Bloody hell. Now how long has it been? I'm not even counting any more. In 100 years my ghost will be wandering the moors like bloody Heathcliff yelling out, "Bridget! Bridget!" And why will that happen? Because I couldn't make up my mind, that's why. It's ridiculous. I'm a lawyer, for God's sake. Part of my job is making quick decisions.

But this one seems to be too much for me.

7:45 P.M.

Oh, God. Oh, God. I was very pathetically driving past Bridget's flat like some sort of deranged maniac, hoping to catch a glimpse of her. Then I saw a car with a petrol pump dangling outside of it? Who on earth would do that? Criminal? Idiot? Doesn't one notice those sort of things? I looked a bit closer. That was Bridget's car. She would do that, wouldn't she? Well, I doubted she was running from the police. I'd have to ask. An opportunity to talk to her. Brilliant idea, Darcy. I began rehearsing it in my mind.

ME: Hello, Bridget. It's Mark.

BRIDGET: What the hell are you doing here?

Well, I hoped she wouldn't say that. I decided to try being optimistic.

ME: Hello, Bridget. It's Mark.

BRIDGET: Hi.

Vast improvement already.

ME: The thing is, I noticed that your petrol pump is hanging out of your car.

BRIDGET: I know that. I was being ironic.

Perhaps yet more optimism.

ME: The thing is, I noticed your petrol pump is hanging out of your car.

BRIDGET: Really?

ME: Yes. I was concerned there might be something going on. So I came to see if everything's OK.

BRIDGET: You care!

Bloody unrealistic.

Then I pulled up to her flat. Then it was total, utter disaster. I stopped outside the flat, pulled out my mobile, and decided to call her before presumptuously ringing the buzzer. She picked up straight away.

"Hi, is this the Queen Mother?" she laughed. I almost smiled. She was always coming up with completely random but charming things. I did still love her, I realized. I do still love her.

"Oddly enough, no." I replied. Then there was silence on the other end of the line.

"Still there, are we? Everything all right?" I asked. I was trying and probably failing to maintain an air of distance.

"Superb! Absolutely fine, you?" Her voice suggested she was lying. To me. Since when had she needed to lie to me besides about things like exactly how drinks she'd actually had while out with daft Jude and mad Shazzer and the fact that the food she tried to cook as a surprise had actually caused a minor explosion?

"Yes, yes, only… I was just driving and… it was the strangest thing. Found myself following a car with the nozzle as hose from a petrol pump still attached and trailing along the road. I know there's been panic at the pumps, but really. I thought I was going to have to make a citizen's arrest." Pathetic, Darcy, I thought. Either she doesn't know what you are talking about and thinks you've finally gone mad now, or she thinks you are here to send her to prison. Which I would never do.

"Why? Would that be illegal?" she said. She clearly had no idea.

"Technically speaking, yes. But what I mean is, the only reason someone would speed off with the nozzle still in the car, surely, would be if they were on the run from the police." Now I sounded like a nit-picking, anally retentive, lawyer who spent so much time in the courts that they didn't know where law ended and real life began. Which would probably be true. After all, the only way I could see Bridget being on the run from the police was if she thought her mother was in the shotgun seat of the car. Which, knowing her mother, frankly didn't seem unlikely. Her mum could have been arrested for killing Una Alconbury for putting lumps in the gravy, or she could simply be dating the policeman.

"What if they just forgot to take it out?"

"How could one possibly do that?"

"Well, you know. If you were thinking about something else, once it was full, you might just think 'Oh, goody' and drive off. Glad it wasn't me, anyway." She rambled on. That was Bridget.

"Funny you should say that. That is your car outside, is it?" I tried to be gentle, but of course it came out wrong. I shouldn't have done this. I should have stayed home feeling sorry for myself.

"But I haven't panic-bought any petrol today." She protested.

"Oh, Christ." This was worse for her than I thought. Especially since I was now going to be the one to tell her her mistake.

"What?" she sounded confused.

"When did you last panic-buy petrol?"

"Two days ago." She said, after a pause.

"You mean, you've been driving round with half a petrol pump attached to your car for two days?" Drop it, Darcy, I thought. This is the point when you shut your arrogant, proud mouth, cut your losses and LEAVE.

"I…" she trailed off.

"Have other drivers not tried to alert you?" And after this last statement, my brain and my mouth seemed to make a vital connection.

"I'm coming upstairs." I told her.

"What are you doing upstairs?" she said in horror. Wrong thing to say. As usual, what I'd said had come off wrong. That was the last time I used the word come for the rest of my life.

"I'm not upstairs, and I'm not 'coming' in that sense. I'm outside the flat, and I'm proposing that I come up to see you." I'd said it. Now it was up to her to either accept or tell me Colin Firth was with her already.

"But what are you doing outside the flat? And how come you saw my petrol hose? Have you been following me?" I was right. She thought I was a deranged maniac.

"Sometimes I come home this way," I explained, "For old time's sake." Now I'd really said it. In so many words, that I loved her. That I wanted her back. She pressed the buzzer to let me up. Suddenly I felt almost happy. Everything would be fine now. But when I came up, she wasn't there. I looked to find her in the bathroom. She looked dazed, drooling a little. What was wrong with her?

"Bridget. Have you been taking Class A substances?" I had to say it.

"No. I am being sick." Sick? Was she all right?

"And why, pray, are you being sick at seven o'clock in the evening?"

"I'm drunk!" she yelled. Over the last weeks, I'd built her into a beautiful, tragic figure, like Juliet or Isolde. Now I remembered her verbal incontinence, her drinking, her smoking.

"I see. Any particular reason?"

"High spirits." She forced out, and then promptly threw up again.

"Oh for God's sakes. This explains everything." I snapped. Then I left. To my house. Where I am now. So, she doesn't love me. She was probably drunk when we slept together. High spirits account for everything. And I used to have some sort of distance, and now I'm pathetic.

8:00 P.M.

Maybe I should try dating someone else.

8:15 P.M.

Preferably Renee Zellweger.

8:30 P.M.

Who am I kidding?

9:00 P.M.

Alone again. Naturally.

This line, as I'm sure many Firth fans realized, was taken from Love Actually and is not mine. It was too perfect.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The characters (except for my secretaries of the previous chapter) belong to Ms. Fielding, no matter what uncharacteristic things she may choose to do to them. Ahem. I think I will have maybe 10 more entries at most, including my own ending, which will also be from Mark's point of view. The dialogue is also Helen's. Please review, everyone.