2am. Daniel has just chucked me and left. I feel so desperate I don't know what to do.
9am. Just woke and had a wonderful 30 seconds where my head felt all washed clean by sleep and then I remembered what had happened. I didn't get to sleep till six o'clock, I couldn't stop crying. He said such horrible things. Am I really that horrible? I accused him of being overimpressed by celebrities, and only wanting to split up because that's what all the smart couples are doing these days, and just because he's always had this thing about Emma Thompson there's no need to copy everything she does. And then he came out with all this stuff saying I was stupid and flippant and spent my entire time adding up calories on a calculator, doing scratchcards and feeding milk to terracotta oil-burners and never used my brain. And he wasn't even sure that I had a brain it was so long since he'd seen any evidence of it. And if I carried on this way I was going to end up as a call girl, or a fat - he actually said, " fat" - pissed Scottish housewife, smoking Woodbines and spending my entire time at the bingo.
Oh my God. He's my boss. He's probably going to sack me as well. I can't face going into work. I think I'm having a panic attack. He'll probably read out a prepared statement.
"Bridget and her brain have been drifting apart for several months, and as a result, with great sadness, I have decided to chuck and sack her." I'll arrive and he'll be standing all dishevelled on the steps in an old sweatshirt with glasses on taking questions, fluffing his lines and trying to make everyone sorry for him.
Anyway he is overinfluenced by celebrities. He's probably in a car getting a blow job from a prostitute at this very moment.
11.30am. (Office. 3rd-floor toilets.) This is just ... just ... intolerable. Whatever possessed me to think I could have an affair at work, with my boss to boot, and get away with it? I can't deal with it out there. It's so hard stopping myself crying. I keep remembering how romantic it was when we started and it was all secret computer messages and trysts in the lift. Now it's blindingly obvious that Daniel really, really wishes I wasn't here. I'm sure everybody knows. I heard him on the phone arranging to meet a woman tonight and he said in this intimate, confidential voice: "Not too bad ... so far," and I knew he was talking about me. I'm so humiliated I feel like that little bolt that says "vacant" on the toilet door.
Tuesday 3 October
3am. Oh my God. It's Emma Thompson. Daniel's the guy that's having the affair with Emma Thompson. He used to be friends with her at Cambridge. It all makes perfect sense.
4am. If only I had someone to talk to. I should have stayed at Tom's. He and Sharon were brilliant last night. Tom said: "If Daniel Cleaver turns out to be single-handedly responsible for all the fighting in Bosnia, I won't be in the least surprised." Then he said: "Er, Bridge. If you get back together, forget I said that." Maybe we will get back together, then I'll stop feeling like this. Not if he's having an affair with Emma bloody Thompson we won't, though. I'm going to get her. Julia Carling's not the only one who works in PR. I'm going to issue a very clever 79- word statement saying: "What hurts and saddens me is that this has arisen because of circumstances beyond my control. I would have thought that certain people who win Oscars and appear in films named after former foreign secretaries would have learnt their lesson by now."
5am. If only I could get some sleep. My Dad broke my heart on the phone last evening. He said: "The thing is, Bridget, when you think someone loves you it's like having cotton wool all round your heart. Then when you realise they don't any more ..." and then he started to cry.
5.15am. Daniel's right. I'm just useless and horrible. I am stupid and trivial. If only I could talk to someone. I'm going to ring him.
Hmm. Just seen the note Tom taped on the telephone, saying: "Do not ring Daniel or you will regret it." He's right.
5.30am. I'm so miserable. I'm going to have to leave my job and then I will end up as a call girl. I'm going to ring my Mum.
10am. Mum was brilliant. I'm just off to work looking like Ivana bloody Trump. I'm wearing a suit and lip-gloss.
"Darling," she said. "Of course you haven't woken me, I'm just leaving for the studio. I can't believe you've got in a state like this over a stupid man. They're all completely self-centred and no use to man nor beast. Yes that does include you, Julio. Now come along, darling. Brace up. Back to sleep. Go into work looking drop-dead gorgeous. Leave no one in any doubt that you've suddenly discovered how marvellous life is without that pompous, dissolute old fart bossing you around. And prepare to hand in your notice in a couple of weeks. Yes, darling. We're going to get you a job in television."Reuse content