Hellish Holiday: a Bridget Jones Fic
Disclaimer: the author does not own these characters; they are the property of Helen Fielding. No money is being made on this work, and no copyright infringement is intended.
Author's Note: this is the result of a random spark of inspiration I had while reading an article about Pope Benedict XVI's newly-launched Twitter. Also: if you weren't aware, Colin Firth's wife actually does have a Twitter account. If you're interested in following her tweets, her handle is liviafirth.
-12 December-
Weight: 130 lbs. (but hopefully worked off by mad shagging session with Mark Darcy)
Alcohol units 3 (modest, in saint-like attempt to purge body and soul after religious experience)
Cigarettes 0 (re: new saint-style life)
Number of times checked Twitter for new followers: 436 (approx)
Number of times checked Twitter for replies from celebrities, AKA Colin Firth's wife, the Pope, ETC.: 5397 (pathetic)
Number of actual replies from papal account or Colin Firth's wife: 0 (depressing)
Number of Twitter followers: 0. Not even Pope has followed back. Feel rejected by God and universe.
Number of minutes spent obsessing about eternity in Hell: 5 million (bad, but perfectly understandable)
7.30AM: in flat.
Ugh. Wish could stay home from work today. Feeling v. tired and a bit hung-over, but lovely night with Jude and Shazzer last night. Ate lots of Christmas chocolate and watched "Love Actually". Feel v. cheerful and Christmasy despite not having decorated flat or bought Christmas gifts or sent cards or decorated tree. Tree is currently sitting in center of living room like naked tree-man in manner of something out of Lord of the Rings. Mark Darcy is coming round tonight after work to help decorate tree. Lalalala. Is lovely having boyfriend at Christmas to do Christmasy things with, like decorating tree and having eggnog by fire in manner of cozy smug marrieds. Mmm, love the lovely boyfriend.
8.06AM: Argh! Will be late for work. Must get dressed, but think will just check Twitter first. Is v. strange thing, this Twitter. Find it v. pointless broadcasting minute-by-minute updates on movements of self. Really have no interest in reading about last time Jude or Shazzer went to the loo, for instance, or what Tom had for lunch. Then Jude informed me that famous people and their famous spouses are on Twitter…like Colin Firth's wife. Mmm, love Colin Firth. Decided is natural and just to follow his wife on Twitter as am well-informed journalist who must keep up with times and have up-to-date information about pop culture and celebrity goings-on. Hmm, wonder if she will tweet about what Colin looks like asleep. Mmm. Think will maybe just say hello to her, like vicariously talking to Colin, though have already actually had privilege of talking with Colin so do not need to chat vicariously with him through wife in manner of contacting him in another realm through medium. Right, am getting ready for work now.
10.30AM: Morning Meeting
"Brid-get!" was Richard Finch, bellowing at me while I was stealthily checking Twitter on my mobile. Now really wish Tom hadn't told me about these handy apps that will let you check Twitter on the go. IT increases dependence on technology. Plus, argh. Was subjected to staring at photographs posted by Colin Firth's wife of some film premier or other in which she was wearing some white thing masquerading as a dress that actually appears to have been made of used hankies. Ugh. Was going to gouge eyes out with letter-opener or similar sharp object, but then looked at Colin standing next to her, all dark and handsome in black tuxedo, and damaged sight was miraculously restored. Mmm, love Mr. Darcy.
"Brid-get!" Richard bellowed again. Ugh. Why must everyone shout at morning meeting? Surely is violation of office etiquette to raise voices so obnoxiously before noon…or to be expected to speak in full sentences at all, for that matter.
"What?" I said breezily, slipping phone into pocket.
"What? What?" Richard was now rocketing around the room, flailing his arms and gawking at me. "What do you think, then? Come on, come on! I'm not paying you to mess about on your mobile, you know."
"What do I think?" I repeated. "About what?"
"Christ, Bridget, you're sitting there messing about on Twitter," shouted Richard, banging his fist on the table, "and you bloody don't know?"
"Don't know what?" I asked.
"Ask Pontifex!" Richard bellowed like a rhinoceros that hadn't been fed for several years.
"What? Is that like, some sort of Star Trek trivia show, or something?"
"Bridget! It's the bloody Pope!"
"What? The Pope is on Twitter?" Shit. Wonder if maybe Pope has set up some kind of sin surveillance. Maybe should not tweet about how many times have had sex with Mark Darcy. Except am not Catholic, so maybe is OK.
"The Vatican has created an official Twitter account for His holiness, Pope Benedict XVI! He's just sent his first tweet today, apparently! They've set up a special hashtag, #askpontifex, so that followers can ask him questions, and I want you to ask him a question!"
"What? Me?"
"Yes, you, little miss twit! This could be something!" And he was off, rocketing around the room again, arms waving like a helicopter about to take off. "I'm thinking church scandals! I'm thinking priests and little boys! I'm thinking telling people in Africa they shouldn't wear condoms! Well, well, get on it, Bridget! We haven't got all day!" Argh. If am going to Hell merely for number of times have had sex with Mark Darcy in last week, surely Richard Finch is going to Hell purely for the reason that someone allowed him to exist.
11.30AM: Have spent last fifteen minutes staring at computer screen trying to think of something witty and intelligent to ask the Pope. Maybe should ring Mark. What's the use of having an intelligent boyfriend if cannot occasionally take advantage of his grasp of important world affairs, politics, religion, Etc.?
12.02PM: v. hungry. Maybe need sugar rush to activate brain cells. Will eat chocolate.
12.04PM: Mmm, love the lovely chocolate.
12.05PM: waiting patiently for spark of choco-inspired brilliance. Am going to converse intelligently via Twitter with head of Catholic Church in manner of v. busy and important international correspondent or similar.
12.06PM: Maybe will just have another piece of chocolate, to boost self-esteem.
12.11PM: Shit, this is ridiculous. Am just going to grit teeth and do it.
12.15PM: Oh God oh God oh God! Am going to Hell. Cannot believe what have done. Had v. intelligent question crafted and revised to fit 140 char Twitter limit (is difficult to sound intelligent when have v. small space with which to work). Question was all about how His Holiness sees church's role in promoting gender equality issues. Then panicked and asked if Mary might have asked Joseph to hold her hand while she did the pregnancy test, and if the pregnancy tests you buy at the chemist work on holy conceptions. Oh God. OH Jesus. Am going to Hell.
6.30PM: Back in flat.
Ugh. Have lost Christmas spirit in view of hell-bound tweeting incident. Pope has not responded. He is probably too busy writing up an edict to have me exiled to a desert for 40 years to live on locusts and honey. Hmm, perhaps could prove effective weight-loss plan? Wonder what sort of success John the Baptist had with it. Should ask Pope. Argh. Think will have glass of wine. Just a small one to calm nerves before Mark arrives.
7.15PM: Love the lovely wine. Should really find Christmas decorations. Pope still hasn't responded. Probably giving orders to Swiss Guard to come for me.
8.00PM: aaaargh! Hear noise on stairs. Is probably Swiss Guard. Wish Mark were here. Wonder if Swiss Guard would let us have farewell shag before desert exile?
11.00PM: All right with world again, I think. Turned out was not Swiss Guard coming to take me away, but mark coming round as promised.
"Bridget, I'm sorry I'm late. I-Good God! For Heaven's sake. You needn't throttle me half to death!" The moment I saw him framed in the doorway, strong and handsome and protective, I just leapt off the sofa and flung myself at him, wrapping myself around him. "Bridget, my God, what has happened?" Calmly, Mark unwound me from him and carried me over to the sofa. He poured me another glass of wine (mmm, love him), wrapped a blanket round me, and pulled me onto his lap.
"Bad day at work?" he asked, gently rubbing his hand up and down my back.
I nodded. "You have no idea!" I sobbed. Tenderly Mark wrapped his arms around me and pulled me closer. Was v. nice snuggled up against his strong, warm, masculine chest. Started to undo the buttons on his shirt, and then remembered about Hell and thought had better stop.
"Do you want to talk about it?" he asked.
I bit my lip; then sobbed out the entire story (except the bit about Colin firth. V. awkward). Mark stared down at me for a long moment; then burst out laughing. "It isn't funny!" I sniffled.
"Bridget, you'll forgive me for saying so, but I have to disagree with you. You don't seriously think you're marked for eternal damnation for some ridiculous comment you made on the internet."
"It's the only logical explanation," I insisted.
"Hmm, darling, when you leap from asking the Pope about a pregnancy test to thinking the Swiss Guard is coming to escort you to a life of exile in the desert, I'm afraid I can't see where logic comes in."
"So you don't think I'm going to Hell, then?"
Mark smiled. "I think it highly unlikely."
"Are you sure?"
"Not for the reason you suppose," he said, hooking his finger in the neck of my sweater. "But perhaps you will, for this," he added, bending to kiss me. Round of snogging ensued, followed naturally by shagging, perhaps best ever. Can't possibly be going to Hell, as think might actually have seen god. Still, if I am, am pretty certain Mark is coming with me. AT least we got to have lovely Armageddon-type shag first, like last meal before execution, only better. Mmm. Love Mark Darcy. Love everything. Feel at peace with self and entire world.
The End