BJ: What will be your next project?
CF: It's called The World of Moss.
BJ: Is it a nature programme?
CF: No. No, no. No. It's um, it's, er, about an eccentric family in the 30s, the father of which owns a moss factory.
BJ: Doesn't moss grow naturally?
CF: Well, no, he makes something called Sphagnum moss, which was used to dress World War One wounds and, er, it's, er, quite a light, er, comic ...
BJ: (Very unconvincingly) It sounds very good.
CF: I very much hope it will be.
BJ: Could I just check something about the shirt?
CF: Yes.
BJ: How many times altogether exactly did you have to take it off and put it on again?
CF: Precisely ... I don't know. Um. Let me see ... there was the bit where I was walking towards Pemberley. That was shot once. One take. Then there was the bit where I give my horse to somebody ... I think there was a change.
BJ: (Brightening) There was a change?
CF: (Strictly) There was. One change.
BJ: So it was mainly just the one wet shirt, though?
CF: The one wet shirt, which they kept respraying, yes. All right?
BJ: Yes. What is your favourite colour?
CF: We've had that.
BJ: Urn. (Paper rustling) Do you think the film Fever Pitch was in reality all about emotional fuckwittage?
CF: Emotional what?
BJ: Fuckwittage. You know: men being mad alcoholic commitment phobics and just being interested in football all the time.
CF: No, I don't really. I think in some ways Paul is much more at case with his emotions and has much more liberty with them than his girlfriend. I think that, in fact, in the final analysis, is what's so appealing about what Nick Hornby's trying to say on his behalf: that, in a rather mundane, everyday world he has found something where you have access to emotional experiences that ...
BJ: Excuse me.
CF: Sighs) Yes?
BJ: Don't you find the language barrier a problem with your girlfriend?
CF: Well, she speaks very good English.
BJ: But don't you think you'd be better off with someone who was English and more your own age?
CF: We seem to be doing all right.
BJ: Humph. (Darkly) So far. Do you ever prefer doing the theatre?
CF: Um. I don't subscribe to the view that the theatre's where the real acting is, that film's not really acting. But I find I do prefer the theatre when I'm doing it, yes.
BJ: But don't you think the theatre's a bit unrealistic and embarrassing and also you have to sit through the acting for hours before you have anything to eat and you can't talk or ...
CF: Unrealistic? Embarrassing and unrealistic?
BJ: Yes.
CF: Do you mean unrealistic in the sense that it...?
BJ: You can tell it isn't real.
CF: That sort of unrealistic, yes. (Slight moaning sound) Um. I think it should't be if it's good. It's much more...It feels more artificial to make a film.
BJ: Does it? I suppose it doesn,t go all the way through, does it? CF: Well, no. It doesn't. No. Yes. A film doesn't go all the way through. It's shot in little bits and pieces. (Louder groaning noise) Little bits and pieces.
BJ: I see. Do You think Mr. Darcy would have slept with Elizabeth Bennet before the wedding?
CF: Yes, I do think he might have.
BJ: Do You?
CF: Yes. I think it's entirely possible. Yes.
BJ: (Breathlessly) Really?
CF: I think it's possible, yes.
BJ: How would it be Possible?
CF: Don't know if Jane Austen would agree with me on this but-
BJ: We can't know because she's dead.
CF: No, we can't...but I think Andrew Davie's Mr. Darcy would have done. BJ: Why do you think that, though. Why? Why?
CF: Because I think it was very important to Andrew Davies that Mr Darcy had the most enormous sex drive.
BJ:(Gasps)
CF: And, um ...
BJ: I think that came across really, really well with the acting. I really think it did.
CF: Thank you. At one point Andrew even wrote as a stage direction: "Imagine that Darcy has an erection."
(V. large crashing noise)
BJ: Which bit was that7
CF: It's when Elizabeth's been walking across the country and bumps into him in the grounds in the early stages.
BJ: The bit where she's all muddy?
CF: And dishevelled.
BJ: And sweaty?
CF: Exactly.
BJ: Was that a difficult bit to act?
CF: You mean the erection7
BJ: (Awed whisper) Yes.
CF: Um, well. Andrew also wrote that I don't propose that we should focus on it, and therefore no acting required in that department at least.
BJ: Mmm.
(Long pause)
CF: Yes.
(More pause)
BJ: Mmm.
CF: Is that it, then?
BJ: No. What was it like with your friends when you started being Mr Darcy?
CF: There were a lot of jokes about it: growling, "Mr Darcy" over breakfast and so on. There was a brief period when they had to work quite hard to hide their knowledge of who I really was and ...
BJ: Hide it from who?
CF: Well, from anyone who suspected that perhaps I was like Mr Darcy.
BJ: But do you think you're not like Mr Darcy?
CF: I do think I'm not like Mr Darcy, yes,
BJ: I think you're exactly like Mr Darcy.
CF: In what way?
BJ: You talk the same way as him.
CF: Oh, do I?
BJ: You look exactly like him, and I, oh, oh ... (protracted crashing noises followed by sounds of struggle)
7 Mood-Swinging Singletons
Friday 25 April
9st (yesss! yesss!), alcohol units 4, cigarettes 4, spiritual realizations as joint result of Road Less Travelled and alcohol units 4, flats without holes in 0, no. of pounds in bank 0, boyfriends 0, people to go out with tonight 0, election par-ties invited to 0.
5.30 p.m. Office. Challenging two days at work with Richard Finch reading out bits of the interview then bellowing with deep, gurgling laughter in manner of Dracula, but at least has got me out of myself. Also Jude said the interview was quite good and really gave an excellent sense of the atmosphere of the whole thing. Hurrah! Have not heard anything back from Adam or Michael at Independent but sure they will ring soon and maybe ask me to do another one, then can be freelance in home office, typing on roof terrace with herbs in terracotta pots! Also is only one week to election when everything is going to change! Will stop smoking, and Mark will come back and find new professional me with large indoor/outdoor living flat.
5.45 p.m. Humph. Just rang in for messages. One only, from Tom saying he had spoken to Adam and everyone at the Independent is really annoyed. Left him urgent message to call me back and explain.
5.50 p.m. Oh dear. Worried about arranging second mortgage now. Will not have any extra money and what if lose job? Maybe had better tell Gary do not want the infill extension and get the F-3,500 back. Lucky thing is, Gary was supposed to start yesterday but he just came and left all his tools then went away again. Seemed annoying at the time, but maybe, as it turns out, was message from God. Yes. Will call him when get home then go to gym.
6.30 p.m. Back home. Gaaah! Gaaah! Gaaah! Is bloody great hole in side of flat! Is left open to outside world in manner of gaping precipice and all the houses at the other side can see in. Is entire weekend stretching ahead with giant hole in wall, all bricks everywhere and nothing to do! Nothing! Nothing!
6.45 p.m. Ooh, telephone - maybe someone inviting me to an election party! Or Mark!
"Oh,hello, darling, guess what?" My mother. Obviously I had to get a cigarette.
"Oh, hello, darling, guess what?" she said again. Sometimes I wonder how long she would carry on like this, in manner
of a parrot. It is one thing to say "Hello? Hello?" if there is silence on the other end, but'Oh, hello, darling, guess what? Oh, hello, darling, guess what?' is surely not normal.
"What?" I said, sulkily.
"Don't speak to me in that tone of voice."
"What?" I said again in a lovely appreciative daughter voice.
"Don't say 'What?' Bridget, say 'Pardon'."
I took a puff on my kind normal friend the Silk Cut Ultra,
"Bridget, are you smoking?"
"No, no," I said, Panicking, stubbing out tile cigarette and hiding the ashtray.
"Anyway, guess what? Una and I are holding a Kikuvu election party for Wellington behind the rockery!"
I breathed deeply through my nose and thought about Inner Poise.
"Don't you think that's super? Wellington's going to leap over a bonfire as a full warrior! Imagine! Right over! Dress is tribal. And we're all going to drink red wine and Pretend it's cow's blood! Cow's bloods That's why Wellington's got such strong thighs."
"Er, does Wellington know about this?"
"Not yet, darling, but he's bound to want to celebrate the election, Wellington's very keen on the free market and we don't want the Thin Red Wedge back under the bed. I mean we'll end up with what's-his-name and the miners back. You won't remember the power cuts when you were at school, but Una was giving the speech at the Ladies' Luncheon and she couldn't plug her tongs in."
7.15 p.m. Eventually managed to get Mum off the phone, at which it rang again immediately on ringback. Was Shaz. Told her how fed up I was feeling, and she was really sweet: "Come on, Bridge. We simply can't define ourselves in terms of being with another person! We should celebrate how fantastic it is being free! And there'll be the election soon and the whole mood of the nation is going to change!"
"Hurrah!" I said. "Singletons! Tony Blair! Hurrah!"
"Yes!" enthused Shazzer. "Many people in relationships have a terrible time at weekends, forced to slave for ungrateful children and being beaten by their own spouses."
"You're right! You're right!" I said. "We can go out whenever we like and have fun. Shall we go out tonight?" Humph. Sharon is going to a dinner party with Simon in manner of Smug Married.
7.40 p.m. Jude just rang in a spirit of highly-charged sexual over-confidence. "It's on again with Stacey!" she said. "I saw him last night and he was talking about his farnily!"
There was an expectant pause.
"Talking about his family!" she said again. "Which means he's thinking seriously about me. And we snogged. And I'm seeing him tonight and it's the fourth date so ... doobeedoobeedoo. Bridge? Are you still there?"
"Yes," I said in a small voice. "What's the matter?"
Mumbled something about the hole in the wall and Mark.
"The thing is, Bridge. You've got to Attain Closure on that one and move on," she said, seemingly not noticing that her last lot of advice had completely failed, which might just invalidate this.
"You've got to start working on Loving Yourself Come on, Bridge! It's fantastic. We can shag whoever we want."
"Singletons hurrah!" I said. So why am I depressed? Am going to call Tom again.
8 p.m. Out. Everyone is out enjoying themselves except me.
9 p.m. Just read a bit of You Can Heal Your Life and now see exactly where have been going wrong. As Sondra Ray, the great re-birther, said, or maybe it wasn't her. Any-way, this is it: 'Love is never outside ourselves, love is within us.'
Yes!
'What may be keeping love away? ... Unreasonable standards? Movie Star Images? Feelings Of unworthiness? A belief that you are unloveable?'
Huh. Is not belief is fact. Am going to open bottle of Chardonnay and watch Friends.
11 p.m. Road Less Travelled blurry good. Is cathexis or similar. 'Unitary division Of love include self love if love for another.' Sblurry good. Ooof. Tumbled over.
Saturday 26 April
9st 4, alcohol units 7 (hurrah!), cigarettes 27 (hurrah!), calories 4,248 (hurrah!), gym visits 0 (hurrah!).
7 a.m. Aargh. Who set that bloody thing off?
7.05 a.m. Today I will take responsibility for my own life and start loving myself. I am lovely. I am marvellous. Oh God. Where's the Silk Cut?
7.10 a.m. Right. Going to get up and go to gym.
7.15 a.m. Actually, though, it is probably quite dangerous to work out before you have properly woken up. Will jar joints. Will go tonight before Blind Date. is stupid to go in the daytime on Saturday when there is so much to do e.g. shopping. Must not mind that Jude and Shaz are both probably in bed shagging wildly, shag, shag, shag.
7.30 a.m. Shag.
7.45 a.m. Obviously it is too early for anyone to ring. Just because I am awake does not mean anyone else is. Must learn to have more empathy with others.
8 a.m. Jude just rang but practically impossible to tell as total sheep-voice sobbing, gulping experience.
"Jude, what's wrong?" I said, devastated.
"I'm having a breakdown," she sobbed. "Everything seems black, black. I can't see any way out I can't ... "
"It's all right. It's going to be all right," I said, staring
wildly out of the window to see if there was a psychiatrist passing. "Does it feel serious or is it just PMT?"
"It's very, very bad," she said in a zombie-like voice. "It's been building up in me for about eleven years." She broke down again. "The whole weekend stretching ahead alone, alone. I just don't want to carry on living."
"Good, that's good," I said reassuringly, wondering whether I should ring the police or the Samaritans.
Turned out Stacey had inexplicably just dropped her off after dinner last night and not mentioned seeing her again. So now she felt she'd failed at Thursday's snog.
"I'm SO depressed, The whole weekend stretching ahead- Alone alone, I could die and. . ."
"Do you want to come round tonight?"
"Oooh, yes please!! Shall we go to 192? 1 can wear my new Voyage cardi."
Next thing Tom rang.
"Why didn't you call me back last night?, I said.
"What?" he said in a strange, dull monotone.
"You didn,t call me back."
"Oh," he said wearily. "I didn't think it was fair to talk to anyone."
"Why?" I said, puzzled.
"Oh. Because I have lost my former personality and become a manic-depressive."
It turned out Tom has been working alone at home all week, obsessing about Jerome, Eventually helped Tom to realize that the phantom madness was quite funny, given that if be hadn't informed me he was clinically insane I wouldn't have noticed any difference.
I reminded Tom of when Sharon once didn't come out Of the house for three days because she thought her face was collapsing from sun damage like a movie ageing special effect and didn't want to face anyone or expose herself to UVP rays till she'd privately come to terms with it. Then when she came to Cafe Rouge she looked exactly like she did the week before. Managed, finally, to get off the subject of Tom and on to my career as a major celebrity interviewer which unfortunately seems to be over, for the time being at least.
"Don't worry, babe," said Tom. "They'll have forgotten all about it in ten minutes, you'll see. You can make a comeback."
2.45 p.m. Feeling much better now. Have realized answer is not to obsess about own problems but help others. Have just spent an hour and fifteen minutes on phone cheering up Simon who was clearly not in bed with Shazzer. Turns out he was supposed to see this girl called Georgie tonight, who he has been intermittently secretly shagging on Saturday nights, but now Georgie says she doesn't think Saturday night is a good idea because it seems too much like they are an 'item'.
"I'm a love pariah doomed by the gods always to be alone," Simon raged. "Always, always. The whole of Sunday stretching ahead."
As I told him, it is great being single because we are free! Free! (Somehow hope Shaz does not find out exactly how free Simon is, though.)
3 p.m. Am marvellous: have been almost like
therapist all day. As I said to Jude and Tom, any time day or night they can call me, not just be sad on their own. So you see I am very wise and well-balanced almost in manner of the Mother Superior in The Sound of Music. In fact can easily imagine self singing 'Climb Every Mountain' at wall in middle of 192 with Jude kneeling appreciatively behind.
4 p.m. Phone just rang. Was Shazzer on verge of tears but trying to pretend she wasn't. Turns out Simon just called her with the Georgie scenario (v, annoying as obviously own Mother Superior act was not sufficient for the, now realize, emotionally greedy Simon).
"But I thought you were 'just good friends'?" I said.
"So did I," she said. "But I now realize I was just secretly fantasizing that we were in a higher form of love. It,s just awful being single," she burst out. "No one to put their arm round you at the end of the day, no on, to help you mend the boiler. The whole weekend stretching ahead! Alone! Completely alone!"
4.30 p.m. Hurrah! Everyone is coming round, Shaz, Jude and Tom (though not Simon as in disgrace for Mixed messages), and we are going to get an Indian takeaway and watch videos of ER. Love being single as you can have fun with all different People and life is full of freedom and Potential.
6 p.m. A terrible thing has happened. Magda just called, "Put it back in the potty, Put it back in! Listen, I don't know if I should tell you this, Bridge, but Put it back. Put the Ploppy BACK IN!"
"Magda..." I said dangerously.
"Sorry, hon. Look, I just rang to tell You that Rebecca ... now look that's really nasty, isn't it? Yakky! Yakky! Say yakky."
"WHAT?"
"Mark's coming home next week. She's invited us to a Post-election welcome back dinner for him and ... NOOOOOOO! OK, OK, put it in my hand."
I stumped dizzily at the kitchen table fumbling for a cigarette.
"All right. Put it in Daddy's hand, then. The thing is, Bridge, would you rather we said yes or are you doing another one? Well, do it in the potty, then. In the potty!"
"Oh God," I said. "Oh God."
6.30 p.m. Am going out for fags.
7 p.m. Whole of London is full of couples holding hands in spring, shagging each other shag, shag, shag, and planning lovely mini-breaks. Am going to be alone for rest of life. Alone!