Free Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy by Helen Fielding Page B

the door, feeling outraged as a feminist by Daniel’s complex fattist pass, but uplifted as a female.
    When I arrived at Talitha’s, however, Tom burst out laughing. ‘Seriously? Dolly Parton?’
    ‘You can’t rely on your arse in jeans at our age,’ said Talitha briskly, sweeping in with a tray of mojitos. ‘You’ve got to have something else going on.’
    ‘I don’t want to look like mutton,’ I said. ‘Or a prostitute.’
    ‘Well, quite, but you need something to start the idea of sexuality. Legs or boobs. Not both.’
    ‘What about one leg and one boob?’ said Tom.
    Eventually I ended up in a very expensive short black silk tunic of Talitha’s and insanely high Yves Saint Laurent thigh boots.
    ‘But I can’t walk in them.’
    ‘Honey,’ said Talitha, ‘you’re not going to need to walk.’
    In the cab started to think about how much Mark would have loved the thigh boots.
    ‘Stoppit,’ said Tom, seeing my face. ‘He would want you to have a life.’
    Next I started to panic about the children. Talitha, who has known Daniel since Sit Up Britain days, took out her phone and texted:
    
    No reply. We all stared nervously at the phone.
    ‘Daniel doesn’t text,’ I said, suddenly remembering. Then added, giggling, ‘He’s too old.’
    Talitha put her mobile on speakerphone and called him.
    ‘Daniel, you bloody old bastard?’
    ‘Talitha! My dear girl! The very thought of you finds me suddenly, unaccountably, over-aroused. What are you up to at this moment and what colour are your panties?’
    Grrr. He was supposed to be BABYSITTING.
    ‘I’m with Bridget,’ she said, drily. ‘How’s it going?’
    ‘Yup, all perfectly splendid. Children fast asleep. Am patrolling the doors, windows and corridors like a sentry. I shall be impeccable.’
    ‘Good.’
    She clicked off the phone. ‘You see? It will all be fine. Now stop worrying.’

THE STRONGHOLD
    The Stronghold was in a brick warehouse with an unmarked metal door and a buzzer with a code. Tom punched in the code, and we teetered in our insane heels up a concrete staircase which smelt as if somebody had weed in it.
    But once we got in, as Tom gave our names for the guest list, I felt a reckless surge of excitement. The walls were brick, there were bales of straw round the edges which made me slightly wish I’d remained as Dolly Parton, and battered sofas. There was a band playing and a bar in the corner, manned by youths who were adding to the atmosphere by looking around nervously, as if a sheriff was going to tie up his horse, burst in in a cowboy hat and break it all up. It was hard to make the people out in the artistic lighting, but it was instantly clear that they weren’t all teenagers, and that there were some . . .
    ‘. . . very hot men in the room,’ murmured Talitha.
    ‘Come on, girl,’ said Tom. ‘Get back on that horse.’
    ‘I’m too old!’ I said.
    ‘So? It’s practically pitch black.’
    ‘What am I going to talk about?’ I gabbled. ‘I’m not au fait with popular music.’
    ‘Bridget,’ said Talitha, ‘we are gathered here to rediscover your inner sensual woman. This has nothing whatsoever to do with talking.’
    It felt like going back to being a teenager with the same leaping sense of doubt and possibility. It reminded me of the parties I used to go to when I was sixteen, when as soon as the parents had dropped us off, the lights would go out and everyone would get on the floor and start snogging anyone with whom they had made the most perfunctory eye contact.
    ‘Look at him,’ said Tom. ‘He’s looking at you! He’s looking at you!’
    ‘Tom, shut urrp,’ I said out of the side of my mouth, folding my arms across my chest and trying to tug the tunic down to reach the thigh boots.
    ‘Pull yourself together, Bridget. DO SOMETHING.’
    I forced myself to look across, with an attempt at