," she said airily. "I've got everything I need. Now,darling," she suddenly hissed, "you will be coming to Geoffrey andUna's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet this year, won't you?"
"Ah. Actually, I ..." I panicked wildly. What could I pretend tobe doing? "... think I might have to work on New Year's Day."
"That doesn't matter. You can drive up after work. Oh, did Imention? Malcolm and Elaine Darcy are coming and bringing Mark withthem. Do you remember Mark, darling? He's one of those top-notchbarristers. Masses of money. Divorced. It doesn't start till eight."
Oh God. Not another strangely dressed opera freak with bushy hairburgeoning from a side-part. "Mum, I've told you. I don't need to befixed up with ..."
"Now come along, darling. Una and Geoffrey have been holding the NewYear buffet since you were running round the lawn with no clothes on!Of course you're going to come. And you'll be able to use your newsuitcase."
11:45 p.m. Ugh. First day of New Year has been day of horror. Cannotquite believe I am once again starting the year in a single bed in myparents' house. It is too humiliating at my age. I wonder if they'llsmell it if I have a fag out of the window. Having skulked at home allday, hoping hangover would clear, I eventually gave up and set off forthe Turkey Curry Buffet far too late. When I got to the Alconburys' andrang their entire-tune-of-town-hall-clock-style doorbell I was still ina strange world of my own--nauseous, vile-headed, acidic. I was alsosuffering from road-rage residue after inadvertently getting on to theM6 instead of the M1 and having to drive halfway to Birmingham before Icould find anywhere to turn round. I was so furious I kept jamming myfoot down to the floor on the accelerator pedal to give vent to myfeelings, which is very dangerous. I watched resignedly as Una Alconbury'sform--intriguingly deformed through the ripply glass door--bore down on mein a fuchsia two-piece.
"Bridget! We'd almost given you up for lost! Happy New Year! Justabout to start without you."
She seemed to manage to kiss me, get my coat off, hang it over thebanister, wipe her lipstick off my cheek and make me feel incrediblyguilty all in one movement, while I leaned against the ornament shelffor support.
"Sorry. I got lost."
"Lost? Durr! What are we going to do with you? Come on in!"
She led me through the frosted-glass doors into the lounge,shouting, "She got lost, everyone!"
"Bridget! Happy New Year!" said Geoffrey Alconbury, clad in a yellowdiamond-patterned sweater. He did a jokey Bob Hope step then gave methe sort of hug which Boots would send straight to the police station.
"Hahumph," he said, going red in the face and pulling his trousersup by the waistband. "Which junction did you come off at?"
"Junction nineteen, but there was a diversion ..."
"Junction nineteen! Una, she came off at junction nineteen! You'veadded an hour to your journey before you even started. Come on, let'sget you a drink. How's your love life, anyway?"
Oh God. Why can't married people understand that this is no longer apolite question to ask? We wouldn't rush up to them and roar, "How'syour marriage going? Still having sex?" Everyone knows that dating inyour thirties is not the happy-go-lucky free-for-all it was when youwere twenty-two and that the honest answer is more likely to be,"Actually, last night my married lover appeared wearing suspenders anda darling little Angora crop-top, told me he was gay/a sex addict/anarcotic addict/a commitment phobic and beat me up with a dildo," than,"Super, thanks."
Not being a natural liar, I ended up mumbling shamefacedly toGeoffrey, "Fine," at which point he boomed, "So you still haven'tgot a feller!"
"Bridget! What are we going to do with you!" said Una. "You careergirls! I don't know! Can't put it off forever, you know.Tick-tock-tick-tock."
"Yes. How does a woman manage to get to your age without beingmarried?" roared Brian Enderby (married to Mavis, used to be presidentof the Rotary in Kettering), waving his sherry in the air. Fortunatelymy dad rescued me.
"I'm very pleased to see you, Bridget," he said, taking my arm."Your mother has the entire Northamptonshire constabulary poised tocomb the county with toothbrushes for your dismembered remains. Comeand demonstrate your presence so I can start enjoying myself. How's thebe-wheeled suitcase?"
"Big beyond all sense. How are the ear-hair clippers?"
"Oh, marvelously--you know--clippy."
It was all right, I suppose. I would have felt a bit mean if Ihadn't turned up, but Mark Darcy ... Yuk. Every time my mother's rungup for weeks it's been, "Of course you remember the Darcys, darling.They came over when we were living in Buckingham and you and Markplayed in the paddling pool!" or, "Oh! Did I mention Malcolm and Elaineare bringing Mark with them to Una's New Year's Day Turkey CurryBuffet? He's just back from America, apparently. Divorced. He's lookingfor a house in Holland Park. Apparently he had the most terrible timewith his wife. Japanese. Very cruel race."
Then next time, as if out of the blue, "Do you remember Mark Darcy,darling? Malcolm and Elaine's son? He's one of these super-doopertop-notch lawyers. Divorced. Elaine says he works all the time and he'sterribly lonely. I think he might be coming to Una's New Year's DayTurkey Curry Buffet, actually."
I don't know why she didn't just come out with it and say, "Darling,do shag Mark Darcy over the turkey curry, won't you? He's very rich."
"Come along and meet Mark," Una Alconbury singsonged before I'd evenhad time to get a drink down me. Being set up with a man against yourwill is one level of humiliation, but being literally dragged into itby Una Alconbury while caring for an acidic hangover, watched by anentire roomful of friends of your parents, is on another planealtogether.
The rich, divorced-by-cruel-wife Mark--quite tall--was standing withhis back to the room, scrutinizing the contents of the Alconburys'bookshelves: mainly leather-bound series of books about the ThirdReich, which Geoffrey sends off for from Reader's Digest. It struck meas pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your ownlooking snooty at a party. It's like being called Heathcliff andinsisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting"Cathy" and banging your head against a tree.
"Mark!" said Una, as if she was one of Santa Claus's fairies. "I'vegot someone nice for you to meet."
He turned round, revealing that what had seemed from the back like aharmless navy sweater was actually a V-neck diamond-patterned in shadesof yellow and blue--as favored by the more elderly of the nation'ssports reporters. As my friend Tom often remarks, it's amazing how muchtime and money can be saved in the world of dating by close attentionto detail. A white sock here, a pair of red braces there, a grayslip-on shoe, a swastika, are as often as not all one needs to tell youthere's no point writing down phone numbers and forking out forexpensive lunches because it's never going to be a runner.
"Mark, this is Cohn and Pam's daughter, Bridget," said Una, goingall pink and fluttery. "Bridget works in publishing, don't you,Bridget?"
"I do indeed," I for some reason said, as if I were taking part in aCapital radio phone-in and was about to ask Una if I could "say hello"to my friends Jude, Sharon and Tom, my brother Jamie, everyone in theoffice, my mum and dad, and last of all all the people at the TurkeyCurry Buffet.
"Well, I'll leave you two young people together," said Una."Durr! I expect you're sick to death of us old fuddy-duddies."
"Not at all," said Mark Darcy awkwardly with a rather unsuccessfulattempt at a smile, at which Una, after rolling her eyes, putting ahand to her bosom and giving a gay tinkling laugh, abandoned us with atoss of her head to a hideous silence.
"I. Um. Are you reading any, ah ... Have you read any good bookslately?" he said.
Oh, for God's sake.
I racked my brain frantically to think when I last read a properbook. The trouble with working in publishing is that reading in yourspare time is a bit like being a dustman and snuffling through the pigbin in the evening. I'm halfway through Men Are from Mars, Women Arefrom Venus, which Jude lent me, but I didn't think Mark Darcy, thoughclearly odd, was ready to accept himself as a Martian quite yet. Then Ihad a brainwave.
"Backlash, actually, by Susan Faludi," I said triumphantly. Hah! Ihaven't exactly read it as such, but feel I have as Sharon has beenranting about it so much. Anyway, completely safe option as no waydiamond-pattern-jumpered goody-goody would have read five-hundred-pagefeminist treatise.
"Ah. Really?" he said. "I read that when it first came out. Didn'tyou find there was rather a lot of special pleading?"
"Oh, well, not too much ..." I said wildly, racking my brains fora way to get off the subject. "Have you been staying with your parentsover New Year?"
"Yes," he said eagerly. "You too?"
"Yes. No. I was at a party in London last night. Bit hungover,actually." I gabbed nervously so that Una and Mum wouldn't think I wasso useless with men I was failing to talk to even Mark Darcy. "But thenI do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected tobegin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension ofNew Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot beexpected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so muchnicotine in the system. Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a goodidea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consumewhatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease yourhangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions begangenerally on January the second."
"Maybe you should get something to eat," he said, then suddenlybolted off toward the buffet, leaving me standing on my own by thebookshelf while everybody stared at me, thinking, "So that's whyBridget isn't married. She repulses men."
The worst of it was that Una Alconbury and Mum wouldn't leave it atthat. They kept making me walk round with trays of gherkins and glassesof cream sherry in a desperate bid to throw me into Mark Darcy's pathyet again. In the end they were so crazed with frustration that thesecond I got within four feet of him with the gherkins Una threwherself across the room like Will Carling and said, "Mark, you musttake Bridget's telephone number before you go, then you can get intouch when you're in London."
I couldn't stop myself turning bright red. I could feel it climbingup my neck. Now Mark would think I'd put her up to it.
"I'm sure Bridget's life in London is quite full enough already,Mrs. Alconbury," he said. Humph. It's not that I wanted him to take myphone number or anything, but I didn't want him to make it perfectlyobvious to everyone that he didn't want to. As I looked down I saw thathe was wearing white socks with a yellow bumblebee motif
"Can't I tempt you with a gherkin?" I said, to show I had had agenuine reason for coming over, which was quite definitely gherkin-basedrather than phone-number-related.
"Thank you, no," he said, looking at me with some alarm.
"Sure? Stuffed olive?" I pressed on.
"No, really."
"Silverskin onion?" I encouraged. "Beetroot cube?"
"Thank you," he said desperately, taking an olive.
"Hope you enjoy it," I said triumphantly.
Toward the end I saw him being harangued by his mother and Una, whomarched him over toward me and stood just behind while he said stiffly,"Do you need driving back to London? I'm staying here but I could get mycar to take you."
"What, all on its own?" I said.
He blinked at me.
"Durr! Mark has a company car and a driver, silly," said Una.
"Thank you, that's very kind," I said. "But I shall be taking one ofmy trains in the morning."
2 a.m. Oh, why am I so unattractive? Why? Even a man who wearsbumblebee socks thinks I am horrible. Hate the New Year. Hate everyone.Except Daniel Cleaver. Anyway, have got giant tray-sized bar ofCadbury's Dairy Milk left over from Christmas on dressing table, alsoamusing joke gin and tonic miniature. Am going to consume them and havefag.
TUESDAY 3 JANUARY
130 lbs. (terrifying slide into obesity--why? why?), alcohol units 6(excellent), cigarettes 23 (v.g.), calories 2472.
9 a.m. Ugh. Cannot face thought of going to work. Only thing whichmakes it tolerable is thought of seeing Daniel again, but even that isinadvisable since am fat, have spot on chin, and desire only to sit oncushion eating chocolate and watching Xmas specials. It seems wrong andunfair that Christmas, with its stressful and unmanageable financialand emotional challenges, should first be forced upon one whollyagainst one's will, then rudely snatched away just when one is startingto get into it. Was really beginning to enjoy the feeling that normalservice was suspended and it was OK to lie in bed as long as you want,put anything you fancy into your mouth, and drink alcohol whenever itshould chance to pass your way, even in the mornings. Now suddenly weare all supposed to snap into self-discipline like lean teenagegreyhounds.
10 p.m. Ugh. Perpetua, slightly senior and therefore thinking she is incharge of me, was at her most obnoxious and bossy, going on and on tothe point of utter boredom about latest half-million-pound property sheis planning to buy with her rich-but-overbred boyfriend, Hugo: "Yars,yars, well it is north-facing but they've done something frightfullyclever with the light."
I looked at her wistfully, her vast, bulbous bottom swathed in atight red skirt with a bizarre three-quarter-length striped waistcoatstrapped across it. What a blessing to be born with such Sloaneyarrogance. Perpetua could be the size of a Renault Espace and not giveit a thought. How many hours, months, years, have I spent worryingabout weight while Perpetua has been happily looking for lamps withporcelain cats as bases around the Fulham Road? She is missing out on asource of happiness, anyway. It is proved by surveys that happinessdoes not come from love, wealth or power but the pursuit of attainablegoals: and what is a diet if not that?
On way home in end-of-Christmas denial I bought a packet of cut-pricechocolate tree decorations and a 3.69 [pounds sterling] bottle of sparkling wine fromNorway, Pakistan or similar. I guzzled them by the light of theChristmas tree, together with a couple of mince pies, the last of theChristmas cake and some Stilton, while watching Eastenders, imaginingit was a Christmas special.
Now, though, I feel ashamed and repulsive. I can actually feel thefat splurging out from my body. Never mind. Sometimes you have to sinkto a nadir of toxic fat envelopment in order to emerge, phoenix-like,from the chemical wasteland as a purged and beautiful Michelle Pfeifferfigure. Tomorrow new Spartan health and beauty regime will begin.
Mmmm. Daniel Cleaver, though. Love his wicked dissolute air, whilebeing v. successful and clever. He was being v. funny today, tellingeveryone about his aunt thinking the onyx kitchen-roll holder hismother had given her for Christmas was a model of a penis. Was reallyv. amusing about it. Also asked me if I got anything nice for Christmasin rather flirty way. Think might wear short black skirt tomorrow.
WEDNESDAY 4 JANUARY
131 lbs. (state of emergency now as if fat has been stored in capsuleform over Christmas and is being slowly released under skin), alcoholunits 5 (better), cigarettes 20, calories 700 (v.g.).
4 p.m. Office. State of emergency. Jude just rang up from her portablephone in flood of tears, and eventually managed to explain, in asheep's voice, that she had just had to excuse herself from a boardmeeting (Jude is Head of Futures at Brightlings) as she was about toburst into tears and was now trapped in the ladies' with Alice Coopereyes and no makeup bag. Her boyfriend, Vile Richard (self-indulgentcommitment phobic), whom she has been seeing on and off for eighteenmonths, had chucked her for asking him if he wanted to come on holidaywith her. Typical, but Jude naturally was blaming it all on herself.
"I'm co-dependent. I asked for too much to satisfy my own needinessrather than need. Oh, if only I could turn back the clock."
I immediately called Sharon and an emergency summit has beenscheduled for 6:30 in Cafe Rouge. I hope I can get away without bloodyPerpetua kicking up.
11 p.m. Strident evening. Sharon immediately launched into her theoryon the Richard situation: "Emotional fuckwittage," which is spreadinglike wildfire among men over thirty. As women glide from their twentiesto thirties, Shazzer argues, the balance of power subtly shifts. Eventhe most outrageous minxes lose their nerve, wrestling with the firsttwinges of existential angst: fears of dying alone and being foundthree weeks later half-eaten by an Alsatian. Stereotypical notions ofshelves, spinning wheels and sexual scrapheaps conspire to make youfeel stupid, no matter how much time you spend thinking about GoldieHawn and Susan Sarandon.
"And men like Richard," fumed Sharon, "play on the chink in thearmor to wriggle out of commitment, maturity, honor and the naturalprogression of things between a man and a woman."
By this time Jude and I were going, "Shhh, shhh," out of the cornersof our mouths and sinking down into our coats. After all, there isnothing so unattractive to a man as strident feminism.
"How dare he say you were getting too serious by asking to go onholiday with him?" yelled Sharon. "What is he talking about?"
Thinking moonily about Daniel Cleaver, I ventured that not all menare like Richard. At which point Sharon started on a long illustrativelist of emotional fuckwittage in progress in our friends: one whoseboyfriend of thirteen years refuses even to discuss living together;another who went out with a man four times who then chucked her becauseit was getting too serious; another who was pursued by a bloke forthree months with impassioned proposals of marriage, only to find himducking out three weeks after she succumbed and repeating the wholeprocess with her best friend.
"We women are only vulnerable because we are a pioneer generationdaring to refuse to compromise in love and relying on our own economicpower. In twenty years' time men won't even dare start with fuckwittagebecause we will just laugh in their faces," bellowed Sharon.
At this point Alex Walker, who works in Sharon's company, strolledin with a stunning blonde who was about eight times as attractive ashim. He ambled over to us to say hi.
"Is this your new girlfriend?" asked Sharon.
"Well. Huh. You know, she thinks she is, but we're not going out,we're just sleeping together. I ought to stop it really, but, well ...,"he said, smugly.
"Oh, that is just such crap, you cowardly, dysfunctional littleschmuck. Right. I'm going to talk to that woman," said Sharon,getting up. Jude and I forcibly restrained her while Alex, lookingpanic-stricken, rushed back, to continue his fuckwittage unrumbled.
Eventually the three of us worked out a strategy for Jude. She muststop beating herself over the head with Women Who Love Too Much andinstead think more toward Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus,which will help her to see Richard's behavior less as a sign that sheis codependent and loving too much and more in the light of him beinglike a Martian rubber band which needs to stretch away in order to comeback.
"Yes, but does that mean I should call him or not?" said Jude.
"No," said Sharon, just as I was saying, "Yes."
After Jude had gone--because she has to get up at 5:45 to go to thegym and see her personal shopper before work starts at 8:30(mad)--Sharon and I suddenly were filled with remorse and self-loathingfor not advising Jude simply to get rid of Vile Richard because he isvile. But then, as Sharon pointed out, last time we did that they gotback together and she told him everything we'd said in a fit ofreconciliatory confession and now it is cripplingly embarrassing everytime we see him and he thinks we are the Bitch Queens from Hell--which,as Jude points out, is a misapprehension because, although we havediscovered our Inner Bitches, we have not yet unlocked them.
Continues...
Excerpted from Bridget Jones's Diaryby Helen Fielding Copyright © 2001 by Helen Fielding. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
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