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

When I got back to room, Mark was in the bath so I sat in nightie, planning my defence.

"It was not what you think," I said with tremendous originality, as he emerged.

"No?" he said, whisky in hand. He started striding around in his barrister mode, clad only in a towel. Was unnerving, but unbelievably sexy. "Had you a marble stuck in your throat, perhaps?" he said. "Was "St John" being, rather than the trust-funded teenage layabout he appears, actually a top ear, nose and throat surgeon attempting to extract it with his tongue?"

"No," I said, carefully and thoughtfully. "That is not what it was either."

"Then were you hyperventilating? Was "St John" - having garnered the rudiments of first aid into his marijuanaaddled brain, perhaps from a poster on the wall of the many drug rehab units he has visited in his short and otherwise uneventful life - trying to administer the kiss of life? Or did he simply mistake you for a choice morsel of "skunk" and find himself unable to . . ."

I started to laugh. Then he started laughing too, then we started kissing and one thing led to another and afterwards we fell asleep in each other's arms.

In the morning, woke up all rosy thinking everything was OK but then looked around and saw him already dressed, and knew was not anywhere near OK.

"I can explain," I said, dramatically sitting bolt upright. For a moment we looked at each other and started laughing. But then he turned serious.

"Go on, then."

"It was Rebecca," I said. "St John told me Rebecca told him that I told her I fancied him and..."

"And you believed this bewildering catalogue of Chinese whispers?"

"And that you told her we were..."

"Yes?"

"Splitting up," I said.

Mark sat down and started rubbing his fingers very slowly across his forehead.

"Did you?" I whispered. "Did you say that to Rebecca?"

"No," he said eventually. "I didn't say that to Rebecca, but. . ."

I daren't look at him.

"But maybe we..." he began.

The room started to go blotchy. Hate this about dating.

One minute you're closer to someone than anyone in the whole world, next minute they only need to say the words "time apart', "serious talk" or "maybe you..." and you're never going to see them again and will have to spend the next six months having imaginary conversations in which they beg to come back, and bursting into tears at the sight of their toothbrush.

"Do you want to split up ... ?"

There was a knock at the door. Was Rebecca radiant in dusky pink cashmere. "Last call for breakfast, folks!" she cooed and didn't go.

Ended up breakfasting with mad unwashed hair, while Rebecca swung her shiny mane and served kedgeree.

On the way home we drove in silence while I struggled not to show how I felt or say anything wet. Know from experience how awful it is trying to persuade someone you shouldn't split up when they have already made up their mind, and then you think back over what you said. And feel such an idiot.

"Don't do this!" I wanted to yell when we stopped outside my house. "She's trying to pinch you and it's all a plot. I didn't kiss St John. I love you..."

"Well, bye then," I said dignifiedly, and forced myself to get out of the car.

"Bye," he muttered, not looking at me.

Watched him turn the car round really fast and screechily. As he drove off, I saw him angrily brush his cheek as if he was wiping something away.

4 Persuasion