Helen Fielding |
Fabulous Fifties
Somak Ghoshal | October 11, 2013
Caffeine
units: no idea (bad). Minutes spent staring at phone: 12 (not too bad).
Phone calls received: 1. Minutes spent talking on phone: 38 (*rapture*).
“Hello, it’s Helen Fielding here,” said the voice on the other
end, as I scrambled for my pencil and notebook, managing something
between a grunt and a yelp to signal my presence. For a few seconds I
was afraid of becoming hysterical, before Fielding’s calm manner
forced me to relax. Soon we were chatting about dating, love, apps like
Grindr and, of course, the new Bridget Jones novel, which is out this
week.
Appearing almost 15 years after Bridget
Jones: The Edge of Reason (1999), Mad
About the Boy has so far received mixed responses. In her latest
incarnation, Bridget is 51, a widow with two children, Billy and Mabel,
and a 30-year-old toy boy called Roxster, who she meets off Twitter. She
hasn’t had sex in four-and-a-half years since her husband, Mark Darcy,
died tragically in Africa, but is finally getting back in the game,
overcoming what may be called a long phase of “manertia”, with
expert guidance from old friends—Tom (“still fabulously gay” and
like a loyal “hag-fag” faithfully telling Bridget how much weight
she has lost) and Jude (now an Alpha female but still battling that old
demon, her ex, Vile Richard). For the better part of the novel, Bridget
is also trying to write a screenplay based on Hedda Gabler, a play by
“Anton Chekhov” according to her, and sell it to a producer—that
is, when she is not checking the number of her Twitter followers.
Some things, however, have changed. Shazzer, Bridget’s fuming feminist
friend, has joined the ranks of the Smug Marrieds and moved to Silicon
Valley. And the glamorous Talitha, a sizzling 60-year-old, has been
inducted into the circle of trust. The humour is uproarious, if
exaggerated at times, balanced by morbid thoughts—of obesity,
loneliness, failure and death, not necessarily in that order. But
self-pity is not to be tolerated.
“Better die of Botox than die of loneliness because you’re so
wrinkly,” Talitha bursts out in exasperation. Bridget has panic
attacks about dying suddenly, leaving the children alone, and being
eaten up by them because nobody comes to their rescue. “It’s better
than dying alone and being eaten by an Alsatian,” Jude assures her.
Only Tom, with the uncanny compassion and empathy gay men feel towards
their female friends, advises her to wallow, leading to one of the most
powerful sections of the book.
Critical reception has been intensely divided. In The
Guardian, Suzanne Moore called Bridget “a vapid consumerist and
self-obsessed as ever” and deplored Fielding’s kind of writing as
“anti-feminist fiction”. “The idea that a woman shouldn’t enjoy
a book that fails the feminism test is a pretty self-defeating approach
to literature,” Hadley Freeman countered in the same publication,
“…to claim that if a book doesn’t perfectly reflect one’s life
and values it is worthless is what I would call pure fuckwittery.”
Fielding doesn’t sound too worried. “If we can’t laugh at our
weaknesses as women we haven’t got very far,” she says. “There
will always be a gap between what we want and what life turns out to
be.”
Like the absurd blue soup served by Bridget at her birthday party, there
are plenty of surreal moments in Mad
About the Boy: Bridget trying to attend to Mabel and Billy, puking
and pooping simultaneously; Bridget and kids stuck on a tree; Bridget
and Roxster nit-combing each other before having “responsible sex”
(the children bring in an epidemic of nits from school); and poor
Roxster being chased by all kinds of bugs (from weevils in the muesli to
moths from the cabinets), like the “nine plagues of Egypt”, in
Bridget’s kitchen. The confusions are all too human—though maybe not
desirable in a woman of “a certain age”.
But then, what is “middle-aged”? As Bridget retorts, “In Jane
Austen’s day we’d all be dead by now.” Fielding, 55, concurs. “I
was absolutely firm I’d put in that Bridget is in her 50s. Things have
changed so much now.” Even a few years ago, Fielding says, online
dating would have been seen as “a sign of desperation”, but now
“it is perfectly normal”.
“Texting and email are great ways to connect,” she says,
“Electronic media can make age difference feel far less acute than it
may be in real life.” A phrase like LOL can be a great leveller,
though “twunking” (drunk tweeting) is not advisable. Meeting a
beautiful stranger online can be great fun, though, as Fielding gently
warns, it can also be potentially disastrous. No one wants to take home
an axe-murderer.
Although the Roxster saga does not end very felicitously, the
light-hearted tenderness between him and Bridget is touching. “They
are really like a pair of children,” says Fielding, “He’s
good-looking, down-to-earth, funny, and vital to giving back Bridget her
sexual confidence.” Although Bridget, characteristically, goes around
“de-childing” the house before their first date, Roxster does not
really mind the mention of the children.
Kindness and decency, Fielding insists, in spite of my disbelieving
protests, are not vanishing qualities; they are just not celebrated
enough. “The 20-somethings I know are terribly worried about their
careers,” she says. “It would be good for them to put an equal
emphasis on being happy.” Fielding, a self-confessed “huge fan” of
the self-help genre, admits that instruction manuals can be
maddening—nothing comes close to first-hand experience.
One of the key themes of Mad About
the Boy, for instance, is parenting—especially having children
late in life—precocious toddlers and children fixated on electronic
screens. “Mummy’th fifty-one,” says Mabel, who is inseparable from
her doll, Saliva. “She says she’th thirty-five but she’th really
fifty-one.” Billy, who is a carbon copy of his sensible father Mark,
can go apoplectic if not allowed to have his fix of the Xbox.
Bridget’s hilarious, and moving, strategies to be a supermom is in
sharp contrast to those adopted by her feisty neighbour, and new BFF,
Rebecca. “When I signed up for having children,” yells Rebecca
during one of her meltdowns, “I did NOT sign up to be ruled by a
collection of inanimate thin black objects and a gaggle of
TECHNO-CRACKHEADS.” The outburst ends with: “Children of your age in
India live entirely successfully as street urchins”, and the offenders
in question being left on the doorstep until their mother’s temper has
cooled off.
Fielding herself loves to spend time with her children when she is not
writing. “I am an outdoorsy person,” she says, “I enjoy vacations,
mini-breaks, eating out with small groups of friends—things most
normal people like to do.” The writing part, which started with a
revisiting of her diaries from her Oxford days, is not difficult. “I
can pull off a column on a couple of hours’ deadline,” she says.
“It took me about 18 months to write Mad
About the Boy.” But this easy facility need not translate into an
endless stream of novels. “The series would have been diluted if I had
simply gone on adding to it all these years,” says Fielding. “I
wouldn’t be writing another Bridget Jones book unless I feel really
strongly about it.”
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