'It seemed such a fairy tale. I remember sitting on that wall outside St. Paul's at the wedding,' I said. 'Were you there?'
Gav looked embarrassed. 'Actually, I was only six at the time.'
Eventually we gave up on conversation and Gav, with tremendous excitement (this, I recall, the fabulous thing about twenty-two-year-olds) began to kiss me and simultaneously try to find entrances to my clothes. Eventually he managed to slide his hand over my stomach at which point he said – it was so humiliating – 'Mmm. You're all squashy.'
I couldn't go on with it after that. Oh God. It's no good. I am too old and will have to give up, teach religious knowledge in a girls' school and move in with the hockey teacher.
Saturday 23 September
9st,, alcohol units 0, cigarettes 0 (v.v.g.), draft replies written to Mark Darcy's invitation 14 (but at least has replaced imaginary conversations with Daniel).
10 a.m. Right. I am going to reply to Mark Darcy's invitation and say quite clearly and firmly that I will be unable to attend. There is no reason why I should go. I am not a close friend or relation, and would have to miss both Blind Date and Casualty.
Oh God, though. It is one of those mad invitations written in the third person, as if everyone is so posh that to acknowledge directly in person that they were having a party and wondered if you would like to come would be like calling the ladies' powder room the toilet. Seem to remember from childhood am supposed to reply in same oblique style as if I am imaginary person employed by self to reply to invitations from imaginary people employed by friends to issue invitations. What to put?
Bridget Jones regrets that she will be unable . . .
Miss Bridget Jones is distraught, that she will be unable . . .
Devastated does not do justice to the feelings of Miss Bridget Jones . . .
It is with great regret that we must announce that so great was
Miss Budget Jones's distress at not being able to accept the
kind invitation of Mr. Mark Darcy that she has topped herself
and will therefore, more certainly than ever, now, be unable to
accept Mr. Mark Darcy's kind . . .
Ooh: telephone.
It was Dad: 'Bridget, my dear, you are coming to the horror event next Saturday, aren't you?'
'The Darcys' ruby wedding, you mean.'
'What else? It's been the only thing that has distracted your mother from the question of who's getting the mahogany ornament cabinet and nesting coffee tables since she got the Lisa Leeson interview at the beginning of August.'
'I was kind of hoping to get out of it.'
The line went quiet at the other end.
'Dad?'
There was a muffled sob. Dad was crying. I think Dad is having a nervous breakdown. Mind you, if I'd been married to Mum for thirty-nine years I'd have had a nervous breakdown, even without her running off with a Portuguese tour operator.
'What's wrong, Dad?'
'Oh, it's just . . . Sony. It's just . . . I was hoping to get out of it too.'
'Well, why don't you? Hurray. Let's go to the pictures instead.'
'It's . . . ' he broke down again. 'It's the thought of her going with that greasy beperfumed bouffant wop, and all my friends and colleagues of forty years saying 'cheers' to the pair of them and writing me off as history.'
'They won't . . . '
'Oh yes, they will. I'm determined to go, Bridget. I'm going to get on my glad rags and hold my head up high and . . . but . . . ' Sobs again.