Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy (40 page)

FIFTY SHADES OF OLD

Friday 22 November 2013

137lb (helpless slide back towards obesity), calories 3384, Diet Cokes 7, Red Bulls 3, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, exercise 0, months since did roots 2, weeks since waxed legs 5, weeks since painted toenails 6, number of months since any sexual experience whatsoever 5 (Born-Again Virgin again).

Am letting self go to seed – un-waxed, un-plucked, un-exercised, un-exfoliated, un-mani-pedicured, un-meditated, roots un-touched-up, hair un-blow-dried, undressed (never, worst luck) – and stuffing face to make up for it. Something has to be done.

Saturday 23 November 2013

3 p.m.
Just came out of the hairdresser’s where my roots were restored to their youthful glory. Immediately came face to face with a poster at the bus stop of Sharon Osbourne and her daughter Kelly: Sharon Osbourne with auburn hair and Kelly with
grey hair
.

So confused. Is looking old the new bohemian floaty scarf now? Am I going to have to go back, have the grey roots restored and ask the Botox man to add some wrinkles?

Was just pondering this question when a voice said, ‘Hello.’

‘Mr Wallaker!’ I said, fluffing up my new hair coquettishly.

‘Hello!’ He was wearing a warm, sexy jacket and scarf, looking down at me in the old way, cool, with the slightly amused twitch in the corner of his mouth.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I just want to say, I’m sorry I said all that at the school concert and was so lippy with you all those times when you were just being kind. But I thought you were married. And the thing
is, I know everything. I mean, not
everything
. But I know about you being in the SAS and—’

His expression changed. ‘What did you say?’

‘Jake and Rebecca live across the road and . . .’

He was looking away from me, down the street, the muscle in his jaw working.

‘It’s all right. I haven’t told anybody. And the thing is, you see, I know what it’s like when something really bad happens.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ he said abruptly.

‘I know, you think I’m an awful mother, and spend the whole time in the hairdresser’s and buying condoms, but I’m actually not like that. Those gonorrhoea leaflets – Mabel had just picked them up at the doctor’s. I don’t have gonorrhoea or syphilis . . .’

‘Am I interrupting?’

A stunning girl was emerging from Starbucks, holding two coffees.

‘Hi.’ She handed him one of the coffees and smiled at me.

‘This is Miranda,’ said Mr Wallaker stiffly.

Miranda was beautiful and young, with long, shiny black hair, topped with a trendy woollen cap. She had long thin legs in jeans and . . . and studded ankle boots.

‘Miranda, this is Mrs Darcy, one of our school mothers.’

‘Bridget!’ said a voice. The hairdresser who had just done my roots was hurrying up the street. ‘You left your wallet in the salon. How’s the colour? No more shades of grey for you for Christmas!’

‘It is very nice, thank you. Happy Christmas,’ I said like a traumatized automaton granny. ‘Happy Christmas, Mr Wallaker. Happy Christmas, Miranda,’ I said, although it was not Christmas.

They looked at me oddly as I walked shakily away.

9.15 p.m.
The children are asleep and I am very old and lonely. No one will ever fancy me again ever, ever, ever. Mr Wallaker is at this moment shagging Miranda. Everybody’s life is perfect except mine.

THE SOUND OF SHELLS CRACKING

Monday 25 November 2013

136lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 46.

9.15 a.m.
Right. I am used to this now. I know what to do. We do not wallow. We do not descend into feelings of being crap with men. We do not think everyone else’s life is perfect except ours, except bloody Miranda’s. We concentrate on our inner great tree, and we go to yoga.

1 p.m.
Blimey. Started off in yoga, but realized had drunk too much Diet Coke again. Suffice it to say, it didn’t go very well during Pigeon Pose.

Went instead into the meditation class next door, which you could argue was a bit of a waste of money because it
had
cost fifteen quid and all we did was sit cross-legged trying to keep our minds blank. Found self looking round the room, thinking about Mr Wallaker and Miranda, then nearly farted in shock.

I didn’t recognize him at first but there, sitting in loose-fitting grey clothes on a purple mat, eyes closed, palms raised on his knees, was none other than George from Greenlight. At least, I was pretty sure it was him, but it was hard to tell. Then I saw the big glasses and iPhone next to the purple mat and I knew it was definitely George.

On the way out, I wasn’t sure whether to say hello or not, but then I thought we had been communing on some sort of level, if subliminal, for the last hour, so I said, ‘George?’

He put the glasses on and looked at me, suspiciously, as though I was going to force a spec script on him right there.

‘It’s me!’ I said. ‘Remember?
The Leaves in His Hair
?’

‘What? Oh, right. Hey.’

‘I didn’t know you were into meditation.’

‘Yeah. I’m done with the movie business. It’s all studio movies. No respect for art. Meaningless. Empty. Nest of vipers. I was falling apart. Just about to . . . Hang on.’ George checked his iPhone. ‘Sorry. Just about to get on a plane. I’m going to an ashram for three months in Lahore. Great to catch up.’

‘Excuse me,’ I ventured.

He turned, looking impatient.

‘Are you sure the ashram isn’t in Le Touquet?’

He laughed then, probably only just remembering who I was, and we had a rather alarming hug, and he said, ‘Namaste,’ in a deep movie-producer voice with an ironic expression, then rushed off again, still checking his iPhone. And I realized, in spite of everything, I was actually quite fond of George from Greenlight.

Tuesday 26 November 2013

135lb, number of pounds heavier than Miranda 45 (better), calories 4826, ham-and-cheese paninis 2, pizzas 1.5, tubs of Häagen-Dazs frozen yogurt 2, alcohol units 6 (very bad behaviour).

9 a.m.
Just dropped off kids. Feel fat. Maybe will go and get ham-and-cheese panini.

10.30 a.m.
Suddenly realized as was standing in the queue that Perfect Nicolette was there, waiting for her hot beverage. She was wearing a white faux-fur jacket and sunglasses and carrying an enormous handbag. She looked like Kate Moss arriving at a black-tie event, only it was nine in the morning. Was tempted to bolt, but had been waiting ages, so, when Nicolette eventually turned and spotted me, I said brightly, ‘Hello!’

Instead of the frosty greeting I was expecting, Nicolette just stared at me, holding a paper cup in one hand.

‘I’ve got a new bag. It’s Hermès,’ she said, holding up the handbag. Then her shoulders started to shake.

‘SkinnyVentiDecafCappkeepthechange,’ I rattled off, shoving a fiver at the barista and thinking, ‘If Nicolette’s having a breakdown now, then that’s it. It’s a cut-and-dried case. Everybody, left, right and centre, is a mess of cracked shells.’

‘Come downstairs,’ I said to Nicolette, patting her shoulder awkwardly. Fortunately there was no one else in the basement.

‘I’ve got a new bag,’ she said. ‘And this is the receipt.’

I stared blankly at the receipt. ‘My husband bought it for me, from Frankfurt airport.’

‘Well, that’s nice. It’s beautiful,’ I lied. The handbag was mad. It had no rhyme or reason, buckles and straps and loops bursting out everywhere like lunatics.

‘Look at the receipt,’ she said, pointing at it. ‘It’s for two handbags.’

I blinked at the receipt. It did seem to be for two handbags. But so?

‘It’s just a mistake,’ I said. ‘Ring them and get the money back.’

She shook her head. ‘I know who she is. I called her. It’s been going on for eight months. He bought her the identical bag.’ Her face crumpled. ‘It was a present. And he bought the same one for her.’

Got home and checked my emails:

Sender:
Nicolette Martinez

Subject:
The school fucking concert

Just to let you know I don’t give a flying fuck who brings the mince pies or mulled wine this year and you can all turn up whenever the FUCK you like because I don’t FUCKING WELL GIVE A FUCK.

Nicorette

I need it.

Think will give Nicolette a ring.

11 p.m.
Just had brilliant night at our place with Nicolette, with the three boys running riot on Roblox and Mabel watching
SpongeBob SquarePants
while we had some wine, pizza, cheese, Diet Coke, Red Bull, Cadbury’s chocolate buttons, Rolos and Häagen-Dazs, and Nicolette looked at OkCupid, shouting, ‘Bastards! Fuckwittage!’

In the middle Tom turned up, slightly plastered, going on about a new survey: ‘It proves that the quality of someone’s relationships is the biggest indicator of their long-term emotional health – not so much the “significant other” relationship, as the measure of happiness is not your husband or boyfriend but the quality of the other relationships you have around you. Anyway, just thought I’d tell you. I’ve got to go and meet Arkis now.’

Nicolette is now asleep in my bed and four kids are all squeezed in the bunk beds.

You see? Don’t need men anyway.

A HERO WILL RISE

Friday 29 November 2013

This is what happened. Billy had a football match at another school, East Finchley, a few miles away. We’d been told to park in the street to pick them up, as cars weren’t allowed in the grounds. The school was a tall, red-brick building, with a small concrete yard in front of the gates, and to the left, a sunken sports court, four feet down, surrounded by a heavy chain-link fence.

The boys were running round the sports court kicking balls, the mothers chatting round the East Finchley steps. Suddenly, a black BMW roared right up to the school, the driver, an idiotically flashy-looking father, talking on his mobile.

Mr Wallaker strode to the car. ‘Excuse me.’

The father ignored him, continuing to talk on his phone, engine still running. Mr Wallaker rapped on the window. ‘Cars are not allowed in the school grounds. Park in the street, please.’

The window slid open. ‘Time is money for some of us, my friend.’

‘It’s a safety issue.’

‘Phaw. Safety. I’ll be two minutes.’

Mr Wallaker gave him the stare. ‘Move. The car.’

Still holding the phone to his ear, the father angrily slammed the BMW into gear, reversing without looking, turned the wheel with a screech and backed towards the sports court, straight into the heavy steel pole supporting the fence.

As everyone turned to stare, the father, red-faced, jammed his foot on the accelerator, forgetting to take the car out of reverse, and rammed the post again. There was a sickening crack and the post started to topple.

‘Boys!’ yelled Mr Wallaker. ‘Get away from the fence! Scramble!’

It all seemed to be in slow motion. As the boys scattered and ran, the heavy metal post tottered, then fell into the sports court, pulling the fence with it and landing with a terrifying bounce and crash. At the same time the car slid backwards, the front wheels still on the concrete yard, the rear wheels half over the pit of the sports court below.

Everyone froze, stunned, except Mr Wallaker, who leaped down into the pit, yelling, ‘Call 999! Weight the front of the car! Boys! Line up at the other end.’

Unbelievably, the BMW dad was starting to open his door.

‘You! Stay still!’ yelled Mr Wallaker, but the car was already sliding further backwards, the wheels now completely hanging over the drop.

I scanned the boys at the other end of the court. Billy! Where was Billy?

‘Take Mabel!’ I said to Nicolette, and ran to the side of the sports court.

Mr Wallaker was below me in the pit, calm, eyes flicking over the scene. I forced myself to look.

The heavy metal post was now wedged at a diagonal, one end against the wall of the pit and the other on the ground. The fence lay at an angle, buckled, hanging from the post like a ridge tent. Cowering in the small gap beneath the post, caged by the fallen fence, were Billy, Bikram and Jeremiah, their little faces staring, terrified, at Mr Wallaker. The wall was behind them, the fence trapping them in front and at the sides, the rear of the big car hanging above them.

I let out a gasp and jumped down into the pit.

‘It’ll be all right,’ Mr Wallaker said quietly. ‘I’ve got this.’

He crouched down. ‘OK, Superheroes, this is your big break. Wriggle back to the wall and curl up. Brace positions.’

Looking more excited than scared now, the boys wriggled themselves back and curled up, arms over their little heads.

‘Good work, Troopers,’ Mr Wallaker said, and started to lift the heavy fence from the ground. ‘Now . . .’

Suddenly, with a sickening screech of metal against concrete, the BMW slid further backwards, dislodging bits of debris, the back end swinging precariously in mid-air.

There were screams from the mothers above and the wail of sirens.

‘Stay against the wall, boys!’ said Mr Wallaker, unfazed. ‘This is going to be good!’

He stooped under the car, stepping carefully onto the fallen fence. He raised his arms and thrust the whole of his strength against the chassis. I could see the muscles straining in his forearms, in his neck, beneath his shirt.

‘WEIGHT THE FRONT OF THE CAR!’ he yelled up to the yard, sweat beading his forehead. ‘LADIES! ELBOWS ON THE BONNET!’

I glanced up to see teachers and mothers leaping out of their shock, throwing themselves like startled chickens on the bonnet. Slowly, as Mr Wallaker strained upwards, the rear of the car lifted.

‘OK, boys,’ he said, still pushing upwards. ‘Stay close to the wall. Crawl to your right, away from the car. Then get yourselves out from under that fence.’