5.15 pm.
Mark's meeting me at the restaurant at half past seven. Have an idea for tonight's party; will wear the black dress I wore to the Kafka's Motorbike launch especially for him. He loves that dress. Whenever I wear it, I never wear it for very long once he gets me home. Really in a party mood. Can't wait!
Saturday 20 December
9st 1 (have lost a pound overnight. Hurrah!), alcohol units approx. 10 (was pissed enough to be able to transfuse with a distillery), cigarettes 13 (puffing hell!), calories 2051 (ate my weight in party food), make up shags 3 (workaholic fiancé cancelled on me again).
2.25 pm. My flat.
Last night there was a wild party in Iddys followed by a wild party in my bed with Mark Darcy . . .
Free alcohol at Iddys + Sit Up Britain employees = boozy chaos!
We were in the basement of the restaurant where we were free to make as much noise as we chose. The waiting staff, smartly dressed all in black, swept in and out and around and among us with trays of delicious canapés and platters filled with heavenly finger food. Told self it was OK to eat anything and everything and forget about the calories – it's Christmas.
Every so often, would sneak a furtive glance at my phone. When it got to 7.40 pm, Mark was officially late. And Mark is never late.
Wanted to call him, but couldn't get a reception so I excused myself and headed upstairs. As I neared the exit, my phone beeped to announce a voicemail message. It was sent at 7.09 pm.
"Hello, darling. I'm really sorry I'm running late - it's that case I was telling you about, the journalist being held in Muribundi. The judiciary process is a nightmare. I should be there at just after eight. Bye."
Bloody workaholic!
Sod it. Would eat, drink and be merry alongside raucous work colleagues until his arrival when self would transition to best behaviour and do everything in moderation so as to appear a sophisticated, elegant, non-vomiting-on-fiancé woman of the world. Good plan.
Everyone was letting their hair down - not that Richard Finch needs much alcohol to get going.
"Go on, girl. Get that down ya!" he boomed into my ear over the loud music as he held out a huge glass of white wine.
"You're not trying to get me pissed, are you?" I replied as I took the glass. "My fiancé wouldn't approve."
"Of course I'm trying to get you pissed," he good-humouredly retorted. "What self-respecting, red-blooded male wouldn't when your tits look like that in that dress?"
Drank half the glass in one swig.
As The Jackson 5 sang Santa Claus Is Coming To Town, Sit Up Britain reporter Carmen danced up to us.
"Richard, Bridget's coming to dance with me, aren't you, Bridge?"
Seizing the opportunity to escape, I let Carmen drag me towards the makeshift dance floor where a group, mainly women, were dancing. We did what passes for dancing to yuletide faves like Elton's Step Into Christmas, The Ronettes' Sleigh Ride and, of course, Mariah's All I Want For Christmas until I felt too much time had passed.
"I just need to quickly go upstairs and make a call," I told Carmen. "I can't get a signal down here."
"OK. Hurry back!" she cried.
Once again, I clumped up the stairs and for the second time, my phone beeped notification of a voicemail message. It was sent at 8.19 pm.
"Bridget, I'm still up to my neck in this case. I'm really sorry but I think it's best if I just cancel. I'll come round later. You should be home by midnight, right? Have fun, darling."
Another date, another cancellation, another promise of a late-night-make-up-shag. Sad thing is I'm not even surprised anymore.
9.22 pm.
"Should've known better than to cheat a friend, and waste the chance that I've been given so I'm never gonna dance again, the way I danced with you-ooooo!"
There's nothing like a good ol' singalong to George Michael's weepy classic, and the riotous dancefloor rendition by Me, Patchouli, Sexy Matt, Carmen and Horrid Harold was nothing like a good ol' singalong to George Michael's weepy classic.
But I was having a good time so who gives a fuck? I will not be deflated by a workaholic workhorse and his never-ending work ethic. Instead, I choose vodka. And George Michael.
"Last Christmas, I gave you my heart," we sang with gusto. "But the very next day you gave it away. This year, to save me from tears, I'll give it to someone special . . ."
I felt a pair of arms encircle me from behind and pull me firmly back against a man's body. My heart lifted for a split second, but—
"It's been a while since we danced vertically, Jones. And far too long since we danced horizontally."
I manoeuvred out of his embrace and turned around to face him. "What are you doing here, Daniel?"
"I work for Sit Up Britain too. Or have you forgotten?" he said with a grin. "Come on, let's dance."
I knew Mark had bailed on me, but Daniel didn't. Truth is, I wasn't sober, I was annoyed with Mark and I didn't trust myself around Daniel. I didn't trust him either – a given. But also, I didn't trust myself not to let my guard down and say something I shouldn't.
"Probably best if my fiancé doesn't see me dancing with my ex-boyfriend," I said instead.
He grinned cockily. "It's way after nine, Jones. I know you like to be fashionably late for just about everything, but Darcy's a stickler for time and he would've been here ages ago. If he's not showing up to take you home, he's not coming at all. Which is it?"
Gaaaaah!
"We're meeting at my flat later," I grudgingly admitted.
"Oh, Bridge!" He shook his head. "Bridge, Bridge, Bridge. If all you want is to be a booty call for some tosser, I will happily oblige."
"I'm not a booty call! And Mark isn't a tosser." I exclaimed indignantly.
He rolled his eyes. "Fine. If all you want is to be a late-night rendezvous for some tosser, I will happily oblige."
"I'm not that either!"
"We look bloody strange having this conversation in the middle of all these dancing couples. Let's get a drink. Come on." He grabbed my arm and led me in the direction of the bar before I had a chance to say no.
9.45pm.
"Daniel."
"Yes, Bridge?"
"Daniel."
"Yes?" he answered.
"Daniel."
"It's still my name, Jones." Even in my pitiful state, I could tell he was amused.
"Can't remember what wasssssh gonna say."
He looked at me closely. "I'd better take you home. Let's get your things."
"No, no, no! No-no-no-no-no." I wagged a finger at him. "You can't be in my flat with me. Mark's coming."
"That'll be a first for him. Is he on Viagra now?"
"No. He doshn't need Vagra. I mean, Vagra. Nope. I mean, Viagra." Alcohol had dimmed my irritation at Daniel's constant barbs about Mark. "He'sh sex machine. He shags me and shags me and shags me and—"
"Enough, Jones. I get the picture. And it's making me feel a tad queasy." He pulled me up off the bar stool. "I see a bag, I don't see a coat. Let's get it and go."
"No, wait. Like thisssssong," I slurred.
"'Santa Baby?"
"Yep. Lesh dance. C'mon!"
"Bridge, you're going to hear this song 50 million times over the next few days. Think it's best if I get you home. You need coffee."
He steered me in the direction of the cloakroom and then towards the stairs.
"But we didn't say bye!" I protested.
"I couldn't give a fuck, Jones."
He pushed me up the stairs, out the door and into the busy street which was thronging with revellers. The blast of cold air was a shock to the system; sobered up a little straightaway. We stood on the pavement for a few minutes and soaked up the atmosphere while we both smoked a fag. It was one of those crisp December nights; there wasn't a cloud in the sky and all the stars were clearly visible.
"Beautiful night," Daniel said companionably.
"Yes," I agreed and sighed. "Wish I was sharing this with Mark." Instantly felt bad. "Not that am not happy to be here with you . . . Happy to be here with you . . . What mean issssssh, Mark would love it too cos he's really into—"
"No explanation necessary. I'll just buy you a bigger spade for Christmas, Jones," he teased. "You were kinder to me when you were a little more squiffy."
Minutes later, we were outside my building.
"Can manage from here," I said, taking out my keys. "Thanks very—"
"Aren't you going to invite me up for coffee?" he asked. "It's rather cold out here."
"Oh." He'd put me on the spot. "OK. One quick coffee."
Much later. My flat.
"You're asking the wrong man, Bridge."
"Not asking for me. Asking for a friend," I said as I stubbed out a Silk Cut.
"A friend? Riiiiiiiiiiiight. Well, yes. In that scenario, I would have called in a favour with a work colleague and kept the date with my girlfriend."
"Thank you!" I exclaimed. "That's exactly what I was . . . what she was thinking."
"She must have been pretty fucked off about missing that concert. Your mate."
"She was," I confirmed. "Very."
He stared. "This friend of yours - is she happy?"
"Course," I hit back. "Course she is. Absolutely. Totally 100 percent happy. She loves him. Her boyfriend."
"On a related subject, what time is Arsey-Darcy coming here, Jones?"
"Around midnight. Why?"
Daniel took a sip of his coffee and looked me straight in the eyes. "All work and no play makes Mark Darcy a very, very, very dull boy. Tried to warn you, Bridge. Tried to win you back, but no-ooooo! You wanted sincerity and monogamy."
Uneasily, I asked, "What makes you think we're talking about me and Mark?" He gave me the kind of look reserved for the village idiot.
"You're still sexy, you still make me laugh and you're still the best shag l've ever had. But bloody hell, Jones, you're a terrible liar." Daniel looked around. "It's strange being in your flat again after so many years. We had some good times here."
"What you really mean is we had some good shags here because that's all we ever did."
"And what do you have now, Jones? A whole lot of make up sex because of a man who puts work ahead of you."
"Excuse me! I'm engaged to be married." I waved my left hand in front of him. "This is a Tiffany-set solitaire, I'll have you know."
"I'm impressed," he shrugged. "But I was impressed when you first showed it to me years ago."
Decided to change the subject. "How's it going on The Smooth Guide?"
He sat back on the sofa and stretched out his legs. "It's going. But it hasn't been the same since they foisted Lori-Ann on me."
"But I can see why. It's the contrasts: you're a man, she's a woman; you're British, she's American; you're charming and flirty-dirty, she's more professional so that—"
"You sound like a producer."
"Do I?" Couldn't help feeling flattered. "Do I really? Because I'd love to go that way career-wise."
"You?" he smirked. "You can barely organise a shopping list for your trips to Tesco, let alone anything else."
"Well, a girl can dream." I took a sip of my nasty-tasting instant coffee. Daniel had used the last of my good ground stuff getting me more sober. "What's your problem with Lori-Ann?"
"She's OK, but I miss the special kind of fun we had making Guide."
"It was a good laugh at times," I conceded.
"Funny how all my attempts to seduce you were thwarted."
"Daniel, I was back with Mark after Thailand and I would never have done to him what you did to me and him."
He reflected on my words before taking a deep breath. "Bridge, you should know that Thailand was . . . I felt . . . I feel . . . I was a bastard because of . . . Look, whatever you thought of the reason, I did want you back all those years ago, truly. Losing you to Darcy was a kick in the balls. All my own fault I admit, but a kick in the balls nonetheless."
"Daniel, you told me all this years ago. It's in the past. We've both moved on." I affectionately rubbed his knees.
"Maybe I can't believe you still speak to me after the beastly way I've treated you."
"You make me laugh and I enjoy your company," I said matter-of-factly.
"What about Darcy?"
"I really enjoy his company too," I answered with a wink.
"You know what I mean."
"Yes, I do. Truth is he hated every second we worked together, but we got through it. Told him it was just work and you were just work and you didn't mean anything to me."
Daniel gestured to his heart, pretending I'd wounded him. "Thanks. I think," he said.
Sneaked a glance at the time. "Excuse me for a sec. Just need to quickly freshen up." I grabbed the ashtray and popped into the loo to get rid of the fag ends. At the same time, took the opportunity to gargle and swish some mouthwash.
"Getting ready to be disappointed sexually, are you?" he teased on my return. Ignored that one.
"I'd love you to try and be a better man with another woman because I'm never ever getting involved with you again," I said as I sprayed the air freshener around. "And even if you feel you don't deserve my friendship, you've got it anyway."
"I'm touched . . . I wish," he replied ruefully with a smile.
"You should be," I said and sat back down on the sofa. "Can we raise our mugs filled with this disgusting instant coffee and toast to being friends?"
"Friends," he accepted to the sound of the clink. "With benefits?" he added semi-seriously.
"Oh, fuck off!" I had to laugh. "You're incorrigible."
"Bridge, you can't say—" Interrupted by his mobile phone ringing, Daniel excused himself.
"Hello? . . . Anuska! My lovely little Czech mate. How are you? . . . I'm very well. Long time, no hear . . . Oh, really? Did you have a good flight? . . . I'd love to see you too . . . Right now? . . . Hold on a minute, just need to shoo this moth away." He covered the speaker with his hand and said: "Just so I'm clear, Jones, is a shag tonight totally out of the question?"
"Of course it is!" I answered heatedly. "It was never in the question."
"Keep yourself warm and the champagne cold, Anuska. I'll be there in 20 minutes . . . You too. See you soon." He put his phone away and grinned. "Like you, I have a late-night rendezvous to keep. What can I say? It's been fun."
"Thank you for tonight, Daniel," I said as he stood up and walked towards the coat rack. "I really mean that."
On the way out, he adjusted his scarf and turned to me: "Remember what I said about all work and no play. I'm off to play now. Bye, Bridge." He blew a kiss and headed down the stairs.
After shutting the door, I put the mugs in the sink and slumped back on the sofa.
Ever since I penned it, find myself revisiting old diary entry from a few months ago; the one written in a fit of temper after Mark cancelled our Valentine's mini-break to Paris.
Read it v. regularly hoping most of it will no longer be relevant or accurate. Here we go again. Still hoping . . .
Friday 20 February
Reasons why Mark Darcy and I could never work.
His work comes first.
He's socially inept.
He doesn't like parties.
He always wants to go home at a "sensible time."
He only reads history books.
He doesn't make new friends.
He doesn't know or like any music after 1985.
He's never spontaneous.
He only buys me presents which are useful.
I never know if he'll come home alive.
I'm mostly alone . . . even when we're together.