"Why?" I said, completely confused.
He glanced back at the door. "Miss Jones, you pressed the panic button."
When?"
"About five minutes ago. We got a repeated, increasingly frantic signal."
I looked up to where I'd hung the panic button on the bedpost. Not there. I fumbled sheepishly in the bedclothes beneath it, and produced the orange device.
DI Kirby looked from the button, to me, to the clothes on the floor, then grinned.
"Right, right. I see." He opened the door. "You can come back in, Mr Darcy, if you still have the, er, energy."
There was much smirking amongst the policemen as the situation was euphemistically explained.
"OK. We're off. Enjoy yourselves," said DI Kirby as the policemen trundled back down the stairs. "Oh, just one thing. The original suspect, Mr Cleaver."
"I didn't know Daniel was the original suspect" I said.
"Well. We've attempted to question him on a couple of occasions and he did seem quite angrily resistant. It might be worth a call to smooth things over."
"Oh, thanks," said Mark sarcastically, trying to be dignified in spite of the fact that his towel was slipping, "Thanks for telling us now."
He saw DI Kirby out and could hear him explaining about the punch-up and DI Kirby saying to keep him informed of any problems and all stuff about deciding whether to press charges against Gary.
When Mark came back in I was sobbing. I'd just suddenly started and once I'd started for some reason I
couldn't stop.
"It's all right," said Mark, holding me tight, stroking my hair. "It's all over. It's all right. Everything's going to be all right."
14 For Better or Worse?
Saturday 6 December
11.15 a.m. Claridge's Hotel. Gaaah! Gaaah! GAAAAAAAAAH! Wedding is in forty-five minutes and have just spilt enormous splodge of Rouge Noir nail varnish down front of dress.
What am I doing? Weddings are insane torture concept. Torture-victim guests (though not, obviously, on same scale as Amnesty International clients) dressed up to nines in weird things such would never wear normally e.g. white tights, having to get out of bed practically in middle of night on Saturday morning, run round house shouting "Fuck! fuck! fuck!" trying to find old bits of wrapping paper with silver on, wrap up bizarre unnecessary gifts in manner of ice cream- or bread-makers (destined for endless recycling amongst Smug Marrieds, as who wants to lurch home at the end of the evening and spend an hour sieving ingredients into giant plastic machine! so when wake up in morning can consume entire giant loaf of bread on way to work instead of buying chocolate croissant when get cappuccino?), then drive 400 miles, eating petrol-station wine gums, vomit in car and be unable to find church? Look at me! Why me, Lord? Why? Looks as if have started period in weird backwards-way-round way on dress.
11.20 a.m. Thank God. Shazzer just came back to room and we have decided best thing is to cut out the nail varnish patch from the dress as material so stiff, shiny and sticky-outy that has not gone through to lining underneath, which is same colour and can hold bouquet in front.
Yes, sure that will be fine. No one will notice. Might even think it part of design. As if whole dress is part of extremelv large piece of lace.
Good. Calm and poised. Inner poise. Presence or otherwise of hole in dress is not point of occasion, which is to do with other things. Fortunately. Sure it will all be serene and fine. Shaz was really far gone last night. Hope she is going to get through it today.
Later. Blimey! Arrived at church only twenty minutes late and immediately looked for Mark. Could tell he was tense just from back of head. Then the organ started up and he turned round, saw me and, unfortunately, looked as if he were going to burst out laughing. Could not blame him really as dressed not as sofa but as giant puffball.
We set off in stately procession down the aisle. God, Shaz looked rough. Had that air of intense concentration to prevent anyone noticing hangover. Walk seemed to go on for ever to the tune of:
Here comes the bride Sixty inches wide.
See how she wa-ddles from side unto side.
I mean, why oh, why?
"Bridget, Your foot," hissed Shaz.
Looked down. Shazzer's Agent Provocateur lilac bra with fur on was attached to the heel of my satin kittenheel shoe. Considered kicking it off but then bra would be left lying tellingly in aisle throughout ceremony. Instead tried unsuccessfully to flip it under my dress causing brief interlude of awkward leaping gait with little result. Was blessed relief when got to front and could pick bra up and stuff it behind bouquet during hymn. Vile Richard looked great, really confident. He was just wearing an ordinary suit which was nice - not all dressed up in some insane morning suit-style outfit as if one of the extras from the film Oliver singing 'Who Will Buy This Wonderful Morning?' and doing a high-kicking formation dance.