Jane Austen, Bridget Jones And Me

The dissatisfaction of literary heroines strikes a chord with Charlotte – but perhaps she is less trapped than they…

- Valerie Bowes

William’s in the garden again. Good. I stand at the kitchen window, watching him kneel to inspect an audacious weed with as much fervency as if he was at the altar… only with rather more venom.

He always removes himself from my presence if I’ve annoyed him, but I’ve never been sure whether he does it to prevent himself giving way to anger and saying things that might interrupt the even tenor of our lives, or because he thinks it punishes me. If that’s the reason, I’ve never disillusioned him.

I’m not one of those wives who complain that they’re a grass widow; even though it’s literally true in my case. Once, I might have hoped he would lavish half as much time and attention on me as he does on that lawn of his. But not now. Now, I encourage him to stay out there as long as possible.

It’s my own fault. My punishment, if you like, for marrying a man I didn’t – couldn’t – love. Nor could I kid myself that he was in love with me. He merely felt that a vicar should have a wife to cook and clean, remember his dental appointments and act as unpaid secretary for all the parish business he thinks is beneath his dignity.

“Marry William? You do know he asked me first?” my friend said, pouring wine with a lavish hand. “And that was only because he found out that Jane’s already engaged. The pompous little wotsit wasn’t fussed. Either of us would do. Can you credit it?”

“I’m not surprised he asked you,” I said, turning the wine-glass round and round in my fingers. “You’re beautiful, Lizzie. Feisty. Sparkling. You’re everything I’m not. I’m twenty-seven and I don’t want to end up as an old maid with only cats for company. As my dearest mother was so kind as to tell me I would, the other day.”