If—
By S. Faith, © 2013
Words: 53,952
Rating: M / R
Summary: Bridget's always counted on her friends when her love life has gone to pieces—and, in recent months, especially counts on one in particular.
Disclaimer: Really (x 1000) isn't mine.
Notes: Another what-if scenario, this time: what if a pivotal scene in EOR had simply not occurred?
Chapter 1: A V. Bad Start (Again)
Friday, 1 January
9st 9 (v. bad way to start off new year); calories: large, unfathomable sum; alcohol units: insufficient; boyfriends: unknown at present
10 am. Mark Darcy's house. Up at unreasonable hour after late night festivities in order to make the trip to Grafton Underwood for yearly curry torture session. Mark insisted I stay over so that I would, quote, "Not still be sleeping at half one." Surely is not normal for him to be this enthusiastic about trip to see parents, this early, on New Year's Day.
11 pm. My flat. Unfathomable day. Hideous time at the Alconburys', despite day starting as v. g. perfectly normal day with happiness and good feelings (though, admit may be that drunkenness had spilt over from night before) as well as boyfriend. Both now in questionable state.
Despite best effort and getting on road on time we still showed up late to my parents'—not my fault I forgot sponge bag, sort of thing that could happen to anyone—and as usual bore brunt of accusations of deliberate lateness and garnered subtle yet hateful stares from Mum.
"Lunch was scheduled for a half-hour ago, Bridget," Mum said through clenched teeth. To my great surprise (and Mark's too), Mark's parents were there.
"I know, I know." I shot a glance to Elaine Darcy, who as always looked at me with sympathy, which have never been sure is good or bad. "Sorry."
"Quite all right, my dear," she said in her usual aristocratic manner. "And how are you?"
Tired, hungover and in a state of chaos, I thought, but said only, "Fine. I'm fine. And you?"
"Hope you'll stay too," interrupted my mum, talking to Mark in a suspiciously sweet voice, "since your parents are already here."
"Of course," he said, though he looked a bit trapped into agreeing.
Lunch had potential to be horror, but thankfully it was not as bad as it could have been. Lots of the usual hints about Mark and me. Before I knew it we were all piling into vehicles to caravan over to the Alconburys'. "I'm glad you're driving," I said to Mark.
"So you can get a little pissed," he guessed. I laughed.
"Yeah."
About two hours later, after which was more than a little pissed, my mobile rang, and without thinking I answered.
"Bridge, where are you?"
Shit. "Hi," I trilled gaily.
"Where have you been, more like? Where did you disappear to last night?"
Flashed back to night before. New Year's party. Mark Darcy's thundering voice as he took control of situation. "You were too drunk to take me home, so I went with…" I trailed off, and my eyes rose to look at Mark Darcy, who, at that moment, noticed me looking and came near.
"What is it, Bridget?" Mark asked. "Is something the matter?"
"Who's that? Is that Mark Darcy again?" Anger now. Shit.
"Yes," I said hoity-toitily.
"And did you forget we had plans?"
I went stone cold silent. Had in actual fact totally forgotten.
"Right. I get the message loud and clear. Goodbye, Bridget."
"Wait—"
Silence. I stared at my mobile, which briefly blinked that the call was put down before the little active call window shrank away. Shitshitshit.
"All's well?" Mark Darcy asked as I rang back in desperation. Didn't pick up.
Really didn't want to get into it in the middle of the Turkey Curry Buffet. "It'll be fine," I said, though am sure he knew something was wrong.
"Tell me later," he said.
After that I hardly wanted to stay. Felt like complete jerk. We left a lot earlier than originally planned and we talked in the car driving home. By the time we got back to London I felt loads better. Promised to call me and see me soon, though he had things of his own to tend to, dinner with Lavinia to make up for last night's hasty departure on my account (introductions had me nearly in tears with laughter; does he pick these girls with ridiculously vintage names on purpose?).
"Just give Eric a call," he said as he dropped me off at my flat, giving me a peck on the forehead goodbye. "Perhaps all is not lost. You do tend to catastrophise." He was right. But then he added, "You know, if it is lost, it's not really a great loss."
Would have smacked him on arm except he was already back behind the wheel. As if sensing my thoughts he grinned then drove hastily away with a little wave.
Went back inside to find no messages on answerphone. Tried to call Eric again from home phone as if different incoming number might prove a successful subterfuge, but he did not pick up. Left answerphone message: "Sorry for today. Sorry for last night too. Crap way to start the new year. Please give me a call." Admittedly, Mark's words echoed in head, so heart was not in it.
Saturday, 2 January
50000st (feels like); calories: 3000 (courtesy Mark Darcy); alcohol units: 6 (saint-style person); boyfriends: still questionable
2 am. Can't sleep. Keep turning over and over in head conversation with Mark Darcy from car ride home. Instinct was not to call Eric as long-ingrained habit of being the pursued and not the pursuer, but Mark reminded me that men do not necessarily play by those rules. "The only possible way he can know your feelings is to tell him," he said, staring out into the distance as we cruised home to London earlier. Is a truth I know all too well and wish could forget. But then he turned briefly to look at me with a tender expression, and added in hesitant voice, "I mean… if you have feelings for him."
Didn't respond. Still don't know how I feel, to be honest. Even more than that, though, is hate not knowing where things stand with Eric, like trying to find footing on field of molten lava, not knowing whether Eric is just temporarily annoyed with me or really ready to chuck me. I know what Mark thinks of Eric (v. little), so am certain that hesitation is his way of being diplomatic.
Appreciate Mark Darcy's advice, though while it has been v. insightful to have made such good, friendly bond with non-homosexual male of species, cannot help but think if had only opened big mouth right after Thailand debacle two years four months ago, might not be in awful lose-lose scenario with Eric now, or Robert before him, or Peter before that (not same Peter as was previous long-term boyfriend, nor Mark's married brother, though feels a bit Freudian thinking of both now). But no, was as clear then as is clear now that he only feels brotherly-type friendship towards me, wants only to be friends, as he occasionally invites me to stay over in formerly too-white room now deemed to be mine, but continues to date strange artefacts from the past called Lavinia and Rosaline.
10 am. After being unable to sleep long enough to watch sun rise through curtains, suddenly bolt awake. Maybe am having spooky premonition that Eric will ring and will have not in fact have sad, lonely, singleton-type Saturday evening.
10.30 am. Be careful what you wish for, they say. Phone began to shrill just as decided to try to sleep again. I leapt upon it, thinking, hoping it would be Eric. It was.
"Listen, Bridge, I've had time to think about yesterday, as well as New Year's," he said.
"Oh?" I asked, trying desperately not to sound, well, desperate.
"Yeah." Pause. "I can't compete."
"Compete?" I asked, baffled. "Compete with what? Who?"
"With Mark Darcy," he said. "He's obviously—"
"Eric, we're just friends," I interrupted.
He sighed. I waited for him to say more and he did, with resignation. "Oh, Bridge. I like you a lot, and we've had some fun together. But this obviously isn't going anywhere. Goodbye." With that he put down the phone.
Not too early to start drinking, is it? Oh. Phone again. Maybe is Eric having change of heart.
11 am. Was Shaz. Told her about the Eric fiasco.
"Good riddance," she said. I could hear her lighting a fag, then puffing away. Made me ache for one too, but no, cannot start that all up again. "Was sort of dull. Stick up arse. And he's a bad dresser."
I laughed. "You used to say the same about Mark Darcy."
"He saved you from Thailand," she said. "He could wear a sarong to Christmas dinner and I wouldn't give a fuck."
Pushing aside obviously bizarre yet strangely attractive mental image, I asked, thinking of all of the times she'd called him a fuckwit, "Don't you think you're romanticising just a little?"
"Besides," she went on, "Mark has a real passion for things he feels strongly about—even if I think he's wrong, I can still respect that at least. Whereas Eric… he couldn't be arsed to work up an opinion on his own mother." Couldn't protest because I didn't disagree entirely. She railed on. "You'd think after five months—"
"It hasn't been five months," I interrupted, feeling sudden horrible dread as I said it that it actually had been.
"Yes it was," Shaz said. "You met him at Edinburgh Fringe."
Reeled. Shaz was right. We had run into each other at a street performance. Literally. Just then the mobile began to ring. Was Mark Darcy, of all people. "Shaz, have to go."
"Is that him?" she asked threateningly.
"Who?" I asked, thumb poised above the Answer button.
"Eric."
"No, I swear. Have to go."
I put down the handset as I answered the mobile.
"Hello, Bridget." He sounded tired. "How are you?"
Blurted out, "He chucked me." Didn't think it was right to mention Eric's reason why.
There was a long moment of silence. "I'm sorry," he said.
"It's all right," I mumbled. "No great loss."
Heard him chuckle. "I suppose that spoils your plans for the night."
"They were sort of up in the air, but yes."
"Come with me for dinner," he said casually. Heart did a little leap until—"Have this thing I have to go to, very low key…."
"Oh." His vintage-era-named girlfriend must have bailed. Thought about it, then realised there was no reason not to. "Sure. I'd love to."
11.45 pm. My flat. Blimey. Should have known that 'low key' meant something totally different to Mark Darcy, because when he came to fetch me he smirked and told me to change out of my jeans and jumper and put on the black satin dress. "You know the one," he said. I did know it; it was one he had praised on many a date. Unfortunately at 9st 10 (nearly) I was unlikely to look worthy of praise in it. More like spoilt haggis in a silk purse.
"I do," I burbled, then ran to my bedroom—hoping, secretly, that he might follow me—and quickly changed into a lovely deep blue thing with a slightly more forgiving cut that I had already set aside for potential dinner with Eric. Came back out with big smile, and though he told me I looked v. nice, did not see hint of hoped-for (though completely unrealistic) unbridled wantonness in his gaze. Rather, saw a touch of disappointment there—and why not? Backside is currently size of a Renault.
I fibbed, "The black one is… needing cleaning."
"It's all right," he said. "Let's go or we'll be late."
Dinner thing was nice, v. posh, though can't for life of me remember what the occasion was. Had rather a lot of good fun poking fun at upper-class-twit types, though surprised Mark was a such a good sport about it; despite stern looks at my comments, caught him hiding smile.
"So why did Lavinia not want to come?" I asked, thinking cattily, Getting fitted for a new corset? Practicing croquet in the garden?
"Ah," he said with total awkwardness. "Well, she issued me an ultimatum last night, and you know how I feel about ultimatums."
Floored. Felt a little bad for catty thoughts, but not too bad, as did know how he felt about ultimatums. "Oh, sorry." Pause. "How long had you been seeing her?"
He looked down. "Three months…? Yes. About three." He smiled wanly at me. "A bit longer than Rosaline, anyway."
Fought urge to say there was no great loss there, either, and instead put hand over his without thinking. "You know," I said, "we could go in on a pair of Alsatian puppies. They can play together until it's time for them to… you know."
Instead of hoped-for laugh (had used mock-dramatic voice and all), he looked even more wistful, and pulled his hand away. Shit.
"Really. It's her loss," I said, hoping to right the offense given via unwanted physical contact.
"Thanks," he said quietly, then looked at his watch. "Things are ending soon here, anyway. What do you say we head out?"
"Okay."
As we walked out to his car, he surprised me by asking if I wanted to have ice cream at the Ben & Jerry's shop, which was only a few blocks from where we were. Beat having more alcohol, as we were both on verge of becoming morose drunks. "Ice cream?" I asked. "In January?"
"Well…" he said with a grin. "You got me a bit hooked."
Could not stop the laugh that came out. "I'm a terrible influence, I know."
Convinced him into trying an adventurous new-ish flavour involving pretzel bits, chocolate and caramel. Liked it very much. Generally had v. nice time not talking about anything to do with Eric or Lavinia (if I never have to see or write that name again, it'll be too soon). He told me about v. difficult work case and I told him that I had a proposal due at Monday morning meeting for new on-going series.
"Let me guess," he said with a smirk. "You haven't started."
"Of course I have." Which was not entirely a lie. Have half page. Big title.
"Doing the title in a fancy font doesn't count."
"I know," I said, possibly too defensively. Spent normal amount of time picking out title font—is v. important to give off good first impression, i.e. nice-looking title—but could not admit to same as he does not understand. Anyway, does not do to always be thought of as so predictable.
By the time we were done with the ice cream, he was sobered up and drove me back to my flat. Was a group of rough-looking youths standing about on the corner smoking fags, so Mark walked me up to the building door (as if he stood a chance against a bunch of whippersnappers, but was best to allow him the illusion).
He looked down at me, smiled fondly and said, "Goodnight, Bridget." For a moment was like old times—that all-too-brief romance of ours three years ago—and heart was in throat.
Bubble burst spectacularly, though, when said whippersnappers started making rude sounds. Mark Darcy glanced up, then at me again. "Well," he said. "You'd best get inside."
"Okay," said, then turned the key in the lock. As I faced him again he was already walking to the car. I called, "Goodnight, Mark."
He waved, but didn't turn around. Came inside, closing door against horde of youths.
Now realise though that heart was in throat as much for possibility that he might only have been caught up in moment (after drinks and ice cream) or was thinking in horror that I might want to get back together when he does not want to. Things surely better as friends. Too much in the way of differences, as was proved before.
Sunday, 3 January
9st 10 (horror); calories: 2500 (double horror); alcohol units: 5 (but 3 with lunch, so not v. g.); existence of world outside London: in doubt
7 pm. My flat. Have buckled down and spent entire of day working on presentation. Only tiny distractions such as popping out for lunch (totally normal to run into Jude and have a Bloody Mary or three) and stopping for newest issues of Hello! and Marie Claire (v. important to stay on top of current affairs).
V. strange, though. Both telly and emails seem to not be working. Has rest of world gone up in smoke beyond what can see?
11 pm. Oh, fuck it. Will have to hope world really is at end as presentation is utter bollocks.
Wednesday, 6 January
9st 7 (miracle); calories: terrifying sum, but understandable; alcohol units: 4; epiphanies: 1 (ironic as is Epiphany)
10 am. My office, Cinnamon Production Studios. Survived presentation on Monday (in fact, fantastic response, bloody amazing; must remember this triumph when chastising self for procrastination in future) only to nearly fall dead of shock when Jude rang up a little bit ago. Actually, did not know it was Jude for three full minutes as she was speaking in pitch better suited to dogs and at v. rapid pace. (At least was not sheep voice; do not miss that.)
"I said," she said slowly as if speaking to extremely stupid person, "I am pregnant!"
Brain instantly thought of Sunday lunch. "Oh my God!" I whisper-shrieked in combination joy and of horror, thinking a.) happy news as she and Richard have wanted to spawn forever and b.) child will be damaged and will be my fault for tempting her with a drink with lunch (but was Bloody Mary, so perfectly understandable).
"You don't have to sound like that," she said in obviously hurt voice.
"No, no, really is great, was just worried—" and then explained previous thoughts.
"Oh, Bridge, I'm so glad," she gushed. "I mean, I thought you would be happy for me, but with… well, you know."
I knew she meant the Eric fiasco. "I am, Jude. Truly happy."
Was not a lie. Am v. happy for her.
11 am. Feel so lonely. Will die unhappy and alone without even daughter to take care of Alsatian after am eaten.
7 pm. My flat. Resisted Chardonnay as long as possible but willpower and spirits v. low today. Thinking again of Mark Darcy, who was, I know now, best hope for stable relationship, father of children, etc. even if votes Tory and has museum-like house. Thinking too of how he chucked me for the jellyfisher, who he then threw over in August whilst I was in Thailand (I think; v. curious even now as to what happened, never see her when am out and don't care to), followed by weird parental-style chaperoning whilst I thought someone wanted me dead, when stayed at his house until Gary the builder was caught. After that, was so painful and awkward to socially see him only as friend, but persisted. In sick, twisted way, was better than not seeing him at all.
Pain has obviously subsided and Mark Darcy has been v. good friend, v. supportive and really there for me (as have been there for him). Have accepted he does not think of me except as he would a sister, if he had one. Girls he has dated since me are complete opposite of me; can only think he regards self as bizarre aberration. On the plus side, though, can really relax and be self when going out to dinner or driving to hellacious parental event in Grafton Underwood with him.
Anyway. Am sure there is another bottle here somewhere.
Oh, telephone.
7.15 pm. Was Shaz. Is coming over so we can commiserate together about being childless singletons. Bringing more wine.
Thursday, 7 January
9st 7 (continued miracle given 20s-style alcohol binge last night; 20s in age, not 1920s); calories: 1500* (saint); alcohol units: 2* (will be canonised any day now); jobs: 1 (whew)
* obviously these are post-sleep-and-waking-up numbers, and not post-midnight numbers, which would be v. different calculations
11 am. My flat. Took option of 'working from home' as have skull-splitting hangover. Expect that today, 'work' will consist of opening laptop, doing magic connection to company network (well, seems like magic, anyway), and watching for emails marked 'v. important'. If can stand to look at lit screen that long. (Obviously, this is what all 'working from home' people are really doing, so is not wrong or immoral.)
2 pm. Had short lie down. Still no emails. Have taken self's own volume in water and can now feel hollow places in brain filling up. Resolve not to drink quite so much again, even if was v. g. night of feminist bonding with Shazzie.
5.30 pm. No emails all day. Have gone from feeling smug about working from home to sudden panic stations. What if ultimate boss decides everything running smoothly despite absence means position is redundant? Calm, calm… calm.
Ah! Telephone! Am going to be sacked. DOOM.
6 pm. Was ultimate boss, Grant E Pike.
"Bridget?" he asked in eerily Mark-Darcy-like placid voice. "Where've you been all day?"
Looked to laptop. "I've been on using the connector… thing."
"The VPN?"
"Yes, yes, that's it."
"I think you'll find you're not."
Realised in horror that internet connection was not working again. Still? Possibly still, from the weekend. As do not use internet much since got self lost down rabbit hole of pop-up ads and web redirects, did not even notice. Grovelled a bit. Thank goodness he did not sack me but rather, laughed it off and told me to just have it as a day off. And to perhaps call BT about not having connection.
Gah! Phone again. Perhaps he has changed mind!
6.10 pm. This time was not boss, but Tom. (Still have job, thank God.)
"Fucking, fucking fuck," he said by way of greeting, surprising me. "Fuck!"
"Tom?" Was suddenly concerned he'd been afflicted with previously unknown, virulent variant of Tourette's.
"I know I shouldn't let him bother me," he said, his voice extremely emotional, "because it's been years, yet… I see him again and everything bubbles to the surface like it was yesterday."
Suspected this was about Jerome, and subsequent conversation proved suspicion was correct. (Too bad, really, that things didn't work out with his San Francisco customs agent boyfriend, Carl; big bloody row about relocating to London, which Carl did not want to do, so Tom came home alone.) Jerome had apparently been at a drinks party at a mutual friend's flat, which set this all off. Talked to Tom for v. long time as triage measure, reminding him of all of the fuckwittage Jerome has subjected him to over the years. "Plus," I concluded, "he really is a shite poet."
This made him laugh. "Oh, Bridgeline, you are absolutely right," he said dramatically. "Let's have dinner. My treat. I'm in the mood for sushi."
Sometimes think Tom is changed for the worse for having lived in the Castro.
11 pm. Sushi really is v. g. top food and really goes well with sake. Whee!
Friday, 8 January
9st 6 (sushi is miracle food); calories: 1500 (steady on); alcohol units: 1 (too bad there already is a St Bridget)
5 pm. Office. Stuck in all-day meetings such that wanted to tear off own head and eat it. But as you see, was saint-style person, stuck to healthy salad and juice for lunch and now have made plans to have dinner and see film with Mark Darcy. "My turn to choose," he said. Had forgotten about alternating movie nights, established last time we were both single.
11 pm. My flat. Oh God. Dinner was v. good. Oddly, Mark was in the mood for sushi, so suggested same restaurant where Tom and I had gone. Now Japanese restaurant surely thinks am escort or similar. Tried being on best behaviour—i.e. took it easy re: sake—so that would not be wobbling, pissed floozy upon arrival to the cinema.
"What's this?" I asked as he bought the tickets. Did not see name on marquee anywhere.
"It's a documentary I've been itching to see," he said. "And, you know, I thought you might like the human interest side."
He handed me my ticket, which read Struggle: A Post-Revolution Economy. He watched me read it, so had to fight to keep positive expression on features, but truth was wanted to run to roof and jump off. Knew though I needed to remain supportive. "Oh," I said, forcing bright tone. "This sounds…." I trailed off. Could not muster a lie of this magnitude to him.
"I know, not exactly what one would call 'fun'," he said. "But it should be interesting."
Entirely possible it was, but as fell asleep within moments of the lights lowering, possibly due to all-day meetings or lack of meaningful protein, could not say for sure. Woke to find credits rolling and Mark Darcy with his arm around my shoulders and a smirk on lips. "Trying to keep you from falling over," he said quietly.
"I'm so sorry," I said, sitting up to regain my composure. He sat up too, very straight back, which made me feel bad for pulling away so quickly, but didn't want to come off like I was enjoying having his arm around me too much and make him uncomfortable. Gah. Is all so tangled and confusing at times. Recovering with a smile, I added, "Did you enjoy it?"
He blinked rather stupidly at me. "Enjoy it?"
"Yes—did you enjoy the film?" Really, what was he thinking of?
"Oh, yes, yes," he said, "though 'enjoy' probably isn't the best word. I found it thought-provoking and insightful." We stood then; we were the last to go, or possibly the only ones to be there in the first place.
"That's, er, good I guess." Washed over with guilt again for nodding off. "Since we can't really discuss it, you could… tell me about it."
Saw small grin. "I'm not sure it would have been enough human interest to be up your street, after all," he admitted. "Though I appreciate your coming with me all the same."
He's going to Belfast or Dublin in the morning so has to be up early… so am home, alone, at unreasonably early hour for Friday night. Will sit and meditate on v. small number calories and alcohol units consumed today. Feeling smug. Righteous, even.
Saturday, 9 January
9st 5 (continued miracle, or poss. due to vomiting); calories: 500? (oddly ashamed); gross no. of alcohol units: 6, poss. 7; net no. of alcohol units: 0 (approx.)
Noon. My flat. Ugh. Could not stand smug self any longer and, as clock struck midnight, drank remaining wine in fridge in too short a time, then in equally to short a time disgorged it right back out again. Would think that not actually retaining alcohol means no hangover, but no. Life not fair at times.
5 pm. Oh dear. May be more than hangover. Feeling alternately chilled then fevered. Slept through whole of day. Only thing to eat is tin of soup.
Sunday, 10 January
? st ? (unable to stand long enough to weigh self); calories: unknown, but surely negative amount; alcohol units: 0
10 pm. My flat. Still. Think it is possible am dying. Or maybe sick. Have been sleeping on and off since yesterday. Ugh. Heard phone go off this morning, and later check of answerphone revealed it was Mum, who went on about a baking pan she is certain I have, but know do not have. Mobile went off in early afternoon and was sure would be mother on the trail of the pan, but realised it was Mark Darcy's ringtone.
"Mark," I said in wheeze, which is not how I usually pick up phone. In wheeze or by saying "Mark".
Silence, then, "Are you all right? You sound like death."
Admitted felt like same. He turned v. paternal and told me to take temperature, which he waited for me to do. Upon hearing result (38°) he directed me to take fever reducer at once and drink lots of water. "I'll come by with something for you to eat."
"Aren't you in Dublin?"
He chuckled. "It was Edinburgh and no, not anymore."
Came over with takeaway containers of chicken soup and made me a pot of tea. "You should go home, though," I insisted. "You can't afford to get whatever I have."
Soup was v. g., but could not keep it nor tea down. Going back to sleep.
Tuesday, 12 January
9st 1 (but at hefty price); calories: 1500 (better); alcohol units: 0
11 am. My flat. Yesterday spent in fevered haze, though did eventually keep soup down. Did not go to work, obviously, and today am working from home (verified that indeed have internet connection, did magic tunnel thing, receiving emails etc.).
Rang up Mark Darcy to thank him for kindness on Sunday night. His voice was croaky when he spoke. Turns out he started feeling poorly Monday morning, but seemed far more lucid than self did on second day of illness.
"I'm so sorry," I told him. "It's my fault."
"Don't feel guilty," he said. "Might have easily picked up something in transit to Scotland." Probably was just saying this to make me feel better. It worked.
I rang off so he could go back to sleep, but not before he admitted to me, "Sort of like having an excuse to not do anything and just rest." He must be v. poorly to admit to that. Wish wasn't feeling quite so shit, or would go and bring Mark soup.
Also started to tell me something else, but then said, "Never mind." Hm.
Friday, 15 January
8st 12 (triumph; this too shall pass); calories: 3000 (as previously mentioned); alcohol units: 1 (small glass wine w/ dinner)
6 pm. Finally felt well enough to go into office. Kept getting looks as if was walking dead or similar. Now am home with mini pizzas in oven. Shazzer unreachable (poss. at own parents for weekend) so rang up Jude to see about going out for drinks. Wish had rung Tom first as she immediately reminded about pregnancy then announced she was coming over to browse catalogues for baby things. Normally v. much love browsing catalogues but this, on a Friday night… oh God. Am getting old.
11 pm. Thank goodness. Jude has gone home citing tiredness and now am going to go have drinks with Tom. Hurrah!
Saturday, 16 January
8st 13 (pizza, alcohol clearly sustenance of Satan); calories: 2000 (better); alcohol units: 6 (clearly on the mend)
Sunrise. Do not dare look at clock as is far too early to be awake. Unjust world; only had normal amount of drinks, but do not remember coming back to flat. Clearly is due to illness-induced abstinence of same over previous week plus am smaller than was. Head pounding. Must find something to dull the spikes protruding into head.
10 am. Better. Head still feels as if rocky cliffs with waves crashing upon them, but can at least open blinds now without feeling as if—oh, telephone.
10.30 am. Was Mum. Before I even let her get a word out, said, "Mum, I don't have your pan."
"But Bridget, you brought a raspberry pavlova back to London in it at Christmas."
Looked on kitchen counter and there, as if taunting me, was wretched pan. Mumbled apologies.
"I'll be in town with Una today," she trilled. "I'll just swing by later and pick it up."
So now, still feeling acidic from hangover and a bit weak from illness, must tidy up flat, which currently resembles site of tornado touch-down or similar.
7 pm. Mum took one look at me and declared me on death's door. (State of un-tidied flat underscored this perception.) Repeatedly told her was feeling much better, but she insisted on checking for fever. When temperature proved to be normal she pouted and almost looked disappointed, so I let her make dinner for herself, Una and me. Was quite nice, actually; Una was a tempering influence so Mum couldn't get too out of hand.
They left a little while ago for drive back to Grafton Underwood, and am feeling v. lonely now. Tonight Tom seeing Jerome "in purely platonic manner" (which means, of course, that they are probably already on their third round of shagging), Jude and Richard are being all cosy and nesty at home, and Shazzer is still out of pocket. Can't think of anyone else who might be free, and ringing everyone up in phone contacts list smacks of desperation, because obviously friends compare notes and would know instantly I called everyone.
Oh, will ring up Mark Darcy. Is only polite as last heard from him while in throes of illness. Maybe I can repay favour and bring over soup or similar.
11.30 pm. Mark's house. Mark sounded v. rough when I rang up so offered to bring over something for him. He chuckled and said that his housekeeper had gotten him all set up with soup but if I wanted, could come over for a bit. He sounded v. lonely too, and since he probably got sick from me in the first place, I agreed.
Let myself in with emergency key he'd given me; found him reclining in bed, in pyjamas, looking haggard and tired. He greeted me, though, in much the same manner as my mother had. Actually he commented on how thin I was, at which I beamed, and he said sternly, "That wasn't meant as a compliment." But, insisted was fine a million times over (as if would have come all this way if felt like pond scum), so we watched a film together on the telly, which was nice and rather like old times, excepting no mad snogging/shagging. Did, however, snuggle up to me in manner of sick child, which I found nice and (honestly) v. distracting. Think he slept a lot so not sure how much he saw of film, but when it ended he said it was so late he suggested I stay over. Given that was same time found myself often leaving for nightclub I tried not to laugh, but sensed he might like someone here in the morning. So now am in 'my' room, all ready for bed, but can't sleep.
Later. Always so introspective when here, probably because is so quiet in house. Even insulated from most traffic/city sounds. Can't help think that did not even have key to house when we were going out. Maybe will go down and have tea, but no, have never felt comfortable wandering around dark, quiet house. All those nights spent during Bullet Man scenario alone in room, desperate for glass of wine or tea, and feeling paralysed, afraid might run into him and not know what to say, so did not venture out.
Though, should check and make sure not in need of paracetamol or similar. Was feeling warm earlier.
Later still. Oh. Oh God.