In the last part of our joyously escapist trip down memory lane, Mr Darcy earns his spurs

Bridget Jones’s toe-curling exploits still make us hoot with laughter a quarter of a century on. So far in our return to the best-seller that caused a sensation, she’s dressed as a Bunny Girl, endured a calamitous first day as a TV reporter and, thanks to some appalling cooking, totally ruined a dinner party for Mark Darcy. Everything seems to be going wrong. But today, in our final exclusive instalment, hapless Bridget gets her happy ending … 

Wednesday, 22 November

8 st 10 lb (hurrah!), alcohol units 3.

10am Back in flat, completely exhausted. On top of everything else, have to go to work and get b******ing for being late. Dad seemed to be rallying a little when I left: alternating between moments of wild cheerfulness that Julio proved to be a bounder so Mum might come back and start a new life with him, and deep depression that the new life in question will be one of prison-visiting using public transport.

Mark Darcy went back to London in small hours. I left a message on his answerphone saying thank you for helping and everything, but he has not rung me back.

Una and Geoffrey said not to worry about Dad as Brian and Mavis are going to stay and help look after him. Find myself wondering why it is always ‘Una and Geoffrey’ not ‘Geoffrey and Una’ and yet ‘Malcolm and Elaine’ and ‘Brian and Mavis’. And yet, on the other hand, ‘Nigel and Audrey Coles’. Just as one would never, never say ‘Geoffrey and Una’ so, conversely, one would never say ‘Elaine and Malcolm’. Why? Why?

Find self, in spite of self, trying out own name, imagining Sharon or Jude in years to come, boring their daughters rigid by going: ‘You know Bridget and Mark, darling, who live in the big house in Holland Park and go on lots of holidays to the Caribbean.’ That’s it.

It would be Bridget and Mark. Bridget and Mark Darcy. The Darcys. Not Mark and Bridget Darcy. Heaven forbid. All wrong.

Then suddenly feel terrible for thinking about Mark Darcy in these terms, like Maria with Captain Von Trapp in The Sound Of Music, and that I must run away and go to see Mother Superior, who will sing ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’ to me.

Saturday, 25 November

9 st, alcohol units 2 (sherry, ugh), calories 4567 (entirely custard creams and salmon spread sandwiches)

Thank God. Dad has had a phone call from Mum. The police were at Una and Geoffrey’s tapping the phone line as in Thelma & Louise and said she was definitely calling from Portugal.

1pm Hurrah! Hurrah! I had a phone call. It was Mark, from Portugal. Just incredibly kind and brilliant of him. Apparently he has been talking to the police all week in between being a top barrister and flew out to Albufeira yesterday.

The police over there have found Mum, and Mark thinks she will get off because it will be pretty obvious she had no idea what Julio was up to.

They’ve managed to track down some of the money, but haven’t found Julio yet. Mum is coming back tonight, but will have to go straight to a police station for questioning. He said not to worry, it will probably all be OK.

Sunday, 26 November

9 st 1 lb, alcohol units 0, calories God knows.

Nightmare day. Dad and I had naively assumed that Mum would be chastened by what she had gone through.

‘Let go of me, you silly billy,’ a voice rang out through the arrival lounge. ‘Now we’re on British soil I’m certain to be recognized and I don’t want everyone seeing me being manhandled by a policeman.’

There was nearly a stand-up fight when they tried to get her into the police car.

I was trying to explain to her that she had to go to the station to see whether she was going to be charged with anything, but she just kept going: ‘We’ll see, darling. Maybe tomorrow when I’ve cleaned out the vegetable basket. I left 2 lb of King Edwards in there and I bet they’ve sprouted. Nobody’s touched the plants, apparently, the entire time I’ve been away, and I bet you anything Una’s left the heating on.’

It was only when Dad came over and curtly told her the house was about to be repossessed, vegetable basket included, that she shut up and huffily allowed herself to be put in the back of the police car.

Monday, 27 November

9st 1 lb, alcohol units 0, hours of sleep 0.

9am Completely shattered. Dad and I were made to wait on a bench in the police station for two hours last night.

Eventually we heard a voice approaching along the corridor. ‘Oh, there you are, Daddy,’ said Mum.

‘So, what happened?’ I said, when Dad had finished putting all her suitcases, hats, straw donkey (‘Isn’t it super?’) and castanets in the boot of the Sierra and had started the engine.

‘What happened, Mother?’ I said dangerously. ‘What about everyone’s money and the time-share apartments? Where’s my 200 quid?’

‘Durr! It was just some silly problem with the planning permission. They can be very corrupt, you know, the Portuguese authorities.

‘So Julio’s just paid all the deposits back. We had a super holiday, actually! The weather was very mixed, but …’

‘Where is Julio?’ I said, suspiciously.

‘Oh, he’s stayed behind in Portugal to sort out all this planning permission palaver.’

‘What about my house?’ said Dad. ‘And the savings?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, Daddy. There’s nothing wrong with the house.’

Unfortunately for Mum, however, when we got back to The Gables all the locks had been changed, so we had to go back to Una and Geoffrey’s.

‘Oof, do you know, Una, I’m so exhausted, I think I’m going to have to go straight to bed,’ said Mum after one look at the resentful faces.

The phone rang for Dad.

‘That was Mark Darcy,’ said Dad when he came back. My heart leapt into my mouth as I tried to control my features. ‘He’s in Albufeira. Apparently some sort of deal’s been done and they’ve recovered some of the money. I think The Gables may be saved …’

At this a loud cheer went up from us all. I waited for Una to make some remark about me but none was forthcoming.

Typical. The minute I decide I like Mark Darcy, everyone immediately stops trying to fix me up with him.

Tuesday, 5 December

9 st 2 lb (right, am really going to start dieting today), alcohol units 4 (start of festive season), calories 3245 (better).

Cannot help but feel sad about the brutal trampling on the pink silk shoots of romance burgeoning between me and Mark Darcy by Marco Pierre White and my mother, but trying to be philosophical about it. The only thing a woman needs in this day and age is herself!

2am Why hasn’t Mark Darcy rung me? Why? Why? Am going to be eaten by Alsatian despite all efforts to the contrary. Why me, Lord?

Thursday, 21 December

9 st 3 lb (actually, in funny sort of way there is no reason why should not actually lose weight over Christmas since am so full that — certainly any time after Christmas dinner — it is perfectly acceptable to refuse all food on grounds of being too full. In fact, it is probably the one time of year when it is OK not to eat).

For ten days now have been living in state of permanent hangover and foraging sub-existence without proper meals or hot food.

Christmas is like war. Going down to Oxford Street is hanging over me like going over the top. Would the Red Cross or Germans come and find me? Aaargh. It’s 10am.

Have not done Christmas shopping. Have not sent Christmas cards. Right, am never, never going to drink again for the rest of life.

Sunday, 24 December: Christmas Eve

9 st 4 lb, calories 1 million, probably, number of warm festive thoughts 0.

Midnight. V. confused about what is and is not reality. Mum and Dad, who are separated and planning to divorce, are sleeping in the same bed. Maybe Dad is at this moment attempting to mount Mum. Ugh, ugh. No, no. Why did brain think such thought?

Monday, 25 December

9 st 5 lb (oh God, have turned into Santa Claus, Christmas pudding or similar), alcohol units 2 (total triumph), calories 2657 (almost entirely gravy), number of Christmas gifts with any point to them whatsoever 0, philosophical reflections on the meaning of the Virgin Birth 0, number of years since self was Virgin, hmmm.

Staggered downstairs to find Mum and Una exchanging political views while putting crosses in the end of sprouts.

‘Oh yes, I think what’s-his-name is very good.’

‘Well, he is, I mean, he got through his what-do-you-mer-call-it clause that nobody thought he would, didn’t he?

READ RELATED: Why Is Brian Hannon Arrested In Shiawassee? Elliot Elementary Holt Public Schools Teacher From Shiawassee Charged With Animal Cruelty

‘Oh, hello, darling,’ said Mum, noticing me. ‘Now, what are you going to put on for Christmas Day?’

‘This,’ I muttered sulkily.

‘Oh, don’t be silly, Bridget, you can’t wear that on Christmas Day.’

12.30pm ‘I think this gravy’s going to need sieving, Pam,’ called Una, coming out of the kitchen holding a pan.

Oh no. Not this. Please not this.

‘I don’t think it will, dear,’ Mum said already spitting, murderously through clenched teeth. ‘Have you tried stirring it?’

‘Don’t patronize me, Pam,’ said Una, smiling dangerously. They circled each other like fighters. This happens every year with the gravy. Mercifully, there was a distraction: a great crash and scream as a figure burst through the French windows. Julio.

Everyone froze, and Una let out a scream.

He stumbled over to Dad and drew himself up to his full height.

‘Ah,’ said Dad. ‘Merry Christmas, er . . . Can I get you a sherry — ah, got one already. Jolly good. Mince pie?’

‘You sleep,’ said Julio dangerously, ‘with my woman.’

‘Oh, he’s so Latin, hahaha,’ said Mum coquettishly while everyone else stared in horror.

Julio spat on the Chinese carpet and bounded upstairs, pursued by Mum, who trilled back at us: ‘Could you carve, Daddy, please, and get everyone sitting down?’

Nobody moved.

‘OK, everybody,’ said Dad, in a tense, serious, manly sort of voice. ‘There is a dangerous criminal upstairs using Pam as a hostage.’

I looked out of the window and nearly jumped out of my skin. There was Mark Darcy slipping, lithe as a whipper-snapper, across the lawn and in through the French windows. He was sweating, dirty, his hair was unkempt, his shirt unbuttoned. Ding-dong!

We were all so stunned, and he so thrillingly authoritative, that we started doing as he said as if hypnotized zombies. ‘I’m not sure whether Julio’s violent. The police are outside. If we can get your mum to come downstairs and leave him up there they can go in and get him.’

‘OK. Leave it to me,’ I said, and walked to the bottom of the stairs.

‘Get Una to take the gravy back into the kitchen,’ I hissed. He did what I said, then gave me a thumbs-up.

‘Mum?’ I shouted up the stairs again. ‘Do you know where the sieve is? Una’s a bit worried about the gravy.’

Ten seconds later there was a pounding down the stairs and Mum burst in, looking flushed.

‘What’s Una done with this gravy!’

Even as she spoke there were footsteps running up the stairs and a scuffle broke out above us.

Mum let out a scream as Julio, handcuffed to a young policeman, appeared in the hallway and was bundled out of the front door behind the detective.

I watched her as she collected herself and looked round the room, appraising the situation.

‘Well, thank goodness I managed to calm Julio down,’ she said gaily after a pause. ‘What a to-do! Are you all right, Daddy?’

‘Your top — Mummy — is inside out,’ said Dad.

I stared at the hideous scene. Then I felt a strong hand on my arm.

‘Come on,’ said Mark Darcy.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Don’t say “what”, Bridget, say “pardon”,’ hissed Mum.

‘Mrs Jones,’ said Mark firmly. ‘I am taking Bridget away to celebrate what is left of the Baby Jesus’s birthday.’

I took a big breath and grasped Mark Darcy’s proffered hand.

This is what happened next:

Mark Darcy took me to Hintlesham Hall for champagne and late Christmas lunch, which was v.g. Was unexpectedly easy to talk to Mark Darcy, especially with Festive Julio Police Siege Scene to dissect.

It turns out Mark has spent quite lot of time in Portugal over the last month, in manner of heartwarming private detective. He told me he tracked Julio down to Funchal and found out quite a bit about where the funds were, but couldn’t cajole, or threaten, Julio into returning anything.

‘How come he came back to England?’

‘Well, sorry to use a cliche, but I discovered his Achilles heel.’

‘What?’

‘Don’t say “what”, Bridget, say “pardon”,’ he said, and I giggled. ‘I realised that, although your mother is the most impossible woman in the world, Julio loves her. I simply told him that she was spending Christmas with your dad, and, I’m afraid, that they’d be sleeping in the same bed. I just had a feeling he was crazy enough to attempt to, er, undermine those plans.’

God, he’s cool.

‘But it was so kind of you, taking time off work and everything. Why did you bother doing all this?’

‘Bridget,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it rather obvious?’

Oh my God.

When we got upstairs it turned out he had taken a suite.

It was fantastic, v. posh and bloody good fun and we played with all the guest features and had more champagne and he told me all this stuff about how he loved me.

‘Why didn’t you ring me up before Christmas, then?’ I said suspiciously. ‘I left you two messages.’

‘I didn’t want to talk to you until I’d finished the job. And I didn’t think you liked me much.’

‘What?’

‘Well, you know. You stood me up because you were drying your hair? And the first time I met you I was wearing that stupid jumper and behaved like a complete clod. I thought you thought I was the most frightful stiff.’

‘Well, I did, a bit,’ I said. ‘But . . .’

‘But what . . .?’

‘Don’t you mean “but pardon”?’

Then he took the champagne glass out of my hand, kissed me, and said: ‘Right, Bridget Jones, I’m going to give you pardon for,’ picked me up in his arms, carried me off into the bedroom (which had a four-poster bed!) and did all manner of things which mean whenever I see a diamond-patterned V-neck sweater in future, I am going to spontaneously combust with shame.

Tuesday, 26 December

4am Have finally realized the secret of happiness with men, and it is with deep regret, rage and an overwhelming sense of defeat that I have to put it in the words of an adulteress and criminal’s accomplice:

‘Don’t say “what”, say “pardon”, darling, and do as your mother tells you.’

Extracted from Bridget Jones’s Diary (And Other Writing): 25th Anniversary Edition by Helen Fielding, to be published by Picador on February 4, £14.99. © 2021 Helen Fielding. To order a copy for £13.19 go to www.mailshop.co.uk/books or call 020 3308 9193. Free UK delivery on orders over £15. Promotional price valid until 14/02/2021.

Helen Fielding and the Daily Mail are donating fees to the Calderdale and Huddersfield NHS charity.

Source: Daily Mail