Page 242 - Bridget Jones's Diary - by Helen FIELDING

'Well, that you're a radical feminist and have an incredibly glamorous life . . . '

'Oooh,' I purred.

' . . . with millions of men taking you out.'

'Huh.'

'I heard about Daniel. I'm sorry.'

'I suppose you did try to warn me,' I muttered sulkily. 'What have you got
against him, anyway?'

'He slept with my wife,' he said. 'Two weeks after our wedding.'

I stared at him aghast as a voice above us shouted, 'Markee!' It was Natasha,

silhouetted against the lights, peering down to see what was going on.

'Markee!' she called again. 'What are you doing down there?'

'Last Christmas,' Mark went on hurriedly, 'I thought if my mother said the
words 'Bridget Jones' just once more I would go to the Sunday People and
accuse her of abusing me as a child with a bicycle pump. Then when I met you .

. . and I was wearing that ridiculous diamond-patterned sweater that Una had
bought me for Christmas . . . Bridget, all the other girls I know are so lacquered
over. I don't know anyone else who would fasten a bunny tail to their pants or . .
. '

'Mark!' yelled Natasha, heading down the stairs toward us.

'But you're going out with somebody,' I said, rather pointing out the obvious.

'I'm not anymore, actually,' he said. 'Just dinner? Sometime?'

'OK,' I whispered. 'OK.'