Page 202 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING
P. 202

Horrible night. Kept waking up bathed in sweat, panicking about the difference

               between  the  Ulster  Unionists  and  SDLP  and  which  of  them  Ian  Paisley  was
               involved in.


                   Instead of being ushered into the office to meet the great Richard Finch, I was
               left pouring sweat in reception for forty minutes thinking Oh my God who's the

               Health Secretary? before being picked up by the singsong personal assistant -
               Patchouli - who sported Lycra cycle shorts and a nose stud and blanched at my
               Jigsaw suit, as if, in a hideously misjudged attempt to be formal, I had turned up
               in a floor-length shot-silk Laura Ashley ball gown.



                   'Richard says to come to the conference, know what I'm sayin'?' she muttered,
               powering off down a corridor while I scurried after her. She burst through a pink
               door  into  a  vast  open_plan  office  strewn  with  piles  of  scripts,  TV  screens
               suspended  from  the  ceiling,  charts  all  over  the  walls,  and  mountain  bikes

               propped against the desks. At the far end was a large oblong table where the
               meeting was in progress. Everyone turned and stared as we approached.


                   A plump, middle_aged man with curly blond hair, a denim shirt and huge red

               spectacles was jigging up and down at the end of the table.


                   'Come on! Come on!' he was saying, holding up his fists like a boxer. 'I'm
               thinking Hugh Grant. I'm thinking Elizabeth Hurley. I'm thinking how come two

               months on they're still together. I'm thinking how come he gets away with it.
               That's  it!  How  does  a  man  with  a  girlfriend  with  looks  like  Elizabeth  Hurley
               have a blow job from a prostitute on a public highway and get away with it?
               What happened to hell hath no fury?'



                   I couldn't believe this. What about the Shadow Cabinet? What about the Peace
               Process?  He  was  obviously  trying  to  work  out  how  he  could  get  away  with
               sleeping with a prostitute himself. Suddenly, he was looking straight at me.



                   'Do you know?' The entire table of grunge youths stared. 'You. You must be
               Bridget!'  he  shouted  impatiently.  'How  does  a  man  with  a  beautiful  girlfriend
               manage to sleep with a prostitute, get found out and get away with it?'
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