For a second had a vision of myself grabbing Woney by the ears and bellowing, “Do you think it hasn’t crossed my mind?” but I didn’t because, ironically enough, as so often over the last decade, I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.
“Do you want to feel my bump?” said Caroline, stroking her pregnant bump.
“No, not really, thanks.”
“No go on, feel it.”
“No, I really need a…”
“Feel. The bump,” she said, with startling ferocity. “Oh she’s kicking me!”
“And frankly who can blame her?” Magda steamed in. “Leave Bridget alone you ghastly grow-bags. You’re just wishing you could have jobs and shag lithe young sex gods like she does. Come and get a drink, Bridge.”
She swept me out of the torture chamber, then suddenly stopped in her tracks, looking ashen, and whispered, “Jeremy’s talking to that woman again.”
“Oh my God, Magda, I’m so sorry. Is he still at it?” I said.
“Yup. I’d better get in there. Bar’s over there. Laters.”
—
Walked through the crush round the bar, straight into a bunch of drunken fathers.
“If you want a shot at Westminster at six, you have to start tutoring at three.”
“Yars. But you’ve got another crack at eleven.”
“No chance.”
“Not unless they have the Latin.”
“Bridget! Have you been ill? Where are the bloody boobs?”
“Got yourself a boyfriend yet?”
I managed to ease my way through without incident by nodding and smiling enigmatically. Hurled myself at the bar thinking nothing could possibly get worse, and found myself standing next to Mark Darcy.
—
The conversation went as follows.
MARK DARCY: Hello.
ME: Hello.
MARK DARCY: How are you?
ME: (strange voice) I am very well thank you. How are you?
MARK DARCY: I am fine.
ME: So am I.
MARK DARCY: Good.
ME: Yes.
MARK DARCY: Good.