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Peja's Wonderful World of Makebelieve Import
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2020-11-04
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From Tom's Diary: Bridget Jones' Gaydar

Summary:

Fandom: Bridget Jones' Diary/Are You Being Served?
Pairing: Implied only
Rating: FRT
Summary: Tom proves to Bridget that her 'gaydar' isn't as accurate as she thinks.
Archive: Yes
Status: Finished
Sequel/Series: I guess I have a series now that I have three stories, so it's the From Tom's Diary Series.
Disclaimer: I did not create the characters here, I don't own them. I derive no profit from this effort. I mean nothing but respect for the creators, owners, and the actors and actresses who portray them

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Work Text:

From Tom's Diary: Bridget Jones' Gaydar
by Scribe

Notes: Are You Being Served? ran during the seventies, possibly early eighties, and of course BJD took place in the nineties. Okay, just consider this AU, then, with both times existing simultaneously. *snicker* I just thought of a good line to make an 'inside' joke about this.
Story Notes: The guinea was a coin worth roughly one pound, done away with when decimalization in 1971. As far as I know, they didn't give a title to Tom's song, so I did, and I wrote it for him, too. :) Picture a really sugary, bright, bouncy, eighties type of tune.
Terms: I'm pretty up on Brit terms and slang, but I might make some mistakes. If I do, correct gently.
Magical Mystery--a recreational activity (don't know if they still do it), where you sign up for a trip--somewhere. You don't know where you're going till you arrive. Could be the seaside, could be a mall...
lift--elevator
grass--inform on
knickers--panties
cheeky--sassy
kimono--style of dressing gown
quel dommage--French for 'what a pity'
ladder--a run in the hose.
In some pop culture it was believed that wearing purple on a certain day (I think Thursday) indicated you were gay

 

Dear Diary,

Hello, my lovely. It's yours truly once again, taking a brief moment to jot down the day's doings. It's been a full day, and with any luck it's going to be fuller still later this evening, if you catch my drift.

I'm feeling very happy with the world. A nice American telephone service company has begun using Gonna Change Your Mind as the theme music for their new 'come over to the Dark Side--' OOPS! 'Come over to our service' ads. Every time they use the music I get a nice check, and every time they use MY VOICE with the music I get a nice FAT check. And they run those ads so often that the Yanks will probably end up singing the song in their sleep, which may actually get a few more copies sold. In fact, my agent says that if it really catches on, I can look forward to a page in People Magazine, and possibly a guest appearance on So Graham Norton. Joy!

Future hopes, darling, but my first residuals came in recently, and that meant one thing--SHOPPING SAFARI! I decided to invite Bridget along. The poor dear has been a bit down in the dump--oh, BAD choice of words! Dump--HORRID word. Bad Tom. Mark Darcy did NOT dump Bridget--he merely rekindled his romance with Daniel Cleaver.

Well, Bridget is a lot like me--a good, rousing round of shopping will pull us up out of the deepest slough of depression. And if it doesn't, we'll still look fabulous. So since today was Saturday, I popped by her flat, bright and early. I was so proud of myself. Why, it was only ten o'clock when I knocked on her door.

When she answered the door, I said, "God, darling, what if I'd been a man? Do you really want someone with a yen for females seeing you dressed like THAT?"

She looked down at her sloppy sweat suit. "It's comfortable."

"So, I'm given to understand, is death by hypothermia--one drifts off to sleep. It doesn't mean we shouldn't fight it. Make yourself presentable." I flashed her the wad of notes I'd withdrawn from the bank on the way over. "Cousin Tom is going to dress us both up. You Barbie--me Ken. Or possibly Skipper, depending on what we find."

She didn't take much persuading, so in an hour we were on our way. "So, where will it be?" she asked. "Harrod's? Debenham's? Harvey Nichols?"

"Those are so yawn, Bridget. Everyone and their boyfriend shops there. I want to try something a little different, get something that will make me stand out. You know, enhance my natural physical beauty. I want to get in touch with my inner sexy beast. Then perhaps I can entice someone new to get in touch with my OUTER sexy beast."

So while she got dressed, I called for a cab. The company said that it might be a while before they could send anyone. It was the same with the second company. I don't know--maybe the city was full of American tourists wanting a glimpse of Prince William. Lord knows I couldn't blame them.

Bridget was dressed before I could call a third one, so we went downstairs to see who showed up. On the way, we passed the very nice looking young man who lived in the ground floor flat. He gave us a nod and we passed a few pleasant words. Once out on the street I said, "Oo, wouldn't mind finding that in my Christmas stocking."

"Dream away, Tom," said Bridget. "He's straight."

"Really? What makes you think that?"

"My," she made quotation marks with her fingers, "gaydar."

"I hate to tell you this, love, but your gaydar is bloody defective."

"How can you say that?"

"Two words--Darcy, and Cleaver."

"Oh. Um. Well, that's an aberration."

"Oh, come on, Bridget. I know you don't buy into that 'it's a sickness'."

"No, I didn't mean that! I meant that I didn't realize they were..." She stared at me accusingly. "You're kidding me."

"Psyche. Of course I am. But truly, dear, you have a hard time telling Rupert Everret from Mel Gibson."

"Oh, and you're better?"

"Of course. I can always tell, given a few minutes." I patted her shoulder. "We'll work on it." They must have misestimated their business, because a taxi was pulling to the curb as we came out. Then again, I didn't recognize the logo on the side. It was from some firm called Magical Mystery Taxi.

We climbed inside, and the... Well, the closest I can come is that the cabbie looked like a Hobbit. I had to resist the urge to peek over the front seat and find out if he was sitting on a copy of the London phone directory. He grinned at us and said, "Not that it makes much difference, but where would you like to go?"

Cheeky devil. Very cute, and I suppose that if he was old enough to have a hack license, he was old enough, but one can't be too careful. "We're feeling adventurous."

"You've come to the right place. Just give me a general idea, and I'll take you somewhere unique."

"Off the beaten path?" asked Bridget.

He snickered. "You could say that."

I flashed my cash. "Shopping is the name of the game today. I want to go to a shop that is so out of the main stream that it's bound to be the next thing in 'trendy'."

"Can't say about the next thing," he started shifting gears, "But I can do out of the main stream." I do believe that was the first time I've ever ridden in a taxi that laid rubber. Bridget and I were thrown from once side of the seat to the other as he whizzed around corners. We ended up clutching each other. That's the tightest I've ever held a woman. Well, except for that one time that my current boyfriend pissed off Phyllis, the Devonshire Dyke, and I had to hold her off him while he escaped. I'm lucky that she considered me her sister, or I might have done a turn in the local trauma unit.

I'd have told him to stop, but quite frankly I hadn't the breath. It wasn't long before Bridget and I had slid down, ending up half on the floor. I finally managed to suck down a breath of air and yelled, "STOP!"

We screeched to a halt. As we scrambled up, the driver said, "Perfect sense of timing, guv'nor. Here we are."

We were in front of a tall, old-fashioned looking building. I couldn't tell what the rest of the nearby area looked like, because we seemed to have driven into a very thick fog. It was odd, but I've seen odder things in my life. You'd be surprised what you can run across on Drag Night at some clubs. "WHERE are we?" I asked. "After the way you drove, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Purgatory."

He snickered again. "Funny you should say that."

I stared out at the fog, and the unpromising looking building, but Bridget clutched my arm. "Come on, Tom. I couldn't handle another ride like that--right away."

I asked the driver how much I owed him, and he said, "One guinea."

"What?"

"Oh, that's not right, is it? Uh... One pound?" I paid him, and he said, "I'll be back for you later, right?"

"Please don't bother," I said quickly.

"No bother, mate, and believe me--you'll want me to come back." The smile was even brighter than before. "You've no idea how hard it is to get a cab hereabouts." He drove away, and if I didn't know better, I'd say he just sort of melted into the fog.

"Well," said Bridget. "I don't fancy trying to walk in this, so I guess we shop. Where are we, exactly?"

I squinted up at the sign over the door. "Grace Brothers. Ever heard of it?"

She looked thoughtful. "It sort of rings a bell, but I couldn't say for sure."

"Well, it IS a shop, so," I took her arm, "Forward, dear friend."

We went inside and glanced around. Typical, generic department store. Not at upscale as Harrods, but not on the level of, say, your average American Walmart.

What surprised me was that while we were walking back to the lifts, we were watched by several obvious salespeople who were fairly twitching with the urge to approach us.

The lifts actually had ATTENDANTS--can you believe it? Perky little girls in uniforms, who operated a sort of handle/dial contraption--no buttons. Remarkable. Of course, it DID give one a moment's pause, considering how long it must've been since it was renovated.

As the doors slid shut, the attendant started off in a sing-song chant. "Ground floor: perfumery, stationery and leather goods, wigs and haberdashery, kitchenware and food. Going up! First floor: telephones, gents ready-made suits, shirts, socks, ties, hats, underwear and shoes. Going up!"

"Wait!" I dragged Bridget out the briefly opened doors before they could slide shut again. "Good God, a lift and a show." We were at the top of a short, wide flight of stairs, leading down onto the sales floor. "Bloody hell. Why didn't they have the lift stop a few feet shorter?"

"Interior design?" said Bridget.

"I know interior design, dear. I've slept with interior designers. This is something from the Dark Ages." I wrinkled my nose. "Pre-1950s, at least. Shall we venture?"

"I'm curious now," she said. "Lets. But stay with me."

"Surely, but if you find something you want to try on, you're on your own. This place hardly looks like it will have co-ed dressing rooms."

We made our way down the steps, arms linked like the Babes in the Woods, and were met at the bottom by a man... Let me just say that he looked as if someone had rammed a rod straight up his arse, then used it as his backbone. Nice moustache, though. Hands behind his back, he said, "Good day, sir--madam. Are you being served?"

I batted my eyelashes at him. "What did you have in mind?"

His _expression didn't change, expect for lifted eyebrows. "Would you, by any chance, be here to see Mister Humphries?"

"Is he worth seeing?"

Bridget simply doesn't know how to keep a joke going. She leaned around me and said, "Ladies department?"

"Yes, Miss. This way."

As he led us to the right side of the room, I whispered, "Fancy, our own guide."

There was a young woman wearing a very unflattering brown jumper-dress with a frilled blouse. You heard me right--a frilled blouse. I expected the fashion police to raid the place at any moment. "Good afternoon, madam." Her voice was a little nasal, and her Cockney accent was thicker than the fog outside. "Are you being served?"

I looked at Bridget. "Deja vu."

"Oo," said the girl. "In't he that swami what's on the telly wif the turban, an' all?"

I had the urge to pat her head. "No, dear--it's the new model French sports car." So help me, she nodded.

Bridget said, "Do you carry Victoria's Secret?"

"She never told me nuffing, an' if she did, I wouldn't grass on her."

"She was asking after a clothing brand," I explained.

"What?"

"Knickers."

The girl looked affronted. "'Ere! If you're going to be rude, I won't serve you. Mrs. Slocomb!"

A middle aged woman with... Here I must pause to consult my memory. Yes, her hair was indeed green. Anyway, she was dressed like the girl, with more frills on her blouse. She came up. "Yes, Miss Brahms?"

"You serve this lot. They're too cheeky." She flounced off.

The woman smiled at us ingratiatingly. "You must forgive my little junior."

"Little?" I said. "She looks like a strapping wench to me."

Her smile froze. "Oh yes?."

"And incidentally, who gave you that interesting tint job? Cyndi Lauper?"

She patted the rigidly lacquered curls. (And I swear, if it was spray instead of mousse, she alone is responsible for the hole in the ozone). "Actually it was Madam Beryl. What can I do for Miss? We're having a sale on the latest fashion."

Bridget perked up. "Any Vera Wang?"

There was puzzlement in the woman's eyes, but her smile never faltered. "Well, Madam, we have a wide range of kimonos, but I'm not sure we have any by Miss Wang."

"Never mind. I need a new thong."

She blinked. "Shoelaces would be in ladies footwear."

I clutched her arm. "Bridget, precious, come along. You can shop later--I want your advice on my purchases." As we walked away from the sniffing woman, I whispered, "There's something very odd about this place. I say that, and you KNOW the places I frequent."

The man who'd greeted us intercepted us before we made it across the floor. "Nothing of interest in the ladies department? May I show you to the gentlemen's department?"

"Well, if they're gentlemen, I'm not sure I'd have any use for them."

He raised his voice. "Mister Humphries, are you free?"

A man with silvery hair popped his head between the curtains of the dressing room. "I'm free!" He minced over to us.

I looked at Bridget, who was staring at him. "I suddenly feel so butch."

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I serve you?"

"I bet you get some interesting answers to that question. Well, with that fog out there, I could do with a new sweater."

"Yes, sir. We have a large selection. We have pure wool, Orlon, Banlon, jersey, Cashmere, Cashool."

"Casual?"

"No, sir--Cashool. Half Cashmere, half wool. It's exclusive to Grace Brothers."

"Somehow I'm not surprised. I'll see something in Cashmere."

"Oh, a wise choice, sir. It's so gentle on the skin. If you'll just walk this way." He minced off toward the counter.

"If I walked that way, I wouldn't dare enter most sports bars," I told Bridget.

Bridget said, "Well, there's no doubt about him."

"About what?" She swept her finger toward him, making a beeping noise. "My, aren't we easily convinced?"

"You think he's not?"

"I'd need more proof, dear. I've been known to scratch my ass occasionally, but that doesn't make me straight. Tell you what, I'll flirt with him, and see what the results are."

We went to the counter. He'd pulled out several Cashmere sweaters. "We have a lovely selection, as you can see."

"Red, white, black... How very primary. No pastels?"

"Oddly enough, we don't have much call for pastels in men's sweaters."

"Quel dommage. Oh, this green is nice. I wonder if it would reflect in the wearer's eye color? Let me check. You have blue eyes." I picked the green sweater up and held it against him, putting my hands on his shoulders to hold it. "Yes, it does wonderful things to your eyes. Makes them look turquoise."

"It does?" He took it away from me. "I'll have it, then. Let me just put this away. You know, I believe we have a purple shade that would look well on you." He minced off.

"He's not gay," said Bridget.

"He's indeterminate."

"Well, I'll prove he's straight."

"How?"

He was coming back. Bridget quickly opened her purse and extracted a compact. "Just watch." She turned slightly away, opened the compact, and began powdering her nose. Then she 'accidentally' dropped her make-up pad. "Oops!" I started to get it, and she HISSED at me, "I can get it myself!"

"Well, pardon me, Gloria Steinem."

She bent over. Bent--not stooped. Have you seen the type of skirts Bridget wears? Twiggy at her zenith would have been quite at home in them. She'd swim a bit, but the length, or lack of it, would be fine. Well, when Bridget bent, the hemline headed north. I do believe I saw a hint of lace when it stopped. I KNOW I saw an awful lot of Bridget. I checked to see if Mister Humphries was looking. He was. I whispered, "Shocking, isn't it?"

"Yes," he said. "If that ladder gets any longer, the fire brigade will want it." Bridget turned back around, and he said, "Miss, if you want, I have some clear nail polish you can use to stop that ladder."

"Um, no, thank you."

He shrugged. "Suit yourself. What about the sweater, sir?"

"I'm not sure. What would people think if I wore it on Thursday?"

He blinked. "That you were of royal blood?"

"I need to think about it." He folded his hands and looked at me expectantly. "Nice try."

He rolled his eyes, and took the sweater away.

"So, is he gay?" Bridget asked.

"Darling, I don't think he's anything, at least not yet. I'd be terribly surprised if he doesn't live with his Mum, and she probably still irons his pajamas for him." As I spoke, a good looking, dark haired young man came out of a back room. When he spotted us, he froze, looked around quickly, then looked back at us. "Don't look now, but we're being scoped."

Bridget peeked. "Oh, he's handsome," she whispered. "Dressed a bit funny, but handsome." She was right. The lapels were too wide, the tie was too wide... Lord, I've seen cummerbunds narrower than that. And the hair... I don't know how to describe it. Sort of Beatle-ish, but before they took to sitars and gurus. And sideburns that would have made Elvis green with envy. "Good God, darling. He looks like an illustration from a 1972 catalogue. Everything here does. It's as if we were caught in a time warp, and I don't DO time warps, unless they involve corsets, fishnet stockings, feather boas, and someone named Rocky."

"What do you say, Tom? Beep, or no beep?"

"Hmmm... Hard to say, love, though those clothes and that hair weigh things to the lighter side, if you get my drift. Let's check." I sauntered over to the counter, leaned on it, and purred, "I'm not being served."

He gave me a nervous smile. "You're not?"

"No, and I CRAVE to be served."

"I thought I saw you speaking to Mister Humphries."

I batted my eyelashes. "I don't always go home with the first person I speak to at the dance."

He cleared his throat. "It's just that I'm the junior, you see..."

"Oo! If you're the junior, what MUST the full grown version look like?"

He loosened his tie. "Mister Granger is on break, and Mister Humphries is supposed to get first choice of the customers..."

"Must be nice."

"...and if he thinks I'm poaching on his territory... But I could use the commission. What can I show you?"

"I'm afraid if I tell you, I'll get my face slapped. What's your name? I like to be able to call those who serve me by their name."

"Mister Lucas."

"Oh, any relation to George?"

"You mean George from Newgate?"

"No, I mean George of Star Wars." He looked blank. "Luke and Leia? Darth? Yoda? Boba Fett?"

"What language are you speaking?"

I tried again. "Obi Wan?"

"Japanese?"

I looked at Bridget. "He's not. If he was, he'd have recognized a character played by Ewan McGregor. Sweetie, this place is making me uncomfortable. I think we ought to try for somewhere else."

She poked me, whispering, "We really ought to buy SOMETHING. He looks so pathetic."

I turned back. "I'll have a pack of underwear."

He perked up. "Yes, sir! We have a special price on Grace Brother's Y-fronts."

"Good lord, NO! Tightie-whities? Don't think so. Briefs--preferably silk."

He was staring. "We don't carry men's unmentionables in silk. Only ladies."

"Oh. Well, then. C'mon, Bridget--back to the ladies. Do you suppose they'll have them in my size?" An elderly man, with a tape measure around his neck and the look of a senior staff member, was just coming up. He looked shocked, and started gasping. "Glass of water for Mister Granger," I said, then paused. "Now, where did THAT come from?"

While the clerks were gathering around Mister Granger, fanning him and giving him water, Bridget hustled me into the elevator and got us out of there.

The Magical Mystery Taxi was parked at the curb, and we climbed in immediately. The driver turned back with a cheeky smile. "No packages? Didn't see anything you liked?"

"Well, one thing," I said, "But he was skittish."

"Where to now?"

I looked at Bridget. "Home?"

She nodded. "I don't think I'm up to any more shopping. We might end up in Diagon Alley."

"Closest I could take you would be the Leaky Cauldron," said the driver. "Hang on."

We lifted off again. I have a list of things I'd like to do before I die (and yes, Orlando Bloom is near the top), and now I'm going to be able to cross off 'compete in professional car race'--I'm sure this came close enough to qualify. Again we ended up on the floor. I had the chance to be grateful that this was the cleanest cab I'd ever been in. I DID find a wrapper for something called a Chocolate Frog.

When we stopped moving and Bridget and I hauled ourselves up, we were parked again in front of her building. She scrambled out quickly. "Come on, Tom, and I'll fix us lunch--with Bloody Marys--STRONG ones."

"How strong?"

"You'll be able to stir them, then get a buzz off the celery stick."

"Sounds good." I paid the cabbie, then said, "I'm in the mood for trying some place new for supper tonight. Any suggestions?"

He studied me. "There's a nice place called Cavandell's Cafe."

"In London?"

"Hogsmead. It's a bit of a jaunt, but I can make it in less than an hour. In fact, I was planning on having supper there myself. No need to charge for the fare, since I'm going there anyway."

"Sounds smashing. Pick me up at this address at shall we say five?" I gave him my address, he nodded, winking, and drove off.

"Tom," said Bridget, "That was the most frightening excursion I've ever been on. Why on earth are you willing to get back into that cab?"

"Why?" I pointed after it and said, "Ding ding ding ding ding!"

The End

 

 

(Gonna) Change Your Mind

You say that love, real love is hard to find,
as rare as a phil-os-opher's stone,
and if you can't have love that's true,
you'd rather be alone.

Once upon a time I thought like you.
I searched the world for love so rare and true.
I'd almost given up the quest
and thought that solitude was best,
but I made a discovery
that made a new man out of me.

Chorus:
And I... I'm gonna change your mind.
Darlin', you are gonna find
that I'm the one who was born to love you.
Yeah, I'm gonna change your mind,
'Cause I'm not the hurtin' kind.
Open up your heart to a love that is new.

I'm gonna change your mind about love.
I'm gonna prove to you
that we can make it.
I'm gonna change your mind about love.
If it's the last thing that I do.
We have a chance, we have to take it.

Chorus

Notes:

This orphaned work was originally on Pejas WWOMB posted by author Scribe.
If this work is yours and you would like to reclaim ownership, you can click on the Technical Support and Feedback link at the bottom fo the page.