Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (32 page)

Dear Bridget,

Just checking that you got the notes from Ambergris on the script for tomorrow’s meeting to meet Saffron. Could you confirm that you can be at the meeting to give your notes on Ambergris’s notes for Saffron?

Hope you’re not about to slash your wrists, because I am.

Imogen x

What meeting? What notes? Who is ‘Saffron’?

Spooled frantically through morass of emails about Sports Day fruits and vegetables, Zombie Apocalypse, Ocado, ASOS, Net-a-Porter, Mexican Viagra, etc., then realized it was time to pick up Mabel.

4.30 p.m.
Mabel and Billy just had argument all the way home over whether a triathlon with five sports was called a Quintathlon or Pentathlon.

‘It is!’

‘It isn’t.’

Tried to work out feebly how many sides a pentagon had or remember what five was in Latin, and ended up nearly crashing the car and yelling, ‘Look, will you just shut up?!’ then going into paroxysms of guilt while they started on what the five sports were and Mabel said one of them was ‘Tape measuring’.

‘Tape measuring?’ Billy said incredulously, at which Mabel burst into tears and said, ‘Dey do do tape measuring.’

9.15 p.m.
Just read article in the paper about David Cameron saying he keeps getting calls from heads of state when the kids are in the back of the car, recounting putting his hand over the receiver and hissing, ‘Look, will you SHUT UP?’ while talking to the Israeli Prime Minister.

So maybe it isn’t just me.

FRANTIC

Wednesday 12 June 2013

8 a.m.
Right. Greenlight meeting is at nine so have managed to get Chloe to do school run, and then I will do school pickup instead.

8.10 a.m.
Just have to wash hair and get dressed.

8.15 a.m.
Disaster. Navy silk dress is at the dry-cleaner’s and forgot to ask Chloe to get mountain of red and yellow peppers ready for tomorrow, and still have to wash hair.

8.45 a.m.
On bus, nearly there. Feel trussed up like a chicken in black evening dress, which was only clean meeting-like garment could find. Looked OK in mirror because it is corset-like which holds everything in when standing up, giving one a taut hourglass shape, with, admittedly, a lace top, but have put
Grazia
blazer on top, though now boiling, to create pleasingly eclectic
Good Luck Charlie
daughter effect.

However, on glimpsing in shop window realized outfit insane. Now am on bus, remember also that corset-like nature of dress is torture when sitting down. One’s rolls of fat are squeezed together like dough being kneaded in a food processor. Also, whole effect has something of the dominatrix about it, which is the last thing I am able to pull off when mental state would be more authentically represented by a duvet, hot-water bottle and Puffle One. Plus hair has gone into weird square bouffe like Mum and Una as if I am wearing a hat.

Did manage to find and read Ambergris Bilk’s notes overnight, but now confused because
The Leaves in His Hair
seems, in
Ambergris’s mind, to have moved to Stockholm. Does she know George is stuck with the yacht in Hawaii because of the stoner movie falling over? And will George think I was trying to talk Ambergris back to Norway and she disguised it as Sweden? Actually, will ask Chloe to get some Pimm’s as well as don’t see how can otherwise get through Sports Day in sub-glacial temperatures. Gaaah! Text from Roxster.

Dinner tonight? Did we say we were having dinner tonight? Oh, shit, now have not got babysitter and . . . had better go to meeting.

3 p.m.
Nightmare meeting. ‘Saffron’ turned out to be the new screenwriter, who is, of course, twenty-six, and has just written a pilot – ‘
Girls
meets
Game of Thrones
meets
The Killing
’ – which is about to be ‘picked up’ by HBO (before, I thought with un-Buddhist spiteful hope, it ‘falls over’). Felt like some embarrassing evening-dress-with-blazer-and-weird-hat-hair elephant in the room. Then accidentally put chair leg on handbag, which, unbeknownst to me, now contained Billy’s noise machine from the party bag from the African drumming party, and emitted a very long burp. Nobody laughed except Imogen.

Saffron’s opening foray, placing the script on the table in front of her, was a simpering: ‘This might just be me, but isn’t
Hedda Gabler
actually spelt with one b?
Gabler
? Not
Gabbler
? And isn’t it by Ibsen, not Chekhov?’

As everyone stared at me, and I muttered something about anti-intellectualist irony, found self thinking how relaxing it would be to have dinner with Roxster and laugh about it all. Nearly texted him back saying: but thought it sounded petulant so instead, as soon as attention was diverted to Saffron’s nauseating theories about how to RUIN my
oeuvre,
I furtively texted:

Roxster:

Instantly regretted saying ‘chicken pie’, as did not have either chicken pie or means to make chicken pie. Also legs were probably hairy, but could not check as in meeting. Was too weak, depressed and bewildered to get into the discussion about Stockholm versus Hawaii so just said that maybe we should ‘let Saffron do a draft’ and see how it ‘comes off the page’. At which George had to run off to get a plane to Albuquerque.

7.30 p.m.
Ugh. I rushed home from meeting, managing to squeeze in buying mountain of red and green peppers as did not have yellow, and purchase of chicken pie from overpriced deli, then managed to pick up both children just in time.

As we were driving home, Billy said, ‘Mummy?’

‘Yes,’ I said vaguely, trying to dodge a cyclist who had just veered out in front of me.

‘It’s Father’s Day on Sunday. We made cards.’

‘We did too,’ said Mabel.

As soon as I could, I pulled over and cut the engine. I wiped my face with both hands, rubbing my eyes for a second, then turned to look at them.

‘Can I see the cards?’

They scrabbled in their bags. Mabel’s was of a family with a daddy, a mummy, a little girl and a little boy. Billy’s drawing was contained in a heart, with a little boy playing a game with his father. It said ‘
Daddy
’.

‘Can we post dem to Daddy?’ said Mabel.

When we got home, I got out all the photos of them with Mark – Billy in a little suit, the same as Mark’s, standing together, the same look on their faces, exactly the same pose, one hand in the trouser pocket. Mark holding Mabel up when she was newborn, like a little toy in her onesie. We talked about Daddy, and how I was sure he knew what we were doing, and he was loving us still. Then we went out and posted the cards.

Mabel had addressed hers ‘
Daddy. Heaven. Space
’. In the midst
of feeling guilty about everything else I felt guilty about traumatizing the postman.

On the way home Billy said, ‘I wish we lived in a normal family, like Rebecca.’

‘That’s not a normal family,’ I said. ‘They never—’

‘Finn has Xbox in the week!’ said Billy.

‘Can we have
SpongeBob
now?’ said Mabel.

They were really tired. They fell asleep straight away after their bath.

8 p.m.
Roxster will be here in half an hour. Am going to have a bath and re-wash hair, put make-up on, and try to find something suitable to wear for evening with person who may be about to either break up with me or produce an engagement ring.

8.10 p.m.
In bath now. Gaah! Telephone.

8.15 p.m.
Jumped out of the bath, wrapped self in towel and grabbed phone, to hear deep, powerful voice of George from Greenlight.

‘OK. We’re just on the tarmac in Denver. So, look, that went well today, but we don’t want you to lose . . . Santa Fe.’

‘But it’s in Stockholm!’ I said, suddenly realizing that I hadn’t put the chicken pie in.

‘Hang on, we’re disembarking . . . we don’t want you to lose your voice.’

What was he talking about? I hadn’t lost my voice. Had I?

‘Stockholm? No, I’m transferring to Santa Fe.’ Was he talking to me now, or the air hostess?

‘So. We want you to Hedda it up.’

‘Hedda it up?’ What could he possibly mean? Maybe he was talking to the pilot.

‘No, sorry, I meant Albuquerque.’

‘George!’ I yelled. ‘Aren’t you meant to be in Albufeira?’

‘What? WHAT?’

The phone went dead.

8.20 p.m.
Just ran downstairs to put the chicken pie in the oven and the landline rang.

‘OK. What was that about Albufeira?’ George again.

‘It was a joke,’ I said, trying to open the chicken pie with my teeth. ‘I can’t concentrate on what you’re saying, because you’re always on a plane or some other mode of transport. Can’t we just talk about things calmly for TWO minutes with you in one place?’ I said, tucking the phone under my chin, opening the oven door with one hand and shoving the pie in with the other. ‘I can’t WORK with you rushing about like this! I need to concentrate.’

George suddenly switched into a purring, sensual, soothing voice I hadn’t heard before.

‘OK, OK. We think you’re a genius. Once this trip is over I’m going to be in the office all the time, all right? You just need to put back the special Hedda voice we love so much into all the Hedda lines when Saffron’s finished with them. And you’ll have my undivided, calm attention.’

‘OK, yes,’ I said frantically, wondering if I could glaze the pie before I dried my hair.

8.40 p.m.
Phew. Thank goodness Roxster is a bit late. Everything is fine. Hair is normal. Chicken pie is not only in oven but GLAZED with beaten egg to give pleasing air of some form of cooking. Downstairs is looking all right, and lit by candles, and think silk shirt is OK and not too slutty as we have been sleeping together for months, and also everything else is either too uncomfortable or in the wash. Oh God, I’m so tired. Think will just have little sleep on sofa for a few minutes.

9.15 p.m.
Gaaah! Is 9.15 and Roxster is not here. Have I slept through the doorbell?

Just texted Roxster.

Stared at the text, mind reeling. A curry? Buses slow? Colleagues? Roxster doesn’t say ‘colleagues’. And what about the chicken pie? What was going on?

9.45 p.m.
Roxster is still not here. Texted:

Roxster:

FARTING SPORTS DAY

Thursday 13 June 2013

136lb (bloody chicken pie, plus egg glaze), alcohol units 7 (counting last night), hangovers 1 (cataclysmic), temperature 90 degrees, peppers chopped 12, melon balls consumed 35, wrinkles appeared during course of day 45, number of times used word ‘fart’ in texts to Roxster 9 (undignified).

Awoke at first light feeling everything was OK, then suddenly glimpsed the tip of the iceberg of the train wreck of last night. Doorbell rang at 10 p.m. at which I sprayed myself with perfume and answered the door in more or less nothing but the white shirt.

Roxster said, ‘Mmm, you look so nice,’ and started kissing me all the way down the stairs. We ate the chicken pie, and downed the bottle of red wine he’d brought. He said I was to sit down on the sofa and relax, while he washed up. I watched him, thinking how lovely everything was, but still vaguely wondering why and how he’d managed to eat a curry and then a chicken pie and not feel or look like he had eaten a Bambi. Then he came over and knelt at my feet.

‘I have something to say,’ he said.

‘What?’ I said, smiling at him sleepily.

‘I’ve never said this to any woman before. I heart you, Jonesey. I really, seriously heart you.’

‘Oh,’ I said, looking at him slightly crazily, one eye closed and one open.

‘And if it wasn’t for the age difference,’ he went on, ‘I’d be down on one knee. I really would. You’re the best woman I’ve ever met and I’ve hearted every minute we’ve had together. But it’s different for
you because you’ve got your kids and I haven’t got my life sorted out. This is just not going anywhere. I really need to meet someone my own age, and I can’t do that unless I’m able to do that. Does that make any sense whatsoever?’

Maybe if I’d been less tired I’d have tried to talk it through properly, but instead I immediately turned into Girl Guide mode, launching into a cheery speech about how of
course
he was right! He
must
find someone his own age! But it had been marvellous for both of us, and we’d both learned and grown so much!

Roxster was staring at me with a haunted expression.

‘But can we still be friends?’ he said.

‘Of course,’ I gushed joyfully.

‘Do you think we’ll be able to see each other without tearing each other’s clothes off?’

‘Of course!’ I said merrily. ‘Anyway, chuh! Best be getting off to bed. Sports Day tomorrow!’

I saw him out, with a fixed, cheery smile, then, instead of doing the sensible thing and texting Rebecca and asking her to come over, or calling Talitha or Tom or Jude or anyone, really, I got into bed and sobbed for two hours until I fell asleep. And now, oh, shit, it’s 6 a.m., the kids will be up in an hour and I have to take chopped vegetables and both of them to Sports Day, on half a bottle of red wine and four hours’ sleep, in the now, freakishly, blazing heat.

6 p.m.
Managed to get everyone and everything into car on time, drive to sports ground, and then get everybody and everything out of the car by pretending was soldier in a war combined with the Dalai Lama. Billy and Mabel had forgotten all about the Father’s Day trauma and were wildly jolly, running off immediately to charge around with their friends, mercifully forgetting all about their melting-down mother as well.