Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason (Bridget Jones 2)

"Apart from anything else it has started to stink in here. We need to clean up, let the energy flow, then go out and have a Bloody Mary," she said, looking at me temptingly.

Minutes later we were outside, blinking in the unexpectedly spring-like not-dark-yet air. I made a sudden bolt back towards the door but Shazzer grabbed me.

"We are going. For. A. Bloody. Mary," she hissed, marching me along the road like a big policeman. Fourteen minutes later we were back. I flung myself

across the room and froze. The light was flashing on the answerphone.

"You see," said Jude in a horrible smug voice. "You see." Tremulously, as if it were an unexploded bomb, Shazzer reached forward and pressed ANSWER PLAY.

"Hello, Bridget, this is Colin Firth." We all jumped a foot backwards. It was Mr Darcy. The same posh, deep, can't-be-bothered voice that he proposed to Elizabeth Bennet in on the BBC. Bridget. Me. Mr Darcy said Bridget. On my answerphone.

"I gather you're coming to Rome to interview me on Monday," he went on. "I was calling to arrange somewhere to meet. There's a square called the Piazza Navona, sort of easy place to find in a taxi. I'll meet you about 4.30 by the fountain. Have a safe journey."

"1471, 1471," gabbled Jude, "1471, quick, quick. No, get the tape out, get the tape out!"

"Call him back," screamed Sharon like an SS torturer. "Call him back and ask him to meet you in the fountain. OhmyGod."

The phone had rung again, we stood there rigid, mouths open. Then Tom's voice boomed out, "Hello, you pretty little things, it's Mr Darcy here just calling to see if anyone could help me out of this wet shirt."

Shazzer suddenly de-tranced. "Stop him, stop him," she screamed, flinging herself at the receiver. "Shut up, Tom, shut up, shut up, shut up."

But it was too late. My answerphone recording of Mr Darcy saying the word Bridget and asking me to meet him in Rome by a fountain has been lost for ever. And there is nothing anyone in the world will ever be able to do about it. Nothing. Nothing.

6 Italian Job

Monday 21 April

8st 13 (fat consumed by excitement and fear), alcohol units 0: excellent (but is only 7.30 in morning), cigarettes 4 (v.g.).

7.30 a.m. Really it is a marvellous step forward to be setting off on journey with so much time to spare. It just goes to show, as it says in The Road Less Travelled, that human beings have capacity to change and grow. Tom came round last night and went through questions with me. So am pretty much all prepared with clear brief though was tiny bit on pissed side, to be perfectly honest.

9.15 a.m. Actually have loads of time. Everyone knows when businessmen whizz between European airports they turn up forty minutes before lift-off, with just a briefcase with nylon shirts in. Plane is at 11.45. Must be at Gatwick at 11, so 10.30 train from Victoria and tube at 10. Perfect.

9.30 a.m. What if it all gets too much and I just, like, burst out and kiss him? Also trousers are too tight and will show stomach. Think will just change into something else. Also maybe need to take sponge bag to freshen up before interview.

9.40 a.m. Cannot believe have wasted time on packing sponge bag, when most important thing, surely, is to look nice on arrival, Hair is completely mad. Will have to wet it again. Where is passport?

9.45 a.m. Have got passport, and hair is calm, so better go.

9.49 a.m. Only problem being: cannot lift bag. Maybe had better reduce sponge bag contents to toothbrush, paste, mouthwash, cleanser and moisturiser. Oh and must take 3,500 out of microwave and leave for Gary so he can start getting materials and stuff for new office and roof terrace! Hurrah!

9.50 a.m. Goody. Have ordered mini-cab. Will be here in two mins.

10 a.m. Where is mini-cab?

10.05 a.m. Where the fuck is mini-cab?

10.06 a.m. Have just rung up mini-cab firm who say silver Cavalier is outside.

10.07 a.m. Silver Cavalier is not outside or anywhere in street.

10.08 a.m. Mini-cab man says silver Cavalier is definitely turning into my street at this moment.

10.10 a.m. Still no mini-cab. Fucking fucking mini-cab and all it's ... Gaah. Is here. Oh fuck, where are keys?

10. 15 a.m. In mini-cab now. Have definitely done journey in fifteen mins before.

10.18 a.m. Aargh. Mini-cab is suddenly on Marylebone Road - inexplicably deciding on scenic tour of London instead of route to Victoria. Fight instinct to attack, kill and eat mini-cab driver.