Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

‘You need to work,’ he said. ‘You need to get a life. And you need someone to be with you and love you.’


‘I do have a life,’ I said gruffly. ‘And I don’t need a man, I have the children.’

‘Well, if nothing else, you need someone to show you how to turn taps on.’ He reached over to the square tap column and turned a bit of the base, at which water started gushing out. ‘Have a look on Goop,’ he said, suddenly changing back into funny, flippant Tom. ‘See what Gwyneth has to say about sex and French-style parenting!’

11.15 p.m. Just said goodnight to Chloe, trying to conceal slight squiffiness.

‘Sorry I’m a bit late,’ I mumbled sheepishly.

‘Five minutes?’ she said, wrinkling her nose, kindly. ‘Glad you had a bit of fun!’

11.45 p.m. In bed now. Tellingly, am wearing, instead of usual pyjamas with dogs on, which match the children’s, the only vaguely sexual nightie I can still get into. Suddenly have surge of hopeful feeling. Maybe Talitha is right! If I shrivel and become bitter, then what use will that be to the children? They will become child-centric, demanding King Babies: and I a negative, rasping old fool, lunging at sherry, roaring, ‘WHY DON’T YOU DO ANYTHING FOR MEEEEEEEEE?’

11.50 p.m. Maybe have been going through long dark tunnel, which there is light at the end of. Maybe someone could love me? Is no reason why could not bring a man back here. I could put a hook inside bedroom door, so the children wouldn’t walk in on ‘us’, creating an adult, sensual world of . . . gaaah! Cry from Mabel.

11.52 p.m. Rushed into kids’ room to see fluffy-headed figure in bottom bunk, sitting up, then quickly bending over, flat-pack style, which is what she always does as she is not supposed to wake up in the night. Mabel then sat straight up again, looked down at her pyjamas, which belched diarrhoea, opened her mouth and was sick.

11.53 p.m. Lifted Mabel into the bath and removed PJs, trying not to retch.

11.54 p.m. Washed and dried Mabel, sat her on floor, then went to find new PJs, remove sheets and attempt to locate clean sheets.

Midnight. Crying from kids’ room. Still carrying diarrhoea sheets, diverted to room, only to hear rival crying emerging from bathroom. Considered wine. Reminded self am responsible mother, not slapper in All Bar One.

12.01 a.m. Flapped in fugue-like state between kids’ room and bathroom. Level of bathroom-crying notched up. Rushed in, assuming Mabel consuming Bic razor, poison or similar, to find her pooing on the floor with expression both guilty and startled.

Overwhelmed by love for Mabel. Picked her up. Diarrhoea and sick now not only on sheets, bathmat, Mabel, etc., but also on vaguely sexual nightie.

12.07 a.m. Went to kids’ room, still holding Mabel, plus diarrhoea ensemble, to find Billy out of bed, hair all hot and messy, looking up as if I was benign God with answer to all things. Billy held my gaze, whilst belching sick in manner of Exorcist except head remained in forward stationary position instead of spinning round and round.

12.08 a.m. Diarrhoea erupted onto Billy’s PJs. Billy’s bewildered expression overwhelmed self with love for Billy. Ended up in diarrhoea/vomit-filled California-style ‘group hug’ embracing Billy, Mabel and diarrhoea sheets, bathmat, PJs and vaguely sexual nightie.

12.10 a.m. Wished Mark was here. Had sudden flashback to Mark in his lawyerly dressing gown at night, the glimpse of hairy chest, the sudden flashes of humour at baby chaos, getting all military trying to organize us all, as if it was some sort of cross-border situation, then realizing the absurdity of it all, and both of us ending up giggling.

Helen Fielding's books