9st (only two days to rectify), cigarettes 22, alcohol units 5, calories 221 (emergency diet)
5pm Wild joy. Am being sent to interview Mr Darcy of Pride and Prejudice fame. Wish to humbly thank God and all archangels in heaven above for His gracious gift. You see it just goes to show ... oooh, telephone.
6pm Something weird is going on. Interview is to take place in Rome. Next thing they will say interview is to take place in sea naked on Caribbean island, in manner of Blind Date. Can understand God granting one favour to make up for Everything but this surely is beyond all normal religious reason. Suggests life is peaking in some terrifying final way followed by rapid rush downhill towards untimely death.
Just called Tom, who said stop always thinking there is a trick to everything - he is right - and to try to concentrate on fact that Mr Darcy is Colin Firth and ask really quite probing questions. Probing, mmm. Mr Darcy is Colin. Mr Darcy...
Oh my God. Just spoke to PR lady and Mr Darcy is going to call me at home over the weekend to arrange things. Cannot believe same. Obviously will not be able to go out of house all weekend, but that is good as will be able to do research. Actually this could be real turning point in career. Aargh, telephone, must quickly put impressive jazz or classical record on.
Huh. Was bloody Michael from Independent. "Now listen Bridget. I don't want any messing about with this. You come back on the plane we have booked for you on Monday night, you sit down with it on Tuesday morning and you hand it in by lunchtime on Wednesday or it won't go in and you'll be sacked. And you're asking him about the film Fever Pitch. Fever Pitch in which, as you know, he plays a character who is not Mr Darcy."
Actually that is quite right. Oooh, telephone.
Was Jude. She and Shazzer are coming round. Fear they will make me laugh when Mr Darcy rings, but on other hand need something to take mind off it or will burst.
Saturday 15 March
10am Mr Darcy hasn't rung.
10.03am Mr Darcy still hasn't rung.
10.07am Still hasn't rung. Wonder if is too early to wake Jude and Shazzer up. Maybe he is waiting to ring me till his girlfriend has gone out shopping.
Sunday 16 March
5pm Have never had such terrible headache in entire life. Flat looks like bomb has hit it due to Mr Darcy stake-out. All sprawled all over sitting-room in manner of in Thelma and Louise when their house is taken over by police and Harvey Keitel is waiting for them to ring with all tape-recorders whirring in background.
Really appreciate Jude and Shazzer's support but means have not been able to get on with preparation apart from physical.
6pm Mr Darcy still has not rung.
6.05pm Still has not rung. What am I supposed to do? Do not even know where am meeting him.
6.15pm Still has not rung. Maybe girlfriend has just refused to go out shopping. Maybe they have just been having sex all weekend and sending out for Italian ice-cream and just laughing at me behind my back.
6.30pm Jude suddenly woke up and put her fingertips on her forehead. "We must to go out," she said in a strange, Mystic Meg-style voice.
"Are you mad?" hissed Sharon. "Go out? Have you gone out of your mind?"
"No," said Jude coldly. "The reason the phone isn't ringing is there is too much energy focused on it."
"Phwnaw," snorted Sharon.
"Apart from anything else it has started to stink in here. We need to clean up, let the energy flow, then go out, and have a bloody Mary," she said, looking at me temptingly.
Minutes later we were outside, blinking in the unexpectedly spring-like not-dark-yet air. I made a sudden bolt back towards the front door but Shazzer grabbed me.
"We are going. For a bloody Mary," she hissed, marching me along the road like a big policeman.
Fourteen minutes later we were back. I flung myself across the room and froze. The light was flashing on the answerphone.
"You see," said Jude in a horrible smug voice. "You see."
Tremulously, as if it was an unexploded bomb, Shazzer reached forward and pressed "Answer Play".
"Hello Bridget this is Colin Firth."
We all jumped a foot backwards. It was Mr Darcy. The same posh, deep, can't-be-bothered voice that he proposed to Elizabeth Bennet in. Bridget. Me. Mr Darcy said Bridget. On my answerphone.
"I gather you're coming to Rome to interview me tomorrow," he went on. "I was calling to arrange a place to meet. There's a place called the Plaza Novara, sort of easy place to find in a taxi. I'll meet you about 12.30 by the fountain. Have a safe journey."
"1471 1471," gabbled Jude, "1471 quick quick. No get the tape out, get the tape out."
"Call him back," screamed Sharon, like an SS torturer. "Call him back and ask him to meet you in the fountain. Ohmygod."
The phone had rung again, we stood there rigid mouths open. Then Tom's voice suddenly boomed out, "Hello, you pretty little things, it's Mr Darcy here just calling to see if anyone could help me out of this wet shirt."
Shazzer suddenly de-tranced. "Stop him, stop him," she screamed flinging herself at the receiver. "Shut up Tom, shut up shut up shut up."
But it was too late. My answerphone recording of Mr Darcy saying the word Bridget and asking him to meet him in Rome by a fountain has been lost forever.
And there is nothing anyone in the world will ever be able to do about it. Nothing. Nothingn
Bridget Jones's interview with Colin Firth will - God willing - appear in the Independent Magazine on 29 March.Reuse content