9 p.m. My flat. Feel very strange and empty. Is all very well thinking everything is going to be different when you come back but then it is all the same. Suppose I have to make it different. But what am I going to do with my life?

I know. Will eat some cheese.

The thing is, as it says in 'Buddhism: The Drama of the Moneyed Monk', the atmosphere and events around you are created by the atmosphere within you. So it is no wonder all that bad stuff - Thailand, Daniel, Rebecca etc. - happened. Must start being more inner-poised and spiritual epiphanied, then will start attracting peaceful things and kind, loving, well-balanced people. Like Mark Darcy.

Mark Darcy - when he returns - is going to see the new me, calm and centred, attracting peace and order all around me.

8st 7, cigarettes 0 (triumph), no. of seconds since had sex 14,774,400 (disaster), (must treat both impostors just the same).

8.15 a.m. Right. Up bright and early. You see, this is important: steal a march on the day!

8.20 a.m. Ooh, a package has come for me. Maybe a gift,

8.30 a.m. Mmm. Is in gift box with roses on. Maybe from Mark Darcy! Maybe he's back.

8.40 a.m. Is a lovely little gold truncated biro with my name on it. Maybe from Tiffany's! With red tip. Maybe is lipstick.

8.45 a.m. That is weird. Is no note in there. Maybe promotional lipstick from PR company.

8.50 a.m. But is not lipstick as is solid. Maybe is biro. With my name on it! Maybe invitation to party in manner of forward-thinking PR firm - perhaps launch of new magazine called Lipstick!, maybe product of Tina Brown! - and the invitation to glittering party will follow.

Yes, you see. Think will go to Coins and have cappuccino. Though not, of course, chocolate croissant.

9 a.m. In cafe now. Hmm. Delighted with the little gift but not sure is biro either. Or at least if is, is very obscurely functioning one.

Later. Oh my God. Had just sat down with cappuccino and chocolate croissant when Mark Darcy came in, just like that, as if not away at all: in his work suit, newly shaved, a little cut on his chin with toilet paper on, as traditional in the mornings. He walked to the takeaway counter and put his briefcase down as if looking around for something or someone. He saw me. There was a long moment when his eyes softened (though not, obviously, melting like goo). He turned to deal with the cappuccino. Quickly made myself even more calm and centred seeming. Then he came towards my table, looking much more businesslike. Felt like throwing my arms round him.

"Hello," he said brusquely. "What have you got there?" - nodding at the gift.

Hardly able to speak with love and happiness, I handed him the box.

"I don't know what it is. I think it might be a biro."

He took the little biro out of the box, turned it round, put it back like, well, a shot, and said, "Bridget, this isn't a promotional biro, it's a fucking bullet."

Later still. OhmyChristalive. Was no time to discuss Thailand, Rebecca, love, anything.

Mark grabbed a napkin, took hold of the lid of the box and replaced it.

'I you can keep your head when all about you. ..' I whispered to myself.

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Stay here. Don't touch it. It's a live bullet," said Mark.

He slipped out into the street, and glanced up and down in manner of TV detective. Interesting how everything in real-life police drama reminds one of TV, rather in same way picturesque holiday scenes remind one of postcards or ...

He was back. "Bridget? Have you paid up? What are you doing? Come on."

"Where?"

"The police station."

In the car started to gabble, thanking him for everything he'd done and saying how much the Poem had helped me in jail.

"Poem? What poem?" he said, swinging into Kensington Park Road.

"The 'If ' poem - you know - force your heart and nerve and ... oh God I'm really sorry you had to go all the way to Dubai, I'm so grateful, I. . ."

He stopped at the lights and turned to me.

"That's absolutely fine," he said gently. "Now stop autowittering gibberish. You've had a big shock. You need to calm down."

Humph. Whole idea was he was supposed to notice how calm and centred I am, not be telling me to calm down. Tried to calm down, but was very difficult when all could think was: someone wants to kill me.

When we got to the police station it was slightly less like a TV drama because everything was tatty and dirty and nobody seemed the slightest bit interested in us. The police officer on the desk tried to make us wait in the waiting room but Mark insisted we were taken upstairs. We ended up sitting in a great big dingy office with nobody in it.

Mark made me tell him everything that had happened in Thailand, asking me if Jed had mentioned anyone he knew in the UK, if the packet had come with the normal post, if I'd noticed anyone strange hanging around since I got back.

Felt a bit stupid telling him about how trusting we'd been with Jed, thinking he was going to tell me off, but he was really sweet.

"The worst you and Shaz could be accused of was breathtaking stupidity," he said. "You did very well in jail, I heard."

Although he was being sweet, he wasn't being ... well it all seemed on a very businesslike footing, not like he wanted to get back together or talk about anything emotional.

"Do you think you'd better call work?" he said, looking at his watch.

My hand shot to my mouth. Tried to tell self it would not matter whether I still had a job or not if I was dead but it was twenty past ten!

"Don't look like you've just accidentally eaten a child," said Mark laughing. "For once you've got a decent excuse for your pathological lateness."

I picked up the phone and dialled Richard Finch's direct line. He answered straight away.

"Oooh, it's Bridget, is it? Little Miss Celibacy? Two days back and she's playing truant. Where are you, then? Shopping, are we?"

If you can trust Yourself when all men doubt you, I thought. If you can ...

"Playing with a candle, are we? Candles out, girls!" He made a loud popping noise.

Stared at phone in horror. Could not work out whether Richard Finch has always been like this and I was different, or whether he was getting into some terrible drug-induced downward spiral.

"Give it to me," said Mark.

"No!" I said, grabbing the phone back and hissing, "I'm a person in my own right."

"Of course you are, darling, just not in your own right mind," murmured Mark.

Darling! He called me darling!

"Bridget? Fallen asleep again, have we? Where are you?" chortled Richard Finch.

"I'm in the police station."

"Ooh, back on the rokeekoke cokee? Jolly good. Got some for me?" he chuckled.

"I've had a death threat."

"Oooh! That's a good one. You'll get a death threat from me in a minute. Hahahaha. Police station, eh? That's what I like to see. Nice stable drug-free respectable employees on my team."

That was it. That was just about enough. I took a big breath.

Richard," I said grandly. "That, I'm afraid, is like the kettle calling the frying pan dirty bottom. Except that I haven't got a dirty bottom because I don't take drugs. Not like you. Anyway, I'm not coming back. Bye." And I put the phone down. Hah! Hahahaha! I thought briefly before remembering the overdraft, And the magic mushrooms. Except not strictly drugs, as natural mushrooms.

Just then, a policeman appeared, rushing by and completely ignoring us. "Look!" said Mark banging his fist down on the desk. "We've got a girl with a live bullet with her name on here. Can we see some action?"

The policeman stopped and looked. "It's the funeral tomorrow" he said huffily. "And we've got a knifing in Kensal Rise. I mean there are other people who have already been murdered." He tossed his head and flounced out.