Wish could ring up Tom. Typical of him to go to San Francisco just when need advice from gay perspective, typical. He is always asking me to give him advice for hours on end about his crises with other homosexuals then when I need advice about a crisis with a homosexual, what does he do? He goes to BLOODY SAN FRANCISCO.
Calm, calm. Realize is wrong to blame entire incident on Tom, especially in view of fact that incident has nothing to do with Tom, but must not medicate by blaming. Am assured, receptive, responsive woman of substance, totally complete within myself ... Gaah! Telephone.
"Bridget. It's Mark. I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry. That was an awful thing to happen."
He sounded terrible. "Bridget?"
"What?" I said, trying to stop my hands shaking so I could light a Silk Cut.
"I know what it must have looked like. I got as much of a shock as you. I've never seen him before in my life."
"Well, who was he then?" I burst out.
"It turns out he's my housekeeper's son. I didn't even know she had a son. Apparently he's schizophrenic."
There was shouting in the background.
"I'm coming, I'm coming. Oh God. Look, I, I'm going to have to go sort this out. It sounds like he's trying to strangle her. Can I call you later?" - more shouting "Hang on, just ... Bridget, I'll call you in the morning."
Very confused. Wish could ring Jude or Shaz to find out if excuse is valid but is middle of night. Maybe I'll try to sleep.
9 a.m. Gaah! Gaah! Telephone. Hurrah! No! Doom! Have just remembered what happened.
9.30 a.m. Was not Mark but my mother. "D'you know, darling, I'm absolutely livid."
"Mum," I interrupted resolutely. "Do you mind if I ring you back on the mobile"'
It was all coming back to me in waves. I had to get her off the phone in case Mark was trying to call.
"Mobile, darling? Don't be silly - you haven't had one of those since you were two, Do you remember? With little fishes on? Oh. Daddy wants a word but ... Anyway, here he is."
I waited, looking frantically between the mobile and the clock.
"Hello, my dear," said Dad wearily. "She's not going to Kenya."
"Great, well done," I said, glad that at least one of us not in crisis. "What did vou do?"
"Nothing, Her passport's expired."
"Hah Brilliant. Don't tell her you can get new ones."
"Oh, she knows, she knows," he said. "The thing is, if you have a new one, you have to have a new photo. So it's not out of any respect for me, it's purely a matter of flirting with customs officials."
Mum grabbed the phone. "It's just completely ridiculous, darling. I had my photo taken and I look as old as the hills. Una said try it in a booth but it's worse. I'm keeping the old passport and that's an end of the matter. Anyway, how's Mark?"
"He's fine," I said, in a high, strangled voice, narrowly avoiding adding: he likes to sleep with oriental youths and fiddle with rabbits, isn't that fun?
"Well! Daddy and I thought you and Mark would like to come to lunch tomorrow. We haven't seen you both together. I thought I'd just stick a lasagne in the oven with some beans."
"Can I ring you back later? I'm late for ... yoga!" I said, inspired.
Managed to get free of her after a freakishly short fifteen-minute wind-down during which it became increasingly clear that the entire might of the British Passport Office was not going to be much of a match for Mum and the old photo, then fumbled for another Silk Cut, desolate and confused. Housekeeper? I mean I know he does have a housekeeper but ... And then all this stuff with Rebecca. And he votes Tory. Maybe will eat some cheese. Gaah! Telephone.
Was Shazzer.
"Oh Shaz," I said miserably, and started to blurt out the story.
"Stop right there," she said, before I'd even got as far as the oriental boy. "Stop. I'm going to say this once and I want you to listen."
What?" I said, thinking if there was one person in the world incapable of just saying something once - apart from my mother - it was Sharon.
"Get out."
"But . . ."
"Get out. You've had the warning sign, he votes Tory. Now get out before you get too involved."
"But wait, that's not . . ."
"Oh for God's sake," she growled. "He's got it every which way, hasn't he? He comes to your house, he has everything done for him. You turn up all dressed up to the nines for his ghastly Tory friends and what does he do? Flirts with Rebecca. Patronizes you. And votes Tory. It's all just manipulative, paternalistic..."
I glanced nervously at the clock. "Um, Shaz, can I ring you back on the mobile?"
"What! In case he rings you? No!" she exploded. Just then the mobile actually started ringing. "Shaz, I'm going to have to go. I'll call you later." Pressed OK eagerly on the mobile.
Was Jude. "Oh, oh I feel so hungover. I think I'm going to throw up." She started launching into great long story about party at the Met Bar but had to stop her as really felt whole oriental youth issue was more pressing. Really felt was right about this. Was not being selfish.
"Oh God, Bridge," said Jude when I'd finished. "You poor thing. I think you've handled it really, really well. I really do. You've really come on."
Felt huge glow of pride, followed by puzzlement.
"What did I do?" I said, looking round the room alternating between self-satisfied smiling and confused blinking.
"You've done exactly what it says in Women Who Love Too Much. You've done nothing. Just detached. We cannot solve their problems for them. We simply detach."
"Right, right," I said, nodding earnestly.
"We don't wish them ill. We don't wish them well. We do not call them. We do not see them. We simply detach. Housekeeper's son my arse. If he's got a housekeeper how come he's always round your place getting you to wash up?"
"But what if it was the housekeeper's son?"
"Now, Bridget," said Jude sternly, "this is what's called Denial."
11.15 a.m. Have arranged to meet Jude and Shazzer in 192 for lunch. Right. Am not going to be in Denial.
11.16 a.m. Yes. Am completely detached. You see!
11.18 a.m. Cannot believe he still hasn't fucking, fucking, fucking well rung. Hate passive-aggressive behaviour of telephone in modern dating world, using non-communication as means of communication. Is terrible, terrible: with simple ring or non-ring meaning difference between love and friendliness and happiness and being cast out into ruthless dating trench war again, exactly the same but feeling even more of a fuck up than last time.
Noon. Could not believe it. Phone actually started ringing while I was staring at it, as if I had made it ring through thought-vibe energy and this time it was Mark.
"How are you?" he said wearily.
"I'm fine," I said, trying to be detached.
"Shall I pick you up and we'll go for lunch and talk?"
"Um, I'm having lunch with the girls," I said really quite detachedly indeed.
"Oh God."
"What?"
"Bridget. Do you have any idea what sort of night I've had? I had this boy trying to strangle his mother in the kitchen, the police and ambulance round, tranquillizer darts, drives to the hospital, hysterical Filipinos all over the house. I mean I'm really, really sorry you had to go through all that, but so did I and it was hardly my fault."
"Why didn't you call before?"
"Because every time I got a second to call, either on the phone or the mobile, you were bloody well engaged!" Hmmm. Detachment did not go particularly well. He