Friday 8 December 9st 5 (disaster); alcohol units 4 (g); cigarettes 12 (excellent); number
of Christmas presents purchased 0 (bad); cards sent 0. 4pm. Jude
just rang in tears on her portable phone from the loos at work (Jude is
Head of Futures at Salomon Brothers). She had just rung the Parisian
hotel room of her boyfriend, Vile Richard, where he is trapped by the
rising up of the oppressed masses, and been answered by a woman with an
Essex accent who knew what time he would be back. Just before we said
goodbye she said, between snuffles, "See you at Rebecca's on
Sunday." "Rebecca's?
Sunday? What Rebecca's? What?" "Oh
hasn't...? She's just having a few... I think it's just a dinner
party." "I'm
busy on Sunday anyway," I lied, brittly. At last - a chance to get
into those awkward corners with the duster. I had thought that Jude and
I were equal friends of Rebecca, but everyone can't invite everyone to
everything. 9pm
Popped to Cafe Rouge for a refreshing glass of wine with Sharon and she
said, "What are you wearing to Rebecca's party?" Party? So it
is a party party, and Sharon hardly even knows Rebecca. Anyway, I'm not
going to get upset about it. People should be able to invite whoever
they want to their parties. Saturday 9 December 5.30am. Why
hasn't Rebecca invited me to her party? Why? Why? How many more parties
are going on that everyone has been invited to except me? I bet everyone
is at one now, laughing and taking drugs. No one likes me. Christmas is
a total party desert apart from a three-party pile-up on 20 December,
when I am booked into an editing session all evening. 8am. Woken
by Mum at 7.45. "Hello darling - just rang quickly because Una and
Geoffrey were asking what you wanted for Christmas and I wondered about
a facial sauna. By the way, are you coming to the Vibrant TV party on
Tuesday?" My heart clunked down like a big pebble in a glass of
Ribena. I work for Vibrant TV, for God's sake. "I haven't been
invited," I mumbled, ashamedly. There is nothing worse than having
to admit to your Mum that you are not very popular. "Oh darling, of
course you've been invited - everyone's going." "I haven't
been." "Well, maybe you haven't worked there long enough.
Anyway..." "But Mum," I interrupted, "You don't work
there at all." "Well that's different, darling. I'm in front
of the cameras." 9am. Brief
moment of party oasis when an invitation arrived in the post but turned
out to be party mirage: invitation to a Sale of Designer Eyewear. 11.30.
Called Tom in paranoid desperation to see if he wanted to go out
tonight. "Sorry," he chirped, "I'm taking Jerome to the
PACT party at the Groucho Club." I hate it when Tom is happy,
confident and shagging someone, much preferring him having a panic
attack or in tears about being sexually repellent. "I'll see you
tomorrow, anyway," he gushed on "at Rebecca's." Tom has
only ever met Rebecca twice, both times at my house and I've known her
for nine years. "It must have got lost in the post or
something," he said lamely. Decided to go shopping and stop
obsessing. 2pm. Bumped
into Rebecca in Graham & Greene buying a scarf for pounds 169. (What
is going on with the scarves? One minute they were stocking filler-
style items that cost pounds 9.99, next minute they have to be fancy
velvet, costing as much as televisions. Next year it will probably
happen to socks or pants and we will feel left out if we are not wearing
pounds 145 English Eccentrics knickers in textured black velvet). "Hi,"
I said excitedly, thinking at last the party nightmare would be over and
she, too, would say, "see you on Sunday". "Oh
hello," she said coldly, not meeting my eye. "Can't stop. I'm
in a real rush." As
she left the shop they were playing "Chestnuts roasting by the
fireside" and I stared hard at a pounds 185 Philippe Starck
colander, blinking back tears. I hate Christmas. Everything is designed
for families, romance, warmth, emotion and presents, and if you have no
boyfriend, no money, your mother is going out with a Portuguese tour
operator and your friends don't want to be your friend any more, it
makes you want to emigrate to a vicious Muslim regime. Anyway, I don't
care. I am going to read a book quietly all weekend and listen to
classical music. 8.30pm.
Blind Date was VG. Just going out for another bottle of wine. Monday 11 December Returned
from work to icy answerphone message. "Bridget.
This is Rebecca. I know you work in TV now. I know you have much more
glamorous parties to go to every night but I would have thought you
could at least manage the courtesy to reply to an invitation from a
friend even if you are too grand to deign to come to her party." Frantically
called Rebecca but no reply or answerphone. Decided to go round and
leave a note and bumped into Bruce - the Australian guy from downstairs
who I once snogged - on the way out. "Hi.
Merry Christmas," he said leerily, standing too close. "Did
you get your mail?" I looked at him blankly. "I've been
putting it under your door so you don't have to get cold in your nightie
in the mornings." I shot back upstairs, grabbed back the doormat
and there, nestling underneath like a Christmas miracle, was a little
pile of cards and letters all addressed to me. |