9.45 p.m. Swil write carsnow. Will do liss.

11.20 p.m. Dunnit. Off to postssbox now.

11.30 p.m. Backinfla. Blurry tree. I know. Wllget scissors.

Midnight. Yurs. Berrer. Oof. Sleepynow. Oops. Tumbled

over.

Tuesday 16 December

9st 12, alcohol units 6, cigarettes 45, calories 5,732, chocolate tree decorations 132, cards sent - oh God, hell, beelzebub and all his sub-poltergeists.

8.30 a.m. Bit confused. Has just taken an hour and seven minutes to get dressed and am still not dressed, having realized there is splodge on front of skirt.

8.45 a.m. Have got skirt off now. Will put grey one on instead, but where the fuck is it? Oof. Head hurts. Right, am not going to drink again for ... Oh, maybe skirt is in living room.

9 a.m. In living room now, but everything is such a mess. Think will have some toast. Cigarettes are evil poison.

9.15 a.m. Gaah! Have just seen tree.

9.30 a.m. Gaah! Gaah! Have just found card that got missed. This is what says:

Happy Christmas to my dearest, dearest Ken. I have so appreciated all your kindness this year. You are a wonderful, wonderful person, so strong, and clear-sighted and good with figures. Although we have had our ups and downs, it is so important not to hold on to resentment if one is to grow. I feel very close to you now, both as a professional, and as a man. With real love,

Bridget

Who is Ken? Gaaah! Ken is accountant. Have only met him once and then we had row about sending my VAT in late. Oh my God. Must find list.

Gaaah! As well as Jude, Shazzer, Magda, Tom etc. list includes:

The Assistant to the British Consul, Bangkok The British Ambassador to Thailand

Rt Hon. Sir Hugo Boynton Admiral Darcy

DI Kirby

Colin Firth

Richard Finch

The Foreign Secretary

Jed

Michael at the Independent

Grant D. Pike

Tony Blair

Cards are at large in the world and do not know what have put in them.

Wednesday 17 December

No feedback from cards. Maybe the others were fine actually and Ken's was throwback freak.

Thursday 18 December

9.30 a.m. Was just on way out when phone rang. "Bridget, it's Gary!"

"Oh hi!" I trilled hysterically. "Where are you?"

"In the nick, aren't I? Thanks for the card. That was sweet. Sweet. It really means the world."

"Oh, hahahaha," I laughed nervously.

"So are you going to come to see me today?"

"What?"

"You know ... the card."

"Uuuum?" I said in a high, strangled voice. "I can't quite remember what I put. Do you ... ?"

"I'll read it to you, shall I?" he said shyly. Then proceeded to read, stumbling over the words.

Dearest Gary,

I know that your job as a builder is very different from mine. But I totally respect that, because it is a real craft. You make things with your hands and get up very early in the mornings and together - even though the infill extension isn't finished - we have built something great and beautiful, as a team. Two very different people, and even though the hole in the wall is still there - after nearly eight months! - I can see the growth of the project through it. Which is wonderful. I know that you are in prison, serving your dues, but soon the time of that will be over. Thank you for your card about the bullet and the fishing and I really, really forgive you.

I feel very close to you now, both as a craftsman, and as a man. And if anyone deserves joy and a real creative charge in the coming year - even in prison - it is you.

With love, Bridget

"Creative charge," he said in a throaty voice. Managed

to get away by explaining was late for work but ... Oh God. Who have I sent them to?

7 p.m. Back home. Went in for first consultancy meeting in office, which went really quite well, actually especially since Horrible Harold has been demoted to fact-checker for being boring - until Patchouli yelled that she'd got a call from Richard Finch in the Priory, she was putting it on speaker phone and everyone had to listen.

"Hello team!" he said. "Just called to spread a little festive spirit as it's the only sort I'm allowed. I'd like to read you something." He cleared his throat. "'A merry, merry Christmas, dearest Richard." Isn't that nice?" There was a spurt of laughter. "' I know our relationship has had its ups and downs. But now it is Christmas I realize it is very strong - challenging, vigorous, honest and true. You are a fascinating, fascinating man, full of vigour and contradiction. I feel very close to you now it is Christmas

- both as a producer and as a man. With love, Bridget."" Oh, oh, it was just ... Gaah! Doorbell.

I I p.m. It was Mark. With a very odd expression on his face. He came into the flat and looked around in consternation. "What's that strange smell? What in the name of arse is that?"

I followed his gaze. Christmas tree in truth did not look as good as remembered. Had chopped off top and tried to trim rest into traditional triangular shape but now, in middle of room, was tall thin shorn thing with blunt edges like very bad cheap pretend tree from discount store.

"It was a bit ..." I started to explain.

"A bit what?" he said with a mixture of amusement and incredulity.

"Big," I said lamely.

"Big, eh? I see. Well, never mind that for now. Can I read something to you?" he said, taking a card out of his pocket.

"OK," I said resignedly, sinking down on the sofa. Mark cleared his throat.

""My dear, dear Nigel,"" he began. "You remember my colleague, Nigel, do you, Bridget? Senior partner in the company. The fat one who isn't Giles?" He cleared his throat again. ""My dear, dear Nigel. I know we have only met once at Rebecca's when you pulled her out of the lake. But now it is Christmas, I realize, through being Mark's closest colleague, you have in a strange way been close to me all year too. I feel"" - Mark paused and gave me a look - "'very close to you now. You are a wonderful man: fit, attractive," - this, I remind you, is Fat Nigel we're talking about - "vigorous"" - he paused and raised his eyebrows - ""brilliant creatively, because being a lawyer is actually a very creative job, I will always think fondly of you, glistening"" - he was laughing now - ""glistening ... glistening bravely in the

sunlight and the water. Merry Christmas to my dear, dear Nigel. Bridget."'

I slumped on the sofa.

"Now come on," grinned Mark. "Everyone will know you were pissed. It's funny."

"I'm going to have to go away," I said sorrowfully. "I'm going to have to leave the country."

"Well, actually," he said, kneeling in front of me and taking my hands, "it's interesting you should say that. I've been asked to go to LA for five months. To work on the Mexican Calabreras case."

"What?" It was all getting worse and worse.

"Don't look so traumatized. I was going to ask you ... Will you come with me?"

I thought hard. I thought about Jude and Shazzer, and Agnйs B on Westbourne Grove, and cappuccinos in Coins, and Oxford Street.

"Bridget?" he said gently. "It's very warm and sunny there and they have swimming pools."

"Oh," I said, eyes darting interestedly from one side to the other.

"I'll wash up," he promised.

I thought about bullets and fish, and drug smugglers and Richard Finch and my mum and the hole in the wall and the Christmas cards.

"You can smoke in the house."

I looked at him, so earnest and solemn and sweet and thought that wherever he was, I didn't want to be without him.

"Yes," I said happily, "I'd love to come."