Monday 14 August 8st 12 (estimate); cigarettes 16 (G); alcohol units 6; calories 3,845
(bad). Humph.
Daniel shot off early this morning to go home and change before work
(nobody in the office knows we're having an affair). I woke in a panic
at 9.45am, rushed to get weighed, spotted myself in the mirror and
screamed. In the middle of my neck was the biggest love-bite you've ever
scene. It had the surface area of a Mars Bar ice-cream, but more the
shape and colouring of a smattering of Mac blusher. Bloody
Daniel. I bet he thought it was really funny. I stood quivering on the
scales, trying to remember what to do. Love-bites used to be all the
rage but somehow they have completely slipped out of fashion, to the
point where they are plainly unacceptable. The last time I had one I was
in the sixth form and it was Abnor Rimmington off the bus. What was I
supposed to do? A polo-necked jumper? But the temperature was 90 degrees
so I started rifling through my drawers in the illogical hope that an
Hermes scarf might have clambered in there unnoticed and I could bring
off a sort of Angela Rippon-meets-air-hostess-scarfy look that might
cover it up. Then I remembered the toothpaste trick - covering the
love-bite in toothpaste to seal it in, putting a layer of Rimmel Hide
and Heal on top, then smoothing the whole area - including the rest of
the neck - with foundation. If anyone noticed, you said you had bumped
into a lamp-post. It
was 10.45am when I had finished and the result was really rather
impressive. Unfortunately,
however, by 10.46am the love-bite was emerging from behind the
toothpaste like a midday equatorial sun from behind a light cloud. There
is no way I am going to work with this on me. A PE mistress and one from
Abnor Rimmington is one thing, but Perpetua, and, in effect, one from
the headmaster is another altogether. Right, I am going to bloody well
ring Daniel at work and give him what for. Later.
Daniel is being completely Japanese about this. He won't apologise. Or
at least, he has apologised but I consider his apology inadequate.
Furthermore, he is not accepting responsibility for what he has done.
And I am not at all sure how sorry he is. His
initial response was to roar with laughter and say, "But, Bridge,
I'm sure it looks absolutely lovely. You could start a new trend. You're
a publicist. Why don't you place some articles in the newspaper?
'Whatever happened to the Love-bite?' 'Suddenly there are more
Love-bites everywhere!!' You'll be in the very van of fashion. Everyone
will want one. Linda
Evangelista will..." "Allright,
shut up," I muttered. "It's not funny, and I'm not coming into
work. So you'd better apologise, now and then get me out of trouble with
Perpetua." "But
it's not my fault." "Yes
it is. You did it on purpose." "I
did not. I was carried away with passion. Actually, it's your fault for
inflaming me to such a point where I was no longer responsible for my
actions." "I
insist you apologise," I hissed. "I
am sorry you feel embarrassed by the love-bite, but I did not know I was
doing it," he parroted sulkily. Eventually, he got his secretary to
tell Perpetua I had called in sick. Sometimes I think he does not
realise how difficult it is to keep our affair secret in the office. It
is all right for him, but there is something so cliched and pathetic
about sleeping with one's boss that no one must know. He says everyone
knows anyway, which is complete garbage. After
I put the phone down, though, I started to wonder about what he had said
about bringing love-bites back into fashion. Do people always do the
same things in bed throughout the ages, or do different activities
suddenly become all the rage? If models in magazines and shampoo adverts
suddenly all started having love-bites on their necks, would everyone
start sucking each other's necks like mad? Tuesday 15 August 9st 5 (why? why?); cigarettes 23; alcohol units 7 (Tom's fault); Calories
1,574 (VG). Began
day in shock. Tom called last night in a complete panic because three
people had rung him up in 24 hours wanting a gay godfather for their
babies - which is apparently all the rage since the Canon of Hampshire
banned it and he'd gone and said yes to all of them out of uncertainty -
of - etiquette trauma. "They
spring it on you as if they're offering you a knighthood, and how can
you say no?" he said. "Instead, they're just asking you for a
lifetime of presents and free babysitting. I feel like I've got pregnant
with triplets. What do you think I should wear for the christening? How
about a sort of naval look with a captain's hat and little boxy
jacket?" He
was so absorbed by the outfit question it took him 45 minutes to get
round to dropping his bombshell. Apparently, he saw Jude going into a
restaurant in Notting Hill on Saturday night, holding hands with my
father. By this morning, the love-bite, faded and imperceptible under
its toothpaste, seemed the least of my worries next to the fact that my
father may be sleeping with my second-best friend. That was until I got
into the office. "Bridget,"
Perpetua yelled at the top of her voice. "You've got a love- bite
on your neck! No wonder Daniel was looking so shagged out
yesterday." |