Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy

BOOK: Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
2.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub



About the Book

About the Author

Also by Helen Fielding


Title Page


Plenty of Fuckwits

The Art of Concentration

Dark Night of the Soul

Part One: Born-Again Virgin

2012 Diary

A New Start – A New Me

Social Media Virgin

The Flabby Diaphragm


Smug Married Hell

A Plan

A Daniel in Shining Armour

The Perfect Babysitter

The Stronghold


Women Change Their Minds

Crashing Wave

How Not to Do Dating

The Number One Key Dating Rule

Continuing Dating Incompetence

Escalating Dating Incompetence

Intensive Dating Study

Wallowing in It


Part Two: Mad About the Boy

2013 Diary

Perfect Mother

A Needle in a Twitterstack

Do Not Tweet When Drunk

Twunken Aftermath


Let it Snow!

Do Not Tweet About Date During Date

Date With Toy Boy

Joy Mixed With Sick

Getting to Second Date


The Barnacle’s Penis

To Sleep With or Not to Sleep With?

Second Date With Toy Boy


Back in the Present Moment

Dark Night of the Soul

Power Mother

Nits in the Works

Nit-Infestered Power Meeting

Fire! Fire!

The Trouble With Summer


The Trouble With Outfits

Heady Glamorous Times

Talitha’s Party

Part Three: Descent Into Chaos

Horrible No-Good Very Bad Day

Overstuffed Lives

Mini-Break or Break-Up?

Is it Snow or is it Blossom?


Farting Sports Day

The Deep Freeze

That’s What Friends Are For

The Yawning Void

Just the Way They Are

Let’s Face the Music and Tea-Dance

Getting Online


The Summer Concert

The Horror, The Horror

Mid-Match Collision



Giving In

Part Four: The Great Tree

Summer of Fun

Back to School

The Mighty Jungle

Parents’ Evening

Fifty Shades of Old

The Sound of Shells Cracking

A Hero Will Rise

’Tis the Season

The Carol Concert

The Owl

The Year’s Progress





when a girlfriend’s 60th birthday party is the same day as your boyfriend’s 30th?

to lie about your age when online dating?

to have a blow-dry when one of your children has head lice?

actually tweet or is it his assistant?

now the fifth element? Or is that wood?

after 2 dates and 6 weeks of texting the same as getting married after 2 meetings and 6 months of letter writing in Jane Austen’s day?

Pondering these, and other modern dilemmas, Bridget Jones stumbles through the challenges of single-motherhood, tweeting, texting and rediscovering her sexuality in what SOME people rudely and outdatedly call ‘middle age’.

The long-awaited return of a much-loved character,
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
is timely, tender, touching, witty, wise and bloody hilarious.


is the author of
Bridget Jones’s Diary
Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason
, and was part of the screenwriting team on the films of the same name.
Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
is her fifth novel. She has two children and lives in London and sometimes Los Angeles.

Also by Helen Fielding

Cause Celeb

Bridget Jones’s Diary

Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason

Olivia Joules and the Overactive Imagination

To Dash and Romy




Thursday 18 April 2013

2.30 p.m.
Talitha just called, talking in that urgent, ‘let’s-be-discreet-but-wildly-overdramatic’ voice she always has. ‘Darling, I just want to let you know that it’s my sixtieth on the 24th of May. I’m not SAYING it’s my sixtieth, obviously. And keep it quiet because I’m not asking everyone. I just wanted you to keep the date free.’

I panicked. ‘That would be great!’ I gushed unconvincingly.

‘Bridget. You absolutely can’t not come.’

‘Well, the thing is . . .’


‘It’s Roxster’s thirtieth birthday that night.’

Silence at the end of the phone.

‘I mean, we probably won’t still be together by then, but, if we are, it would be . . .’ I tailed off.

‘I’ve just put “no children” on the invites.’

‘He’ll be thirty by then!’ I said indignantly.

‘I’m just teasing, darling. Of course you must bring your toy boy. I’ll get a bouncy castle! Back on air. Mustrunloveyoubye!’

Tried to turn on telly to see if Talitha had indeed, as so often, been calling me live on air during a film clip. Jabbed confusedly at buttons like a monkey with a mobile phone. Why does turning on a TV these days require three remotes with ninety buttons? Why? Suspect designed by thirteen-year-old technogeeks, competing with each other from sordid bedrooms, leaving everyone else thinking they’re the only person in the world who doesn’t understand what the buttons are for, thus wreaking psychological damage on a massive, global scale.

Threw remotes petulantly onto sofa, at which TV randomly burst
into life, showing Talitha looking immaculate, one leg sexily crossed over the other, interviewing the dark-haired Liverpool footballer who has the anger-management/biting problem. He looked as if he wanted to bite Talitha, though for rather different reasons than on the pitch.

Right. No need for panic – will simply assess pros and cons of Roxster/Talitha party issue in calm and mature manner:

*It would be terrible not to go to Talitha’s. She has been my friend since our
Sit Up Britain
days, when she was an impossibly glamorous newsreader and I was an impossibly incompetent reporter.
*It would be quite funny to take Roxster, and also smug-making, because the thirtieth/sixtieth birthday thing would stop all that patronizing pitying-of-single-women-‘of-a-certain-age’ thing, like they’re terminally stuck with their singleness, whereas single men of that age are snapped up before they’ve had time to draw up the divorce papers. And Roxster is so gorgeous and peach-like, thereby somehow denying reality of ageing process on self.
*Roxster is his own man, and would doubtless take exception to being treated as some sort of comedy, or anti-ageing device.
*Crucially, it might put Roxster off me, to be surrounded by old people at sixtieth birthday party, and make some sort of completely unnecessary point about how old I am though of course am MUCH younger than Talitha. And frankly, I refuse to believe how old I actually am. As Oscar Wilde says, thirty-five is the perfect age for a woman, so much so that many women have decided to adopt it for the rest of their lives.
*Roxster is probably having his own party with young people squeezed onto his balcony, barbecuing and listening to 70s disco music with ironic ‘retro’ amusement, and is thinking at this moment how to avoid asking me to the party in case his friends find out he is going out with a woman literally old enough to be his mother. Actually, possibly, technically, with the advancement of puberty due to hormones in milk these days – grandmother. Oh God. Why did mind think such a thought?

3.10 p.m.
Gaaah! Have got to pick up Mabel in twenty minutes and have not got rice cakes ready. Gaah. Telephone.

‘I have Brian Katzenberg for you.’

My new agent! Actual agent. But I would be BEYOND late for Mabel if I stopped and talked.

‘Can I call Brian back later?’ I trilled, trying to smear pretend-butter onto the rice cakes, stick them together and put them in a Ziploc with one hand.

‘It’s about your spec script.’

‘Just . . . in . . . a meeting!’ How could I be in a meeting, and yet talking on the phone saying I’m in a meeting? People’s assistants are meant to say they’re in a meeting, not the person themself, who is supposed to be unable to say anything because they’re in the meeting.

Set off on school run, feeling, now, desperate to call back and find out what the call was about. Brian has so far sent it to two production companies, both of whom have turned it down. But now maybe a fish has bitten at the fish hook?

Fought overwhelming urge to ring Brian back claiming ‘meeting’ had come to an abrupt end, but decided far more important to be on time for Mabel: and that’s the sort of caring, prioritizing mother I am.

4.30 p.m.
School run was even more chaos than usual: like
Where’s Wally?
picture of millions of lollipop ladies, babies in prams, white-van men having standoffs with over-educated SUV mums, a man
cycling with a double bass strapped to his back, and earth mothers on bicycles with tin boxes full of children in the front. Entire road was gridlocked. Suddenly, a frantic woman came running along yelling, ‘Go back, go BACK! Come ON! Nobody is HELPING HERE!’

Realizing there had been a terrible accident, I, and everyone else, started rearing their cars crazily onto pavement and into gardens to make way for Emergency Services. Once road was clear, peered gingerly ahead for the ambulance/bloodbath. But there was not an ambulance, just a very fancy woman, flouncing into a black Porsche, then roaring furiously along the newly cleared road, a smug be-uniformed small child next to her in the front seat.

BOOK: Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy
2.32Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub

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