"How much would it cost?"
"Oooh." He started shaking his head sorrowfully. "Tell you what, let's go down to the pub and have a think."
"I can't," I said firmly. "I'm going out."
"All right. Well, I'll have a think and give you a ring." "Jolly good. WelP Best get going!"
He picked up his coat, tobacco and Rizlas, opened his bag and laid a magazine down reverentially on the kitchen table.
As he reached the door, he turned and gave me a knowing look. "Page seventy-one," he said. "Ciao."
Picked up the magazine, thinking it was going to be Architectural Digest and found myself looking at Coarse Fisherman, with a man holding a gigantic slimy grey fish on the front. Leafed through an enormous number of pages all containing many pictures of men holding up gigantic slimy grey fish. Reached page 71 and there opposite an article on "BAC Predator Lures', sporting a denim hat with badges on and a proud, beaming smile was Gary, holding up a gigantic slimy grey fish.
Thursday 27 February
9st 3 (lost Ilb was hair), cigarettes 17 (due to hair), calories
625 (off food due to hair), imaginary letters to solicitors, consumer programmes, Dept of Health etc. complaining about Paolo's massacring of hair 22, visits to mirror to check growth of hair 72, millimetres grown by hair in spite of all hard work 0.
7.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes to go. Just checked fringe again. Hair has gone from fright wig to horrified, screaming, full-blown terror wig.
7.47 p.m. Still Ruth Madoc. Why did this have to happen on most important night of relationship-so-far with Mark Darcy? Why? At least, though, makes change from checking thighs in mirror to see if they have shrunk.
Midnight. When Mark Darcy appeared at door lungs got in throat.
He walked in purposefully without saying hello, took a card-shaped envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me. It had my name on it but Mark's address. it had already been opened.
"It's been in the in-tray since I got back," he said, slumping down on the sofa. "I opened it this morning by mistake. Sorry. But it's probably all for the best."
Trembling I took the card from the envelope.
It depicted two cartoon hedgehogs watching a bra entwined with a pair of underpants going round in a washing mac
hine.
"Who's it from?" he said pleasantly. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," he said, in the sort of calm, smiley way that suggests someone is about to pull out a meat hatchet and cut your nose off. "Who is it from?"
"I told you," I muttered. "I don't know." "Read what it says."
I opened it up. Inside, in spidery red writing it said: "Be Mine Valentine - I'll see you when you come to pick up your nightie - love - Sxxxxxxxx'
I stared at it in shock. Just then the phone rang. Baaah! I thought, it'll be Jude or Shazzer with some hideous advice about Mark. I started to spring towards it but Mark put his hand on my arm.
"Hi, doll, Gary here." Oh God. How dare he be so overfamiliar? "Right, what we were talking about in the bedroom - I've got some ideas so give me a ring and I'll come round."
Mark looked down blinking very fast, Then he sniffed, and rubbed the back of his hand across his face as if to pull himself together. "OK?" he said. "Do you want to explain?"
"It's the builder." I wanted to put my arms round him. "Magda's builder, Gary. The one that put the crap shelves up. He wants to put an infill extension between the bedroom and the stairs."
"I see," he said. "And is the card from Gary as well? Or is it St John? Or some other . . ."
Just then the fax started grunting. Something was coming through.
While I was staring Mark pulled the piece of paper off the fax, looked at it and handed it over. It was a scrawled note from Jude saying 'Who needs Mark Darcy when E9.99 plus P&P will buy you one of these', on top of an advert for a vibrator with a tongue.
Friday 28 February