Bridget Jones's Baby: The Diaries (Bridget Jones 4)
Page 47
—
3.10 p.m. Oh my God. Oh my God. This is wonderful. Flat is a bit messy. Don’t want to put him off and make him think am sluttish housewife. Better go round there. Wonder what he has to show me?—as the actress said to the bishop harrumph, harrumph.
TEN
TOTAL BREAKDOWN
SUNDAY 19 NOVEMBER
4.30 p.m. My flat. Just back from Mark’s house. What just happened?
I waited, nervously, on Mark’s doorstep, but this time he opened the door looking different. He was unshaven, in bare feet, wearing jeans and a very dirty dark sweater, and holding an open bottle of red wine. He looked at me strangely.
“Can I come in?” I said eventually. He looked startled by this request.
“Yes, yes, of course, come in.”
He walked through into the kitchen and straight out through the French doors into the garden, breathing in through his nose and appearing to take in the air.
I gasped. The whole place was in bohemian-style chaos. There were piles of washing up, takeout cartons, empty wine bottles, lighted candles, and—could that possibly be joss sticks?
“What’s going on? Why’s it all messy? Why hasn’t the cleaner been?”
“Given everyone a holiday. Don’t need them. Oh!” A wild gleam came into his eye. “Come and look.”
He started leading me into the living room. “I’ve failed at my work,” he said chattily.
“You have?” I said, surveying the once-formal living room. The floorboards were bare. All the furniture was covered in paint-smeared sheets and there were tins of paint everywhere.
“Yes. Farzad release not happening. Five years’ work down the drain. Failed at my life. Failed at my relationships. Failed as a man and a person. But at least I can paint.”
He whipped the sheet off a giant canvas and beamed at me expectantly.
It was absolutely terrible. It looked like the sort of thing you’d buy in Woolworth’s or from the railings round Hyde Park. There was some sort of sunset and a man galloping through the surf on a horse, a suit of armour abandoned on the beach.
“What do you think?”
I was rescued by my cellphone ringing. I looked down—DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER—and clicked it off quickly.
“Yes, I suppose that’s Cleaver, isn’t it? Every time I try to do something good, to stick at life, he pops up and ruins it. Honesty, work, trying to do the decent thing—all pointless, isn’t it? Charm, and celebrity, that’s all it’s about. Is he looking after you?”
“No!”
“So he’s not supporting you? Is it money you want?”
He went to a jar and starting pulling out £20 notes. “Here, take it, plenty. Plenty money. Take all you want. Much good it’s ever done me.”
“I don’t want your money! I’m not some gold-digging single mother coming round to get cash from you. How dare you?” I started heading for the door. “And, for your information, I’m not with Daniel Cleaver.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I’m doing this on my own.”
—
6.15 p.m. My flat. Gaah! Just looked at Daniel’s text.
DANIEL FUCKWIT DO NOT ANSWER