Page 46 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

Huh. Had dream date at an intime little Genoan restaurant near Daniel's flat.

'Um . . . right. I'll get a taxi,' I blurted awkwardly as we stood in the street
afterwards. Then he lightly brushed a hair from my forehead, took my cheek in
his hand and kissed me, urgently, desperately. After a while he held me hard
against him and whispered throatily, 'I don't think you'll be needing that taxi,

Jones.'

The second we were inside his flat we upon each other like beasts: shoes,
jackets, strewn in a trail across the room.

'I don't think this skirt's looking at all well,' he murmured. 'I think it should lie
down on the floor.' As he started to undo the zip he whispered, 'This is just a bit

of fun, OK? I don't think we should start getting involved.' Then, caveat in place,
he carried on with the zip. Had it not been for Sharon and the fuckwittage and
the fact I'd just drunk the best part of a bottle of wine, I think I would have sunk
powerless into his arms. As it was, I leapt to my feet, pulling up my skirt.

'That is just such crap,' I slurred. 'How dare you be so fraudulently flirtatious,
cowardly and dysfunctional? I am not interested in emotional fuckwittage.
Goodbye.'

It was great. You should have seen his face. But no I am home I am sunk into
gloom. I may have been right, but my reward, I know, will be to end up all
alone, half-eaten by an Alsatian.