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badges on and a proud, beaming smile was Gary, holding up a gigantic slimy grey fish.
Thursday 27 February
9st 3 (lost Ilb was hair), cigarettes 17 (due to hair), calories
625 (off food due to hair), imaginary letters to solicitors, consumer programmes, Dept of Health
etc. complaining about Paolo's massacring of hair 22, visits to mirror to check growth of hair 72,
millimetres grown by hair in spite of all hard work 0.
7.45 p.m. Fifteen minutes to go. Just checked fringe again. Hair has gone from fright wig to
horrified, screaming, full-blown terror wig.
7.47 p.m. Still Ruth Madoc. Why did this have to happen on most important night of relationship-so-
far with Mark Darcy? Why? At least, though, makes change from checking thighs in mirror to see if
they have shrunk.
Midnight. When Mark Darcy appeared at door lungs got in throat.
He walked in purposefully without saying hello, took a card-shaped envelope out of his pocket and
handed it to me. It had my name on it but Mark's address. it had already been opened.
"It's been in the in-tray since I got back," he said, slumping down on the sofa. "I opened it this
morning by mistake. Sorry. But it's probably all for the best."
Trembling I took the card from the envelope.
It depicted two cartoon hedgehogs watching a bra entwined with a pair of underpants going round in
a washing machine.
"Who's it from?" he said pleasantly. "I don't know."
"Yes you do," he said, in the sort of calm, smiley way that suggests someone is about to pull out
a meat hatchet and cut your nose off. "Who is it from?"
"I told you," I muttered. "I don't know." "Read what it says."
I opened it up. Inside, in spidery red writing it said: "Be Mine Valentine - I'll see you when you
come to pick up your nightie - love - Sxxxxxxxx'
I stared at it in shock. Just then the phone rang. Baaah! I thought, it'll be Jude or Shazzer with
some hideous advice about Mark. I started to spring towards it but Mark put his hand on my arm.
"Hi, doll, Gary here." Oh God. How dare he be so overfamiliar? "Right, what we were talking about
in the bedroom - I've got some ideas so give me a ring and I'll come round."
Mark looked down blinking very fast, Then he sniffed, and rubbed the back of his hand across his
face as if to pull himself together. "OK?" he said. "Do you want to explain?"
"It's the builder." I wanted to put my arms round him. "Magda's builder, Gary. The one that put
the crap shelves up. He wants to put an infill extension between the bedroom and the stairs."
"I see," he said. "And is the card from Gary as well? Or is it St John? Or some other . . ."
Just then the fax started grunting. Something was coming through.
While I was staring Mark pulled the piece of paper off the fax, looked at it and handed it over.
It was a scrawled note from Jude saying 'Who needs Mark Darcy when E9.99 plus P&P will buy you one
of these', on top of an advert for a vibrator with a tongue.
Friday 28 February
9st 2 (only bright spot on horizon), reasons why people like going to musicals: mysterious
unfathomable number, reasons Rebecca allowed to be alive 0, reasons for Mark, Rebecca, Mum, Una
and Geoffrey Alconbury and Andrew Lloyd Webber or similar to ruin life: unclear.
Must keep calm. Must be positive. Was very bad luck all those things happening at once, no
question about it. Completely understandable that Mark would just leave after all that and he did
say he was going to call when he calmed down and ... Hah! I've just realized who that bloody card
was from. It must have been the dry-cleaner. When I was trying to get it out of him about the
fraud and saying "Don't think I don't know what's going on," I was dropping off my nightie. And I
gave him Mark's address in case he was dodgy. The world is full of lunatics and madmen and I've
got to go see Miss Saifuckinggon tonight.
Midnight. Initially, it wasn't too bad. It was a relief to get away from the prison of my own
thoughts and the hell of dialling 1471 every time I went to the loo.
Wellington, far from being a tragic victim of cultural imperialism, looked coolly at home in one
of Dad's 1950s suits as if he might have been one of the waiters from the Met Bar on his night
off, responding with dignified graciousness while Mum and Una twittered around him like groupies.
I turned up late so managed to exchange only the briefest of apologetic words with him at the
interval.
"Is it strange being in England?" I said, then felt stupid because obviously it would be strange.
"It is interesting," he said, looking at me searchingly. "Do you find it strange?"
"So" burst in Una. "Where's Mark? I thought he was supposed to be coming too!"
"He's working," I muttered as Uncle Geoffrey lurched up, pissed, with Dad.
"That's what the last one said, didn't he!" roared Geoffrey. "Always the same with my little
Bridget," he said, patting me dangerously near my bottom. "Off they go. Weeeeeeeh!"
"Geoffrey!" said Una, adding as if making light conversation, "Do you have older women who can't
get married off in your tribe, Wellington?"
"I am not an older woman," I hissed.
"That is the responsibility of the elders of the tribe," said Wellington.
"Well, I've always said that was the best way, haven't I, Colin?" said Mum smugly. "I mean didn't
I tell Bridget she should go out with Mark?"
"But when she is older, with or without husband, a woman has the respect of the tribe," said
Wellington with a twinkle in my direction.
"Can I move there?" I said glumly.
"I am not sure you would be liking the smell of the walls." He laughed.
Managed to get Dad on one side and whisper, "How's it going?"
"Oh, not so bad, you know," he said. "Seems a nice enough feller. Can we take our drinks in with
us?" Second half was a nightmare. Whole hideous jamboree on stage passed in a blur as mind went
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