a cook in the kitchen

Two books by Helen Fielding, highly recommended, for a fun read:
Bridget Jones's Diary
and
Bridget Jones:  The Edge Of Reason.


In the format of a diary -- the novels are breezy and very literate back-and-forth, here-and-there, and oh-what's-this-now...after you read some, may feel as if have been on roller-coaster...


----------------------- [excerpt, edge of reason] ---------------
8:30 p.m.    Have managed to get energy back using Chardonnay, shoved all mess away, lit fire and candles, had bath, washed hair and put on makeup and v. sexy black jeans and spaghetti-strap top.  Not exactly comfortable...but look nice, which is important.  For as Jerry Hall said, a woman must be a cook in the kitchen and a whore in the sitting room.  Or some room anyway.


8:35 p.m.    Hurray!  Will be lovely, cozy, sexy evening with delicious pasta -- light yet nourishing -- and firelight.  Am marvelous career woman/girlfriend hybrid.


8:40 p.m.    Where the bloody hell is he?


8:45 p.m.    Grrr.  What is point of self rushing round like scalded flea if he is just going to swan in whenever he feels like it?


8:50 p.m.  Bloody Mark Darcy, am really . . . Doorbell.  Hurrah!


He looked gorgeous in his work suit with the top buttons of his shirt undone.  As soon as he came in he dropped his briefcase, took me in his arms and turned me round in a little sexy dance.  "So good to see you," he murmured into my hair.  "I really enjoyed your report, fantastic horsewomanship."


"Don't," I said, pulling away.  "It was awful."


"It was brilliant," he said.  "For centuries people have been riding horses forwards and then, with one seminal report, a lone woman changes the face -- or arse -- of British horsemanship forever.  It was groundbreaking, a triumph." 


He sat down on the sofa wearily.  "I'm wrecked.  Bloody Indonesians.  Their idea of a breakthrough in human rights is to tell a person he's under arrest while they're shooting the back of his head off."


I poured him a glass of Chardonnay and brought it to him in manner of James Bond-style hostess saying, with a calming smile, "Supper won't be long."



"Oh my God," he said, looking around terrified as if there might be Far Eastern militia hiding in the microwave.  "Have you cooked?"


"Yes," I said indignantly.  I mean, you would have thought he would have been pleased!  Also he had not so much as mentioned the whore outfit.


"Come here," he said, patting the sofa, "I'm only teasing you.  I've always wanted to go out with Martha Stewart."



Was nice having cuddle but, thing was, pasta had already been on for six minutes and was going to go floury.


"I'll just do the pasta," I said, extracting myself.  Just then, the phone rang and I lunged at it out of pure habit, thinking it might be him.


"Hi.  It's Sharon.  How's it going with Mark?"


"He's here," I whispered keeping my teeth and mouth clenched in the same position so Mark would not lip-read.


"What?"


"'E's 'ere," I hissed clenched-teethedly.


"It's all right," said Mark, nodding reassuringly.   "I realize I'm here.  I don't think it's the sort of thing we should be keeping from each other." ------------------------ [end excerpt]



{Bridget Jones:  The Edge of Reason, by Helen Fielding.  Copyright-1999.  Picador, imprint / Macmillan, Great Britain; Viking Penguin in the U.S.}






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