'Will you have dinner with me, Bridget?' he said abruptly, and rather crossly, as if he was going to sit me down at a table somewhere and tell me off.
I stopped and stared at him. 'Has my mum put you up to this?' I said, suspiciously.
'No . . . I . . . '
'Una Alconbury?'
'No, no . . . '
Suddenly I realized what was going on. 'It's your mum, isn't it?'
'Well, my mother has . . . '
'I don't want to be asked out to dinner just because your mum wants you to. Anyway, what would we talk about? You'd just ask me if I've read any good books lately and then I'd have to make up some pathetic lie and – '
He stared at me in consternation. 'But Una Alconbury told me you were a sort of literary whizz-woman, completely obsessed with books.'
'Did she?' I said, rather pleased by the idea suddenly. 'What else did she tell you?'
'Well, that you're a radical feminist and have an incredibly glamorous life . . . '
'Oooh,' I purred.
' . . . with millions of men taking you out.'
'Huh.'
'I heard about Daniel. I'm sorry.'
'I suppose you did try to warn me,' I muttered sulkily. 'What have you got against him, anyway?'
'He slept with my wife,' he said. 'Two weeks after our wedding.'
I stared at him aghast as a voice above us shouted, 'Markee!' It was Natasha, silhouetted against the lights, peering down to see what was going on.
'Markee!' she called again. 'What are you doing down there?'
'Last Christmas,' Mark went on hurriedly, 'I thought if my mother said the words 'Bridget Jones' just once more I would go to the Sunday People and accuse her of abusing me as a child with a bicycle pump. Then when I met you . . . and I was wearing that ridiculous diamond-patterned sweater that Una had bought me for Christmas . . . Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or . . . '
'Mark!' yelled Natasha, heading down the stairs toward us.
'But you're going out with somebody,' I said, rather pointing out the obvious.
'I'm not anymore, actually,' he said. 'Just dinner? Sometime?'
'OK,' I whispered. 'OK.'
Afterwards I thought I'd better go home: what with Natasha watching my every move as if she were a crocodile and I was getting a bit near to her eggs, and me having given Mark Darcy my address and phone number and having fixed to see him next Tuesday. On my way through the dancing room I saw Mum, Una and Elaine Darcy chatting animatedly to Mark – couldn't help imagining their faces if they knew what had just gone on. I suddenly had a vision of next year's Turkey Curry Buffet with Brian Enderby hitching up the waistband of his trousers going, 'Harumph. Nice to see the young people enjoying themselves, isn't it?' and Mark Darcy and me forced to do tricks for the assembled company, like rubbing noses or having sex in front of them, like a pair of performing seals.
Tuesday 3 October
8st 12, alcohol units 3 (v.g.), cigarettes 21 (bad), number of times said word 'bastard' in last twenty-four hours 369 (approx.).
7:30 p.m. Complete panic stations. Mark Darcy is coming over to pick me up in half an hour. Just got home from work with mad hair and unfortunate laundry crisis outfit on. Help oh help. Was planning to wear white 501s but suddenly occurs to me he may be the type who will take me to a posh scary restaurant. Oh God, do not have anything posh to wear. Do you think he will expect me to put bunny tail on? Not that I'm interested in him or anything.
7:50 p.m. Oh God oh God. Still have not washed hair. Will quickly get into bath.
8:00 p.m. Drying hair now. V. much hope Mark Darcy is late as do not want him to find me in dressing gown with wet hair.